"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."


Peace of Mind

ISOLDE…

Late Spring 443 A.D.

I woke to the golden light of early afternoon slanting across my face. The day was nearly over, I realized as I recalled our return and our meeting with Arthur and the new Roman commanders. I had meant to be up early to speak with Arthur about Cerethreus and his band, but it seemed I had slept far longer than I intended. I groaned and stretched, working out the stiffness that remained from so many days in the saddle. I could have easily – and quite happily – stayed right where I was and damn the consequences.

Snuggling into the solid warmth at my back that was Tristan, I cursed Arthur, Cerethreus, and all the other obligations that threatened to wrench me from my bed to the lowest pits of hell. My wriggling made Tristan's arm tighten unconsciously around me like a bar of steel and I shoved at him.

"Air," I squeaked, and elbowed him in the solar plexus, which elicited a vague grunt from my scout.

He muttered in his sleep and loosened his grip on me. I maneuvered around to face him. His eyes were closed, and I could tell from his steady breathing that he was asleep. Comatose, more like. I could smell the alcohol on him – he must have been up most of the night, held hostage by the rest of the knights as they pestered him for information on our mission and of course on Rome, that city on a hill that commanded our allegiance and possessed our bond.

I studied Tristan's face affectionately. He had not shared my bed in any way but the most innocent since before my departure for Rome, Khors bless him. He must be the most patient and controlled man in all the known world, I thought. I loved him the more for it. Now, as I watched him, I felt the stirrings of desire that I had suppressed over the past months since my capture and abuse. In the safety of the fort, I felt no such restraint.

The thick stubble on Tristan's jaw rasped my skin as I dragged one lazy finger down his neck and chest, from the sensitive spot just below his ear on down toward his navel. A subterranean growl rumbled through him, like a purring cat, and I noticed some distinct activity in lower regions.

Swallowing a soft snort of amusement, I pressed my nose into the hollow of his throat and kissed his collarbone, flicking out with my tongue to taste the saltiness of the skin there, and was rewarded with a definite hitch in his breath as he awoke.

I put a hand on his hip and he shuddered, fully aware now. He asked me a question with his eyes, his gaze hot as coals, and I answered in kind. Yes.

He lowered his mouth gently to mine, and I could feel the tension in him, the restraint as he strove not to spook me. I would have none of it. Shoving past the faint flickering of panic, I slid my hand lower and he said a very bad word.

Mistaking my chuckle for a protest, he tried to jump away from me. I sensed his intention before he moved and locked my legs around him, pulling him up against me. He froze, struggling to maintain control, and I saw his eyes were squeezed shut.

I pressed my lips to his temple, by the corner of his eye, and in Sarmatian I said, "It's all right, my love, my dear one. Come to me." And he did, his lips crashing down on mine.

He flipped me over on my back so that his weight pressed down on me in a pleasant way. He loomed over me, his elbows supporting him on either side of my face, forming a protective cage about me. He nipped my shoulder lightly, making me shiver, and I returned the bite, and then he stroked his callused hand over my breast and I heard a gasp and quickened breath – mine – and…

And two brisk knocks sounded just before the door burst open, so that we had no time even to cover ourselves. I clutched Tristan's shoulder with my hand, using him as a shield from prying eyes. Whoever it was – and I didn't give a damn who had earned my wrath – I was going to slaughter him with my bare hands.

"Damn!" Galahad cried, clapping his hand over his eyes. "Bloody sodding damn!" Tristan snatched up his trousers and left me free to wrap a sheet about me for modesty's sake. Galahad heard the motion and backed blindly toward the door, but it was too late to escape our ire.

"Ar-Arthur wants you," he stuttered, "in the Hall. When you're decent."

"We're decent," Tristan said tightly. The younger man cautiously lowered his hand, flushing scarlet when he saw me glowering on the other side of the bed, clad in nothing but a sheet. I heard a stifled guffaw from the hall. Apparently we'd drawn an audience, I noticed. Outrage, humiliation, and a strange urge to laugh bubbled just beneath the surface in a particularly violent combination.

