Busy
This is an entirely self-indulgent story. It entertained me to write it and it may well entertain you to read it, however, you have been warned.
The dressmaking workshop at Camelot was impressive by any standard. Four tall windows shed clear, cool light on as many work tables placed beneath them, with two busy seamstresses seated like bookends at each of these. A colossal table that could have almost rivalled the king's feasting table occupied the centre of the room. This was for measuring and cutting the fabric. All around the windowless three walls, saving only a gap for the door, stood heavy oaken cabinets that housed the myriad bales of fabric, the balls of yarn and lengths of lace, the scissors, needles, thimbles, buttons, ribbons and various other paraphernalia of the sewing trade. Entrusted to oversee this splendid realm of the tailor's art was the master dressmaker, a woman who appeared rather young for the position she held, and quite alarmingly efficient and smart. She was always immaculately attired, no doubt in order to advertise her skill, and wore her chestnut hair in a no-nonsense braid down her back. Her name was Laura.
The workshop was rarely a place for idleness, though pleasant conversation could well go along with industrious stitching whenever Laura felt inclined to indulge her workers. On this particular sunny morning, it was even busier than usual. The king had ordered not only wedding garments for himself and his queen, but also festive tunics for all his knights so that his feast would have less of a military air. "I want to see them out of chainmail and dressed like gentlemen of quality, Mistress Laura," he had said.
Mistress Laura had nodded and assured the king that all would be finished on time and done to perfection and right now she was calculating in her head what the workload would be for each of the seamstresses as she measured up the knights. She scrutinised the young man in front of her, who had given his name as Sir Percival. His biceps were so enormous that she wondered just how much fabric she would need for his sleeves or whether she could find an excuse to dispense with sleeves altogether. Inwardly, she frowned at so much strapping anatomy, but all an observer would have seen on her face was a pleasant but non-committal smile. With a crisp voice, she dictated the measurements to her assistant.
"That would be all, Sir Percival," she said. As the young man stepped aside, she couldn't help thinking that his brains didn't seem to match his brawn.
The next one up was less massive, in fact he seemed almost slight compared to the beefy Percival. He had a neat beard and messy hair that was way too long. His movements suggested the kind of nonchalance that Laura tended to find insufferable.
"Name?" she asked briskly.
"Gwaine."
"Preferred colours?"
"You pick them for me, my lovely." He treated her to a lopsided smile and a wink that made her square her shoulders.
"I have no intention to take responsibility for your taste, sir, only for the craftsmanship of the garments I deliver."
"Blue then, like your eyes."
"They're grey. You want a grey tunic for the king's wedding?"
"I'll stick with blue, if you don't mind. Deep blue with saffron lining."
It wasn't a bad choice, she had to concede, though personally she'd have dressed him in golden reds.
"Hold your arms out like this." She demonstrated.
"Whatever you say, my lovely." More grinning.
"Sir Gwaine," Laura said with a tight voice. "I have asked you all the necessary questions. It would be preferable if from now on we could proceed in silence, at least on your side."
He bowed in a mocking manner and then resumed the stance she had indicated. As swiftly as she could, Laura went through the motions of measuring him up and dismissed him with a feeling of relief.
"Your name, sir?" she addressed the next man.
"Elyan."
"Preferred colours?"
"Green."
"Could I have a green knight shirt, mistress?" someone butted in. "Night shirt, I mean?"
"I'm busy, Sir Gwaine. Kindly move on."
In his defence she had to admit he moved on gracefully enough.
oOoOo
Her next encounter with Sir Gwaine occurred in the market place while she was browsing at a silversmith's stall.
"Is my fair lady in search of trinkets?" he murmured in her ear.
Laura did jump a little, but she had herself in control quickly.
"I have no idea what your fair lady may or may not be in search of, Sir Gwaine. She can spend all day plucking daisy petals as far as I am concerned. I, on the other hand, am at work. I am looking for shoe buckles for the queen."
He stepped back, laughing, and raised both hands in a mock gesture of apology.
"Mistress Laura is not to be trifled with, I see."
"How do you know my name?"
"Your fame precedes you."
She was just about to ask what fame that was, however, she realised what opportunities such a question would open for him and so she held her tongue.
"Perhaps I can be of assistance," he continued. "I happen to know the queen's tastes."
"Huh! Really?"
"Yes. She likes blond men with blue eyes."
