Disclaimer: Since King Arthur and his Knights are historical figures, I don't think a disclaimer is necessary, but since I'm following the film's portrayal of them, here's one anyway. No copyright infringement is intended. There.

A/N: Since my dark ages history isn't exactly up to scratch, I apologise right now for all the inaccuracies there doubtless are. I've done a bit of research and apparently, around 500AD, the Irish were invading Wales and Scotland, and the Romans kept having to fight them. Arthur was supposed to have defeated them on a number of occasions. I wondered what happened to the people that were already living in Wales under Roman occupation – they must have been annoyed when they had both Romans and Irish to contend with. This story is about one Welsh tribe who lived near the English border, and their interaction with the Romans under the growing threat of an Irish incursion.

Caught in the Middle

"What say you, Roman?" The warrior spat the last word and pressed the tip of their sword deeper into the man's neck. "How many?"

The Roman captain's erratic breathing slowed long enough for him to gasp; "Four hundred!"

"Is that all?" the warrior replied, voice cold and taunting.

"Y...yes. They are thought to be enough!"

The Roman was scared – terrified even. His shoulders heaved beneath his armour, and his hands by his sides were shaking. The warrior sneered – he would speak the truth to save his skin. Despite that, he deserved to die like all the rest...

Suddenly, the warrior's companion gave a cry of warning. He pointed towards a hill half a league distant, and the warrior saw several banners cresting the top. Horsemen followed – Roman knights, although they weren't in full armour. They halted at the top of the hill and seemed to survey the scene below them.

The warrior waited, barely breathing. The man who had shouted – Ganal, was helping an injured Daneth into his saddle, keeping one eye on the new arrivals. The tip of the warrior's sword still placed an uncomfortable pressure on the captain's neck. He, on seeing the knights, drew a sharp breath, knowing that his fate was about to be decided.

Planting their banners in the soft turf of the hill, the Roman knights spurred their mounts.

"It looks like you'll live to tell that four hundred men won't suffice after all" the warrior said, sheathing their sword next to its twin on their back. With one graceful movement, they swung into a dark horse's saddle and urged it round to face the other two men. "Move quickly – here comes a fight we would not win so easily"

Arthur Castus and his knights were actually beginning to enjoy their new mission. They had been sent south for once, to the Welsh border, where the weather was milder and so far, the fighting had been non-existent. It was a welcome change.

"You know" Bors said, breaking a silence which had reigned since they'd broken camp that morning. "I reckon it's all stories – there ain't anyone raiding this border except Romans. We 'aven't seen one Irish or Welsh all week"

"We haven't got to the border yet" Lancelot replied.

"An' when we do see a Welshman" Bors continued. "I bet they'll all ride little tiny 'orses. Welsh 'orses are tiny, aren't they? Like dogs?"

Gawain began to laugh at the image as they rode up a steep hillside – one of many marking the valley-country.

As they crested the top, a sudden sight caused them to halt as one, stomachs tightening and breath catching. In the valley below them a company of Roman soldiers lay dead, scattered armour and swords glistening in the evening sunlight.

One man, dark-haired and clad in dull greens and browns, was helping another to his feet. Nearby, a dark figure stood over a Roman soldier, blade in hand and ready to deal the killing blow. Three horses, lacking Roman trappings, stood nervously amongst the dead.

"What were you saying about tiny horses?" Galahad remarked, before Arthur gave the command to charge.

It was the knights' duty to defend Romans, and here on their first meeting of Roman soldiers, they were too late. The marauding parties they'd heard so much about had finally been glimpsed, but even as they advanced at a gallop down the hillside, the three figures were mounting their own steeds and urging them towards a distant belt of trees.

As they reached the battlefield, the Roman officer got to his feet. His face was pale and sweaty – the sweat mingling with a splatter of blood across his jaw. Arthur drew up his horse within feet of the man, and the six knights gathered behind him.

"What happened?" Arthur demanded, surveying the scene. The scent of blood and death hung heavy in the air.

"The Welsh" the Captain said, eyes flickering to his dead men.

"An ambush?"

"No, we surprised them resting"

"How many?"

The Captain's face fell slightly, and he cleared his throat.

"Three"

Arthur's face remained impassive, but just to his left, Lancelot smirked.

"Three men slayed your entire company of...twelve?"

The Roman shook his head. "Two men"

"You said three" Arthur reminded.

The Roman nodded. "Their leader was a woman"

Lancelot looked curiously up the slope towards the trees the Welsh had made for. They had just reached them and were cutting left towards the next valley. Arthur hadn't given the order to pursue them, but he knew that they could probably catch them if they set off now.