Tristan stalked toward Galahad slowly, menacingly, and leaned in close.

"Run, pup," he growled, eyes snapping black fire. "Run, because I mean to chase you, and you will not like the results when I catch you."

Galahad took this suggestion to heart and lit out. A few moments later, Tristan lost control and charged after him.


Galahad was a fast little bugger, Tristan had to grant him that. He finally cornered the younger man in a little-used corner of the fortress. Galahad looked distinctly uncomfortable, and not a little frightened, as he gasped for breath. After all, more than six feet of bloodthirsty scout is rather daunting.

"Look," he offered conciliatorily, "I'm sorry if I – well, ruined your moment, but it's not so bad. What I mean is," he hastened to add when Tristan's face darkened further, "There are plenty of other moments. Besides, I'm sure you two have been at it like rabbits, the way you've been acting."

The attempt at levity failed spectacularly. A singular clarity came to Tristan and he whipped his fist around and caught the other Sarmatian in the face. Bone crunched and Galahad stumbled back with a cry, but Tristan gave him no time to recover as he slammed him up against the wall. His hand came back for another blow but he found it caught in an iron grip. Another set of hands pried his fingers from Galahad's shoulder and drew him, straining, away from his victim.

"Khords an' Azabus!" Galahad shouted, his words garbled. "I dink oo broke by dose!" He pulled his hand away and stared down at the offended organ cross-eyed. Sure enough, his nose was mashed over to one side and blood ran freely from it. "Ow! Soddig basder'! Wha'd oo do thad for?!"

Tristan lurched forward, his eyes hot, while Dagonet and Lancelot, who had followed the enraged hunter and fleeing hunted, held him back.

"Steady, Tristan! Leave off, won't you?" Lancelot gritted. Tristan might be lean and sleek as a panther, but he was damned strong.

"You good-for-nothing imbecile," the scout cried, uncharacteristically losing control. "For the first bloody time since Rome I actually thought she might be starting to trust again, and you, you tactless worm, you come bursting in uninvited! You see me watching her and you think we're 'at it like rabbits', do you? Did you ever stop to think? Can't you see she's been hurt? Don't you realize I'm trying to protect her?"

Lancelot slid in front of Tristan and shoved him back with a hand on his chest, his mind racing. Had something happened to Isolde while she was in Rome? He felt a deep urge to find the man who could harm the strongest woman he knew – and the closest to his heart – and tear out his throat. Yet although his sympathy extended to Tristan, who must be hurting with her, he placed himself more solidly between his brothers and thrust the angry man back again, bringing the other hand around to grip his shoulder.

"Leave off," Lancelot repeated. "He's a pigheaded idiot, but he's one of us, regardless." Tristan's eyes darted back to Galahad and Lance could see the fury draining out of his friend. The resentment was still hard in his gaze but at least he had stopped trying to maim their idiot comrade. He pulled out of their slackened grip and spun on his heel. Within moments he was gone. Galahad cursed again and stumbled off in the other direction, toward the healers'. Lancelot and Dagonet exchanged helpless glances.

What the hell was going on?


The moment of truth had come. I didn't know what I was so afraid of – in my head I knew I'd done nothing of which I should be ashamed, but the rest of me wished I could be somewhere else, anywhere else… someplace where I would never have to relive that terrible night again.

The knights, summoned by Arthur between patrols, circled around the Round Table. Galahad had somehow broken his nose sometime in the past hour, I noticed absentmindedly, and I had a keen suspicion that Tristan had had something to do with it. The bruising that was beginning to circle his eyes gave him a strange appearance that in other circumstances would have amused me.

For the first time, I noted the new empty places - Johf and Beucan - and felt their deaths like a blow. Arthur had just begun to speak and so I had a moment to recover my composure, such as it was, but the two new missing pieces of my heart were unrecoverable.