"Thank you so much for this invaluable information. Now please find someone else to bother, because I am very busy."
When he was ten yards away, he called over his shoulder, "Unlike me. I prefer grey eyes."
oOoOo
Alas, Sir Gwaine had to come into the workshop for fitting. She would have excused herself, but being the master dressmaker, she could hardly avoid the session.
"And how is my fair lady today?" he asked as he obediently stood still.
Laura gave him a glance intended to shut him up.
"I know, I know, you're neither a lady nor fair –"
"I didn't say that!"
He grinned. Always, always, he grinned! "And now you're cross that I said it before you could."
"I am not cross."
"In that case, can I get a kiss from those rosy lips?"
"You are a brave man indeed, Sir Gwaine, speaking like this to a woman with a pin cushion in her hand."
"The king chooses only the bravest."
"Let's put that to the test then, shall we?"
He made no reply and she took extra care not to prick him with a pin.
"There," she said at last, "all done. Come back the day after tomorrow and it shall be finished."
"With pleasure. And to shorten the dreary time till I can see you again, would you join me for a stroll tomorrow?"
"Go and find a noblewoman to harass, sir. I am a very busy woman. Ah, Sir Leon, isn't it? Your tunic is over here. Matilda, bring the measurements for Sir Leon…"
oOoOo
How come she had never noticed him before? Admittedly, Camelot teemed with knights is silver mail and red cloaks and she had rarely paid attention to the heads that sat above that fine attire. Still, his swagger and his messy curls made him stand out, and yet she had never taken note of his existence until the day he had swaggered, curls and all, into her workshop. And now suddenly he seemed to be everywhere. He popped up next to her at the baker's stall and offered to buy her sweet buns, he materialised on the stairs, he loomed in doorways, when she went for a stroll in the gardens he happened to cross her path. Once she looked out of her window and there he was, just riding out on patrol, and he spotted her and waved. He could make even a wave look ironic.
It was round about the time of the royal wedding, and perhaps he had been slightly inebriated the first time it happened, that he stopped calling her "Mistress" and addressed her simply as Laura. Subsequently, she dropped the "Sir." He seemed pleased about that, but she continued it anyway.
Whenever they met, the quips flew thick and fast. Sometimes she won the joust, sometimes she lost. To be fair, the verbal sparring with him was not entirely unpleasant, not the least because they were so evenly matched. Coming out on top gave her real satisfaction, since he was such a worthy opponent, and whenever he left her speechless, she conceded that in this instance his wit had been superior. It was a fair sport. Nevertheless, there were many occasions when she would have liked to kick him. Only not too hard.
On her way to the workshop one morning, she pondered one of their recent exchanges and it occurred to her that she hadn't seen him for a couple of days.
"Good, maybe he has finally found somebody else to annoy," she muttered to herself.
When she turned the corner, she saw a limping figure approaching from the far end of the corridor. It was him. She increased her step until he was right before her, then she stopped.
"What happened to you?" He looked as if he'd been beaten with a washing board.
"Ah, nothing much," he replied and pushed his hair out of his face. "Some bandits in the Darkling Forest. Though on the whole I'd say that I happened to them."
"Hm." She scanned the livid bruises on his temple. "Does it hurt?"
The lopsided grin appeared instantly. "Not as much as the barbs I get from you."
She considered his battered face. "I'm not normally mean, you know. And I'm sincerely sorry to see you injured. But you…you…What do you want from me, Gwaine? Is it to pluck one sweet kiss from my oh-so-rosy lips? Do you want me to be your sweetheart? Do you want to spend the night with me? Do you just want to score points? You don't want to marry me, do you?"
He chuckled nervously, and Laura decided to drive her point home while she had him on the back foot. "You don't know it yourself, do you? You're just playing a game and you don't even know why. Why can't you leave me in peace?"
Gwaine recovered faster than she'd hoped. The grin was back on his face and the usual insufferable self-assurance rang in his voice. "Come, now, where would be the fun in that?"
"I'm sure you have ample sources of fun. And you cannot begin to imagine how much I would appreciate it if you left me alone so I can get on with my work."
"Ow, Laura, why do you have to be like that?"
"If you don't like the way I am, why do you keep bothering me? Now let me go; I'm busy."