Two figures rode close together in front, cutting through the foremost trees at a near-gallop. The third warrior, a few horse-lengths behind, came out of the treeline and the gathering dusk, and looked back towards the battlefield. For a brief moment, Lancelot saw a stream of long dark hair caught by the breeze. He had an uneasy feeling that the eyes of the woman lighted on him, before she returned to the trees and was lost from view in their shadow.

That night, the knights and the Roman captain sat around a campfire, eating stew and drinking ale from large tankards. The mood was tense and curious – all were occupied by thoughts of a few hours earlier, except for their trusty squire, who was busy settling the horses for the night. Tristan had been sent to scout after the Welsh warriors, and he had just returned from his mission. Bors offered him some ale, which he took as he sat down.

"What did you find?" Arthur asked, his voice as calm as ever.

"They went south" Tristan said, "and quickly. They probably thought we would follow them"

"We should 'ave done" Bors said. "Could've given 'em hell"

"It was not our fight" Arthur pointed out. "We must report to Tolimus as ordered, and he is still two days' ride away"

"It makes you wonder though" Gawain said. "Three of the Welsh taking out an entire company of foot soldiers. And one a woman"

Lancelot leaned back against his tree-stump and smiled. "We heard tales of a Welshwoman, remember? A warrior – skilled, untameable..."

"Beautiful...?" Bors remarked, and the knights all laughed at Lancelot's musings.

"I'm just saying – we shouldn't be surprised that their women fight. The woads are the same"

"Lancelot's right" Arthur said. "Today was our wake-up call. This land may be harsher than we've been led to believe"

"Well, I'm sure we'll get to see their worth soon enough" Gawain said. "Once we report to Tolimus he'll tell us to kill all the Welsh we want, women or no"

Galahad scowled. "It's always the same...when will we ever be told not to kill?"

"Only a few months till our freedom, lad" Bors reassured him, handing across another tankard of ale. The younger knight sighed and began to drink.

The Roman captain had stayed silent throughout the meal, but now he rested his elbows on his knees and leaned closer to the fire, staring into its depths.

"It's true"

A few knights looked at him, but most remained drinking or eating. Bors belched heartily and patted his stomach.

"What's true?"

"The tales of the Welshwoman. She's real."

"Oh aye?" Bors said. "Tell us about 'er then. Is she really as beautiful as Lancelot

hopes?"

Gawain and Tristan sniggered, and the captain glanced at them.

"If you'd come any earlier you'd have seen for yourself"

There was silence around the campfire, and then Arthur spoke up.

"You mean she was the woman with the sword to your neck?"

"Yes. She's a battle-leader of one of the Welsh tribes, although they say she isn't Welsh by birth. It's true that their women fight...but no other woman has her status. She killed half my men alone at the end of her blade."

"Could she be Irish?" Arthur asked. At that time, the Irish were invading Britain all along the West coast, and clashing with the native Britons already in Wales, as well as with their Roman enemies.

The captain scoffed. "Not a chance – they Welsh hate the Irish more than we do"

"What is her name?"

"Auria. It means something about the sky, I think. Their tribe's leader is a wizard – a man of the Devil."

"Hmm" Bors sighed, sounding unconvinced.

"She's normally seen around Tolimus's camp – I wonder what she was doing this far north, and with only two men"

"Perhaps it wasn't her" Arthur said.

"Oh, it was her alright" the captain assured. "It couldn't have been anyone else. If you ever see her, be sure to give her my regards."

"Oh, I will" Lancelot grinned, earning a pat on the back from Gawain.

"No doubt we will hear more when we reach Tolimus" Arthur said, trying to close the conversation. He didn't need his men thinking on stories of strange Welsh women when they had a destination to reach. "We will break camp early again tomorrow – remember that when you drink your fourth mug of ale tonight, Bors"

Bors laughed. "Ale's a restorative – I can't ride without it"

Arthur smiled and got up, leaving the campfire for his bedroll. As he was laying down, Lancelot joined him and crouched on the ground.

"Arthur...do you think there is truth in what the Captain says?" His large brown eyes held a hint of worry – all week they'd been mocking the Roman's fear, joking that the men posted along the Welsh border were too superstitious and lacked the courage of the northern guards. Now it seemed that perhaps they had a right to be afraid.

"Perhaps" Arthur said, meeting his friend's gaze. "Set a watch for tonight – we can only be vigilant and hope we don't meet trouble before we get to the fort"

Lancelot nodded, and with one last look into his leader's eyes, stood and returned to the fire.