"As you've all noticed, we have been granted the use of three squads – sixty new men – led by Commander Aulus Hirtius Galeo. The other two commanders are to be put to use among the surrounding forts, though they will remain primarily under the jurisdiction of Badon Hill." And thus, naturally, under Arthur's command. They would be welcome, I was sure, but no doubt it would take some time for them to… accommodate themselves to the unique system of governance along the Wall." There were some chuckles; Arthur's strange and dangerously democratic policies were well known and widely mistrusted by those who felt the lash to be more persuasive than the kind word.

Arthur turned his earnest gaze on me. "Well done, Isolde. Your efforts will go a long way toward keeping the peace on the border. I am sorry it had to be you I sent, and I am sorry for what you suffered." Tristan had told him earlier what had happened, though he left out the details.

The other men straightened, aware that the story was about to be told at last. I only prayed that they would not do anything rash once they knew, though I knew it was an idle hope.

I looked around at each of them. "First, before I start… you must swear you won't interrupt me. I don't know if I could finish, and once this story is told I will never tell it again." With that, I began.

"I…" My voice broke and I took a big gulp of strong wine. It lit a small fire in my belly that encouraged me to go on. "I met up with Bren – Centurion Brennus Tullius Lupus – upon my arrival in Gaul. I fell in with them quickly, and they accepted me at face value, for the most part, escorting me to the city of Rome, and a gods-cursed foul place it is, too, but extraordinary, too, in its way…"

My storytelling was a bit rusty, but I was once considered a fair hand at it and soon found the rhythm – a comforting familiarity. When I came to the part where I had started taking my revenge, however, my eyes dropped to the tabletop and fixed there, watching my finger doggedly trace the rays of Khors' face that were etched into the wood.

Flatly, I told them how I had sent Farah to wait for me outside the city while I laid low for several days, so that the Romans would believe I had left and the crime I was about to commit would not be connected with my departure. I told them how I scaled the walls of Marcus' villa to complete my vengeance, and related my capture and subsequent torture as vaguely as I could, trying to distance myself from the telling. There were several indrawn breaths and muttered curses, but they did not, thankfully, interrupt. I finished with Tristan's arrival and Marcus' death at my hands, which was as far as I could remember.

Something warm splashed on my hand, and I touched my fingers to my cheek as if it belonged to a stranger. With surprise I noticed that several more drops dotted the wooden tabletop – I had been crying for some time. My left hand was crushed in both of Tristan's. I lifted my eyes to his bracing gaze before finally forcing myself to look at our comrades. Most had curled their fingers tightly around the edge of the table or the arms of their chair, fingernails digging into the smooth wood. Some had clenched their jaws so tight I could almost hear them creaking, but all had murder in their eyes.

I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable explosion, and explode they did. The shouting and cursing pushed my already high-strung nerves further still. Ru drew his massive longsword from its sheath and stormed toward the big double doors with blood on his mind. I believe he was thoroughly intending to rampage through all of Britain until every Roman was dead.

I shoved my chair back and stood.

"Quiet!" The shriek bore little resemblance to my voice, but they stilled and all eyes returned to me.

I looked pointedly at Ru's sword. "What the bloody hell do you mean to do with that?"

He glanced down at the weapon as though shocked he was holding it.

"What do any of you mean to do? Can you expel the Romans from Britain? No! Nor can you avenge my honor or punish the perpetrator, for I already finished the bastard that wronged me."

"My beloved brothers, hear me. If you love me, do not hold a grudge. I told you this because we must have truth between us, but if you pursue retribution then you betray my trust and that of Arthur, to whom you have pledged yourselves." They muttered rebelliously but a look at my strained face seemed to convince them to keep their peace.

Tristan squeezed my hand as a request to take over from there, and recounted his own story in his naturally concise, abrupt way. He had met up with Cerethreus, who, over the protests of many of his people, had allowed Tristan to have his say.