She marched past him and didn't look back.
oOoOo
Laura liked to be the last to leave the workshop at the end of the day, so she could assure herself that all was ready for the next morning's tasks. On the cutting table, she set out the materials that each seamstress would need the following day. When she was satisfied that none of the little parcels was missing anything, she began putting them away. The table was four or five steps away from the cabinet and as she moved towards it, she saw from the corner of her eye Gwaine sauntering into the room. She ignored him and gave all her attention to placing the material on the correct shelf with great precision. When she turned round again, he stood right there, holding out the next parcel. Without a word, she took it off him and put it in the cabinet. He passed parcel after parcel to her and the task was done in a flash.
"Thank you," she said, because that couldn't be avoided. She took the key from her belt and locked the cabinet.
Gwaine sat on the cutting table, one knee pulled up. "You're not so busy now," he said.
"Well…" It would be difficult to argue that point. "What is it?"
"I've thought about what you asked me, Laura. You put the question all wrong."
"How so?"
He smiled, and she noted that there was a clear difference between his smile and his grin.
"One doesn't start by knowing what one ultimately wants," he said. "One starts small and then sees where it goes."
Laura shrugged. "Fair enough."
"Allow me…" He slid off the table and moved closer to her. "Allow me one small thing then."
"And what is that?"
"One stroke of your hair."
Was that it? Seriously? With an impatient gesture, she gave her permission. Gwaine extended his hand slowly, and equally slowly he placed it on her head and moved it down the side of her face until it rested on her shoulder. His touch was so light she barely felt it.
"Thank you," he said.
Her skin prickled where his hand lay on her tunic and where one finger just happened to slide under the collar and touch her flesh. "Well?" she snapped. "Was it a satisfactory experience?"
He made no reply, just chuckled and turned on his heel.
Laura stood for a while where he had left her. In the fading light, she raised her hand and let it slide over her hair.
"Hm," she said.
oOoOo
Impossible as this may seem, the following evening Laura dawdled with her end of day tasks. She managed to draw them out for nearly fifteen minutes longer than they should have taken, and even after everything was perfectly straightened up she lingered for a while, staring out the window. Eventually, on her way to her room, she admitted to herself that she had been expecting Gwaine to come again that evening. She had even been considering what favour he might be asking this time and whether she would grant it. But he hadn't come, and he didn't come the following evening or the one after.
He is in a busy line of work, she told herself; he probably isn't in Camelot at all. She tried to ascertain whether any other knightly faces were missing around the citadel, but since she had never paid attention to them before, she found it hard to tell. She thought she'd seen the dark-skinned Elyan about, but not the beefy Percival. All the rest where just a red-cloaked bundle of noise to her.
"Are all the knights out on an errand these days?" she asked the queen during a fitting session, casually and not before the topic of the weather and of the king's recent achievements had been exhausted.
"Oh, no," replied Guinevere. "They have been training for most of yesterday and feasting for most of today. Some guests have already arrived for the tournament and Arthur decided the best task for his knights would be to entertain them."
"Hm."
As she pinned up the queen's hem, Laura realised she was annoyed. Had he not liked her hair? Surreptitiously, she ran her hand over her braid. It felt soft and smooth and cool.
So she had been right from the start. He'd been playing a game and trying to score points. Well, one point anyway, and a measly little point it was. She could have kicked herself that she'd let him touch her hair.
It got worse. The next morning she did see him, and he must have seen her coming down the stairs as he was approaching the lower landing; inevitably they would have met, but he acted as if he had forgotten something, made a sudden turn and marched back out the door. And that same afternoon, he walked right past her in the marketplace, even though she had taken a step back from the crowd at the stall so he would see her.
On the day of the tournament, she considered remaining behind in the workshop – after all, what was a lot of clanging of swords and splintering of lances to her? – but after the trumpets had already announced the beginning of the event, she changed her mind and hurried towards the arena. A small city of tents was pitched on the grass and from behind one of these tents, a figure emerged just as she passed. The hard object that hit her painfully in the ribs was Gwaine's helmet, which he was carrying under his arm. He dropped it to have a hand free with which to steady her.
"Are you hurt?"
"No, just startled."
"I am sincerely sorry."
"Very sincerely, I'm sure." This was an opportunity she should seize. "I'd like to ask you a question, Gwaine. Have you been avoiding me?"
"I have." He let that hang in the air for a while, then continued, "And I cannot begin to imagine how much you've appreciated that."
"Hm."
"Well, if you don't mind; I'm kind of busy." He grinned and walked off.