Luckily, Cerethreus was a fair man, and sensible. He'd seen the advantages of Tristan's proposal to accompany him in exchange for what intelligence the scout could glean. Of course, when they met up with Farah their plan had changed, and Cerethreus and his people agreed to help liberate me in exchange for most of the bribe money Arthur had given to Tristan.

Once that task had been accomplished, we had invited Cerethreus to join us, and he put it to his group – made up of twenty-one warriors, thirteen women, twelve boys and girls who had not yet reached adulthood, and eight young children. Their oldest members were only just reaching middle age, for the elderly simply could not manage the rough manner of living they necessarily put up with.

Tristan sketched our journey home and stopped, having completed his tale. Arthur dismissed us and, emotionally spent, I turned and walked away, Tristan pacing quietly at my side.

I knew I would not sleep easy that night.


It took some effort to keep my head high over the next few days, what with the outflow of sympathy from all sides. I was a proud woman; I did not need pity, nor did I welcome it.

Tristan and Galahad refused to speak to each other, though Galahad had looked somewhat shamefaced when he came to see me. Neither would tell me what had passed between them after they ran out of my room, and it didn't look like something that might easily be fixed, considering their stubborn natures. For the time being, they made certain never to be in the same room if they could help it, and that seemed to be the most that could be asked of them.

Most of the men made some excuse to visit me, whatever I was doing, whether it was to bring an apple to their horse when I was in the stables or to walk with me to the blacksmith's workshop when I went to have my weapons sharpened. Despite my embarrassment at this highly irregular sentimentality from my lads, I realized that their obvious care and concern did indeed help to make me comfortable in their presence again, to the point where after two weeks, I would no longer flinch when the others became to boisterous or someone came upon me unawares. While the nightmares continued, it was no longer every night and I resumed some semblance of peace.

My fourth day back, I rose early, reluctantly leaving Tristan alone in my bed, and dressed in the growing light of dawn. After a long workout – made longer by my rusty skills – and a quick splash in the horse trough to rid myself of dirt and sweat, I felt more myself than I had in ages.

Wiping my dripping face on my sleeve, I rounded the corner and almost collided with Commander Galeo. Not missing a beat, he clasped my arm and greeted me warmly.

I had intended to return to my room, but quickly reevaluated my plans for the day and invited him to join me. He fell into step beside me and for a while we walked in silence as I headed for the main gate. The past three days had been quiet for everyone, and I had not yet spoken with Galeo nor met his men.

"Bren still extols your qualities at every opportunity, you know," Galeo said suddenly. I hid my surprise at the unexpected topic of conversation. I recalled that he had always been a somewhat forthright, good-humored young man with a dry wit and an unshakable disposition.

My lips quirked. "Does he? And did he send you to protect me or to keep me out of trouble?" Knowing Bren, it was both. I thought sadly of the night when he'd told me of his feelings. He'd accepted with fair grace that I didn't feel the same, but that didn't stop him from worrying like a mother hen.

Galeo acceded with a dip of his head and smiled ruefully. "Some of both, no doubt. Bren pulled some strings and when His Imperial Highness gave the order, it was me he sent a-marching. I don't mind, though," he assured me. We climbed the stairs to the top of the walls, above the gate. The two men on duty came to attention as we approached.

Galeo continued, "I always did want to see more of the world. It's why I joined the army in the first place, though I never traveled far from Rome until now."

The misty green panorama of Britain spread out before us, the Wall reaching as far as the eye could follow. It was an impressive sight, and one I had always enjoyed.

Galeo looked around himself with avid interest. "This certainly is a strange country," he noted, "but beautiful, too, in its own way." He inspected the Northern tree line, little more than a fuzzy emerald barrier from this side of the fort, and his expression took on a look of interest. "I have heard little of the natives that plague your fort."

The prompt was expected, but I hesitated. What could one really say about our enemies?

"They are called woads," I began, "Named so for the blue paint they use to decorate their bodies. The Romans call them savages, but I have seen them at close range and while their tactics are primitive, they are effective and their culture is advanced. They are unskilled at metalworking, and so their modern weapons are obtained through scavenging and stealing as they may.

When you come up against them in battle, as indeed you soon will, do not underestimate them. They are a sly, intelligent people and are formidable archers to a man. Unlike the Romans, they commit fully to battle. Every member of their community dedicates themselves to the defense of their people, whether they be warrior, craftsman, mother, or child, or even Merlin himself." I shivered at the thought of the fey leader of the woads, whose uncanny ability to predict our reactions and overcome insurmountable obstacles had earned him the reputation of a dark magician.

Galeo tried to suppress a vague look of disbelief. "You don't really believe he is a conjurer, do you?"

I faced him a little more directly. "Once you've gone to battle with his people, you'll see that it is not so easy to dismiss. They can melt into the woods in an instant. Tristan and I were trained by the best woodsman in all of Britain, aside from the woads, and we know the ways of the forest to our bones. Yet what the woads can do is beyond us, and that is south of the Wall, in our own territory."

"South of the Wall?" He exclaimed in surprise. "You mean you don't follow them north? Could you – we – not flush them out and rid Britain of the threat once and for all?"

I glanced at him sharply, but with a certain amusement. "You are a good man and a good soldier, Galeo, but you are still very Roman." I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Not to worry – we'll have you cured of that in no time. In answer to your question, we have never gone north of the wall. We never will go north of the wall. To do so is not only foolish and arrogant, it is suicidal. The Romans tried to go north before, many years ago."

He waited for me to continue, but I said nothing. "And? What did they find?"

I chuckled grimly. "When they return, I will let you know."


We walked all the way around the wall, me pointing out strategic strengths and weaknesses of the fort and its surrounding territory. When I had been in Rome, I had been known as Arthur's second-in-command, but it was really little more than a title temporarily bestowed upon me, to give me more clout with the Romans.

I had found, however, that I rather enjoyed the process of scouting out the necessary decisions that must be made and making them, and more – that I had a head for such things. I had performed in a similar capacity when I began training the Badon Hill militia. While Bren was Arthur's true second, I had always held a leadership position in the fort and, to a lesser extent, outside of it – which is why Arthur had assigned me to show the new arrivals around.

During my absence, the townsfolk had finally exhausted the last bit of space within the fortress walls, and the town itself now extended more sparsely beyond them. Though it was still early, I could hear the constant pattering of distant hammers where Cerethreus' people already labored to build their homes. Arthur had welcomed them warmly and allotted them a good chunk of land on which to settle. They worked diligently while, beyond the construction, some of the warriors conducted their own morning practice.

By early afternoon I had taken Galeo through the entire fort, with a detailed explanation of every aspect – military, political, and cultural – of our unique lifestyle. We rounded the corner of the tavern and found the practice courts full of the new Roman reinforcements and, beyond them, my group of militia, now grown quite large.

"Awright, ladies, move yer arses! Block, block, lunge! Get yer damn arm up, Nero, ye great eejit. D'ye want to be spitted like a hog? Bloody sodding pansies, the lot o' you!"

I could feel my face split in a grin. Two years before I left for Rome, Quin had left Hadrian's Wall to attend to unspecified "business" in Hispania. Now, hearing his gruff voice cursing the clumsiness of the soldiers, their slow reflexes, insulting their mothers and forebears, I realized I had missed the old bastard. He'd been tough on us, to be sure, but behind that façade was a determination to save as many of us as he could, and we had all realized that, sooner or later.

The grizzled veteran and retired training master caught sight of me and my Roman companion, standing nearby, and after a long moment he nodded to me.