"Gwaine!" The word came out before she could strangle it.
"Yes?" He didn't stop, merely turned half around and continued on his way, speaking over his shoulder. "What is it, Mistress Laura?"
"Oh, nothing."
She watched him swagger towards the arena, chain mail jingling.
"Gwaine," she called again, quieter this time, but he heard her and turned round again.
"What?"
"Good luck!"
He acknowledged her wish with the slightest of nods.
oOoOo
And that was that. She didn't stay after all to watch the tournament; she had no interest in seeing either Gwaine beaten senseless or else smugly triumphing; she surely could find something more useful to do with her time. She spent the afternoon reorganising the button drawer.
There was no getting away from Gwaine, though. He'd taken up residence in her mind. His carefree grin hovered among the buttons with ghostly persistence and refused to be chased off with her most withering frown.
She tried to determine whether it would have been better or worse if he had asked her for a kiss instead. Worse for her honour, obviously, but at least she would have had one kiss.
Really, Laura? she scolded herself and closed the drawer with a bang. And how exactly would that make you feel better? It was clear that she just wasn't herself anymore.
That evening, she decided to get to the bottom of it all. She marched across the citadel and knocked on the physician's door. The old man sat at a table and stood up as she entered.
"Mistress Laura! Is anything the matter?"
"I bid you good evening. Let me get straight to the point, Master Gaius, as I don't have much time and I believe yours is precious as well. You are learned in many arts. I am aware of the existence of love potions, but tell me, is it possible to bewitch somebody in a way that they are, well, not exactly in love with you, in fact that they find you rather irritating and yet they cannot stop thinking about you?"
The physician shrugged. "It may be possible. But let me caution you against any kind of magic. Besides, why would you wish to bewitch someone in this way?"
"Oh, I don't…" She felt confused for a moment. "No, no, that's not what I mean. I'm wondering…whether somebody could have done it to me."
"To you, Mistress Laura? I think that is unlikely. If you were bewitched, you wouldn't think that you are bewitched."
"No, you are right, maybe not." So much for that explanation. "Well, thank you for your advice. Good day."
"Who is it?"
"Master Gaius?"
"Who is it that you cannot get out of your mind? Forgive me for asking, but perhaps if I knew who is was, I could be of more use."
Laura scanned the room, but the boy Merlin was nowhere to be seen. Old Gaius, she supposed, could be trusted not to snigger.
"It is…well…he…he always bothers me…it's…well, it's Sir Gwaine."
"Gwaine?" Gaius didn't snigger, but he laughed, a strangely pleased little laugh. "And he bothers you a lot?"
"Yes! That is, lately he hasn't bothered me; he has more or less ignored me, and now that is bothering me, and I –"
"Mistress Laura! Now I feel sure there is no magic involved here. You're a grown-up woman; surely you can tell when a man has got under your skin?"
"With insolence and frivolity?"
Gaius shrugged. "Or with good looks, a noble heart and a clever mind. Add a sense of humour, and these are qualities that I think would impress even you, Mistress Laura. Now, if you perchance want a love potion, I'm afraid I cannot be of service there. You think he has trifled with you?"
"So it would appear."
"My dear," said Gaius and patted her arm, "I'm sure he meant no harm. He can be a thoughtless lad, like all these young men. Try not to take it to heart. You are well-respected in Camelot for your excellent work –"
"That's not much consolation, is it?" she snapped.
"It won't feel like that now, but in time you will see that a solid sense of self-worth helps you through. Remember, he's just a frivolous young man."
"With a noble heart and clever mind and good looks and a great sense of humour."
"Well, there is that…"
"Oh, Master Gaius, why did this have to happen to me?"
"It happens to most people at some point in our lives. Some of us have the good fortune to see our feelings returned. Those who aren't so lucky have to learn to get over it. Try and find something to take your mind off it."
"I suppose. My younger sister is getting married soon. In fact, I must go and ask the king for leave; I hope I haven't left it too late. Thank you, Master Gaius. I don't feel any better yet, but I guess sooner or later I will."
oOoOo
On Monday afternoons, the king heard petitions from the people of Camelot. Laura would have preferred to speak to him in private, without all the courtiers around, but obviously she wasn't on such intimate terms with him, so the public audience would have to do. Seeing the king up close was no novelty to her, but in the past it had always been the king come to ask something of her. Now it was the other way round.