"It's glad I am you're back safe, lass," he said quietly. And though I've never been one given to overly emotional displays of affection, I went to him and hugged him hard. I could tell I had surprised him. It was a moment before he returned the embrace, and I let him go and laughed through the tears that threatened.

"Are ye tryin' to destroy my reputation entirely?" he rumbled, frowning. The Romans stared, though I didn't know if it was because they didn't know what to make of me or because of Quin's uncharacteristic kindness. "An' din't I teach you better than to take on near half a century on your own, ye little fool? What kind of featherbrained assault plan was that?"

I didn't mind his criticism; I understood him, the way he thought, and knew his apparent censure was motivated by a reluctant fondness for those he trained. If a person truly disappointed him, however, he would let them know in no uncertain terms. I was, however, surprised he knew of my attack on Marcus' estate.

He saw the thoughts flash across my face and answered my unspoken question. "Lord Artorius told me," he said.

Quin's head swiveled to survey his motionless troops with a baleful eye. "DID I SAY YOU COULD STOP?" he barked, "Keep at it, girlies, ye'll get this drill learned or die trying!"

"He never says stop," one man, a young fellow with a curly blond mop of hair and bright blue eyes, remarked wearily as he jumped back to avoid being smacked on the knuckles by his opponent's staff. Quin, his hearing as sharp as ever, came to stand in front of the complainer. I grinned inwardly, remembering a similar occasion where I had been in his shoes. It hadn't been particularly pleasant, as I recalled.

"Miles Calidus," he said, almost gently, "Do you want it to stop?"

The legionnaire looked about uncertainly. "No, sir," he hedged, sounding none too sure. Quin stared narrowly at him for a moment. "Isolde!" he summoned. Startled, I came to stand next to him.

"Sir?" I tried to keep the puzzlement out of my voice. The soldiers, only a few of whom had served under Bren and therefore knew who I was, looked on curiously.

"Lady Knight Isolde, inform this soldier when it will end." A single twitch of the corner of his mouth told me that Quin was thinking of the same episode I was, and I knew exactly what he wanted me to say. The blue-eyed man, who had puffed up like a peacock when Quin called me over, looked bewildered at my title.

"It ends when we're dead, sir!" I responded loudly, but in an undertone I added, "Or you are." Quin caught this and made a sound that, coming from any other man, would have been deemed a laugh.

"Carry on, Lady Isolde," he instructed, to cover his lapse in discipline. I saluted him with only a trace of pert impudence, turned about smartly, and clicked my heels before rejoining Galeo.


The militia, training nearby, had watched the scene with growing amusement. No doubt they were used to Quintus' habit of dressing down his trainees, and found the sight of his tactics working beautifully on even experienced soldiers to be downright tickling.

Their own leader was no slouch, however. "Eyes front," Evan shouted. "Welcome back, Dux," he murmured to me, and touched my shoulder. I smiled at the old nickname. Brangaine, one of my first pupils and my closest female friend, came toward me with watery eyes and we embraced briefly.

She stepped back with her hands on my shoulders and looked at me.

"You're too thin," she said, and the laughter bubbled up once again. Tall and slim herself, she had no room to talk. She tossed her braid of long, dark hair – legacy of her British parentage – over her shoulder and gave me a big, unrestrained smile, looping her arm in mine.

"I could not believe it when they told us you had gone to Rome. Was it very grand? I have heard that the Romans have buildings that near scrape the sky and great amphitheaters where men once fought to the death, for the people's entertainment. Are they so barbaric?"

Her enthusiasm made me laugh again. "They did have such games," I told her, "And impossibly great buildings all of stone with statues the very spit of a real man. Many are rich beyond all imagining. They are also greedy, and cruel, and yes, barbaric, too, although some are good men, worthy of interest. And their city produces the most gods-cursed stench," I said, wrinkling my nose in remembrance, which amused her greatly.

She led me to a bench on the sidelines to watch the proceedings. A small young woman with dark hair and pretty eyes was sparring furiously with a villager I didn't know. She disarmed him and bowed, signaling the end of the match, then stepped closer to him in an intimate way that made me angle a knowing look at them.

"Neve!" Brangaine called, "Look who's back!" Seventeen-year-old Nineve, who had changed drastically in the four and a half years since I had begun training her along with Brangaine and Latie, had all the grace and natural curves of a lady born. I sighed with envy, knowing my whiplash limbs would never stand up to her innate femininity. Guessing what prompted the sigh, Brangaine chuckled.

Neve smiled beatifically and took my hands in greeting. "Isolde, I'm so glad you have come back safely. We've missed you."

"And I you," I replied gladly. "It seems you have been keeping up with your training. Your form has never looked better."

I felt a prick in my ribs. "Good enough to get past you," she giggled with impish delight.

I grinned – something I'd been doing a lot of that day, I noted. "Not quite," I slyly glanced down at my own wrist knife, poised in a reverse grip at her waist.

"Pox," she cursed mildly. "I really thought I had you that time." I recalled the many times she had tried to best me with her many wicked little knives in the years when I was training her. She had not managed yet, but I thought she might succeed one day, perhaps not too far in the future.

"Where are the others? Loc, Latie, Eryk, and Ceallach?" Their faces fell, and I braced myself for bad news.

"Ceallach is gone," Brangaine told me. "She just… walked off into the forest one day, with her sword and her good Sarmatian bow and her knives. No one really knows where she went, but we think she might have gone north."

North. To the land of woads and cold and death. I tried not to think of my star pupil lying dead somewhere in the woods, never to swing a blade or draw her bow again. I'd made her that bow. Instead I tried to imagine her at peace with herself, having spilled enough blood to fulfill her vow, and able, now, to begin anew. I knew it was unlikely, but it was better than thinking the worst.

"The others?" I didn't know if I wanted to hear.

"Everyone else is fine," Neve assured me. "Latie is handfast with Loc, and Eryk married Myrna's daughter, who is already expecting their first child. He still comes to practice, some mornings, but he has an apprenticeship at the blacksmith's now, so he doesn't always have time."

"It seems I've missed a lot while I've been gone," said I.

"That you did," Neve responded archly. "Now don't do it again!" The three of us laughed together, and I realized that I had missed more than death or marriage; I had missed the comfort of having about me a circle of friends who cared.


"Lady Isolde!" I heard someone call me as I was entering the courtyard outside our barracks. "Isolde!"

I turned and saw the soldier Calidus jogging to catch up with me. He seemed to have recovered from the barrage of abuse Quin had heaped on him. He approached with a bit of a swagger and I pegged him immediately as an arrogant one. He was good-looking, and he knew it. Luckily, I thought, having lived with forty men for six years, I had some experience in taking down the more bigheaded members of the breed.

Tilting my chin up, I remarked in a distant tone, "What is it, Miles Calidus?"

Having successfully caught my attention, I could almost see him giving himself a pat on the back. "My lady," he bowed lavishly, and I realized he must be one of the Roman elite, perhaps a third or fourth son. "Or should I say, Lady Knight Isolde, a name as beautiful as its owner." Khors, he was worse than Bors when he was happy.

It was clear he thought my title to be an honorary one, or at best considered it 'endearing'. I fought the urge to thoroughly disabuse him of this notion, though it was a battle closely won. There was something of the overeager puppy in him that I found amusing, if also annoying.

"Might I escort you to dinner tonight?" Before I realized his intention, he caught my hand in a cool grip and raised it to his lips, leaving them there overlong. Deliberately squashing the flicker of remembered panic his touch elicited, I extricated the offended appendage as politely as I could and thought that he obviously hadn't picked up on the way of things around here – we ate on one side of the tavern, the Romans on the other, mingling only to take each others' money in a game of dice or knife-throwing.

"I have plans," I said quickly, although I didn't, really. When he showed no signs of backing off, I had to improvise. "I owe Gawain a meal and a round of ale tonight, and I promised to show him some knife-fighting tricks I picked up in Rome." Well, the second part was true, at least.

"That big blond one? The Sarmatian?" I could swear his lip curled, and felt myself growing hot under the collar. Had this idiot not noticed that I was Sarmatian as well?

"Yes," I gritted shortly. "If you'll excuse me, I must needs exercise my horse." And I strode off, leaving him standing alone in the courtyard.


Calidus smiled in a self-satisfied way. He knew the Sarmatian woman was acting coolly toward him, and perhaps it hadn't been the wisest move to comment on the blond man, but he had confidence in his prowess at wooing the opposite sex, even those who believed themselves impervious.

Besides, he consoled himself further, what woman would intentionally surround herself with men if she was not trying to secure a husband, or at least a lover, who could support her? Many men would consider themselves fortunate to have a leman with such exotic features.

Now, he wasn't a cruel man, or even a stupid one – only ignorant, with some heavily biased, preconceived ideas about the provincial peoples. Unfortunately for him, his persistence – which had always served him well in the past – was about to dig him into a hole he could not easily escape.

With no warning, a dark figure slid smoothly into view just in front of him. Calidus swore in surprise.

"You ought to keep a sharper eye out, Roman," Tristan warned silkily. If Calidus had known the Sarmatian better, he would have picked up on the hazardous note in the scout's voice.

He continued, "You should not pursue that which does not belong to you."

"What business is it of yours," Calidus asked with some degree of disdain. The scout flicked his fingers in a gesture of unconcern, leaning in close.

"It is my business," the dark man said, "When it is my woman you are courting. You flirt with danger, my overconfident friend."

Recovering from his initial surprise, Calidus drew himself up mockingly. "Perhaps it is you who should be watchful, Sarmatian, or you might find your treasure has slipped away… or sought refuge in another's arms."

The Roman had no idea how close he came to dying right there, but with an indrawn breath, Tristan relaxed his grip on his blade and stepped up to the younger man.

"I'm watching," was all he said, and then he was gone.


Hello again, folks!

First of all, no doubt you've noticed that I have a new name. The other one just wasn't doing it for me, but I like this one, which is in Scots-Gaelic.

Also, sorry this chapter is so short – I just wanted to get it done, especially because the next month is going to be busy, but at least I passed 100,000 words, HOORAY! That makes me so proud of myself. I might end up adding on to this chapter to make it longer, so keep an eye out!

Hmmm… so we have a healing Isolde, some tension between Tristan and Galahad that is basically going to remain until the film, particularly the tavern scene in which Tristan needles Galahad, who explodes at him, etc. We have Quin back (yaaay!) and now we have a new character, Galeo, and some possible conflict between Calidus and Tristan, if the former doesn't stop pursuing a woman who doesn't want him, the twit. Anyway, I think that's about it. Sorry about all the swearing, but hey, if you can't take it in stride and accept that this is how they spoke and behaved, you probably shouldn't be reading about torture, near-rape, and beheadings and such. :D

As for the term Miles, it is Latin for soldier. I do not know if this was how the legionaries would be directly addressed, but in ancient Rome legionary soldiers were called miles legionaries, so I borrowed the term for my own purposes. The knights would have been part of the auxilia, made up of noncitizens (mostly from the provinces) and including light-armed infantry, slingers, archers, and cavalry. So there's a bit of military history for all my fellow history buffs.

Finally, I realize this was mostly a filler chapter (again) but don't worry, in another two chapters or so something big should be happening. Again, I might update this chapter so that it includes Isolde's first patrol after her return. Maybe. We'll see. I know this is a long note, but it's over now. Enjoy!

Ta,

Ribhinn

(That's pronounced "Rrrih-vin"… roll the R like a certain red-haired Scot who shall remain nameless… but it starts with 'J', and ends with '–amie') ;) Gotta love Outlander.