The assembled crowd was smaller than she had expected, in fact it hardly warranted the term "crowd." There was merely the royal couple, the boy Merlin, a handful of guards, a handful of petitioners and two knights, namely – just her luck – the massive Percival and Gwaine. She avoided looking at him, hence she couldn't tell whether he was avoiding looking at her.
"Sire," she began and curtseyed. "I respectfully request a leave of absence to attend the wedding of my sister. It is next Sunday in the village of Comlyn. I would hope to leave on Wednesday."
The king gave a graceful nod.
"I do not see any obstacle to that, Mistress Laura. I am sure Merlin can sew on any buttons that may fall off in your absence."
"Sire, there are seven other highly skilled seamstresses in the workshop. They will be able to deal with any tasks that occur while I am away."
"Of course, of course. But why leave on Wednesday? Comlyn is only two days' ride away. You can ride, I presume?"
"Tolerably, Sire, but I don't have – "
"Splendid. We will grant you the loan of a horse. And an escort, you'll need an escort." He looked around. "Gwaine, that'll be a nice little adventure for you. You can leave on Friday. Get it sorted, will you?"
Laura stared at the flagstones. "Sire, I do not require an escort."
"Nonsense, Mistress Laura. How would you defend yourself against wolves and bandits, with scissors?" The assembled people laughed promptly at the king's mediocre joke.
"But, Sire, I am sure Sir Gwaine has more pressing duties."
"No, there's nothing Sir Gwaine likes better than a damsel in distress."
"I'm not in distress."
"And Sir Gwaine will make sure you won't get into it, either. You may go."
Laura had little choice but to curtsey again and leave.
For the whole of Tuesday and Wednesday, she was distracted from her work by the argument raging in her head. Two days out and two days back, just she and Gwaine alone in the woods: what might not happen? I don't want anything to happen, she reminded herself. I don't want to spend four days with a frivolous man who played me and then dumped me. She considered various courses of action, from asking the king to change the plan to lacing Gwaine's Thursday supper with a preparation of flax, but she dismissed all of them as impractical or beneath her dignity or both. She also dismissed, emphatically, the whispering voice that told her she wanted nothing more than go on this journey with him. No, I don't, she told herself firmly. I really don't.
oOoOo
And then Friday was upon her and she was riding behind Gwaine through the morning mists. He had greeted her briskly, helped her onto her horse briskly and then briskly galloped ahead of her. She had to make an effort to keep up. Eventually he slowed his pace and she was able to draw up beside him. They rode in silence for a while, until Laura blurted out, "You went to an awful lot of trouble just for one stroke of my hair. Was that your whole game?"
"Maybe I should ask what your game was."
"What do you mean?"
"I was being nice to you. I helped you with your busy, busy work. I spoke to you in earnest and I touched you tenderly. And what response did I get from you? Did you expect me to keep pursuing you after that? I may be a fool, but I'm not that much of a fool. I'm done with you."
"Hm." So he had not trifled with her. It was she who had messed it up.
At noon, they paused for a rest and something to eat, and after this repast in miserable silence she was glad to be back on the horse.
The afternoon drew on and when they spotted the roofs of a village nestling in a wooded valley, Laura assumed that they would stop there for the night. But Gwaine pressed on ahead and she had little choice but to follow. An hour or so later, they skirted round a hamlet which, though less inviting than the village, would have provided at least some shelter. Still, Gwaine rode on. When he had to slow down to cross a forest stream, Laura eventually caught up with him.
"Are you planning on riding all night?"
"If we ride all night, we'll arrive in the morning and can end this enforced intimacy sooner. I thought that would be in your interest as well."
"I am tired." She had to raise her voice, because he had already reached the opposite bank. "And I would like to have a break from this enforced intimacy, you know, such as the unconsciousness of sleep would bring."
"As you wish." Gwaine dismounted.
"What, are we going to camp right here?" Laura cast a look at the thorny underbrush that hemmed in the river bank.
"It's as good a place as any," he replied. "If you want a fire, you'll have to collect some wood."
About half an hour later she returned with an armful of dry wood and an ugly tear in her skirt courtesy of a disobliging bramble bush. She found that Gwaine had seen to both the horses, had marked out a fireplace with a circle of flat stones and had spread their blankets on opposite sides. While she got the fire going, he took bread, cheese and a jug of ale from the saddle bags. The meal was finished all too soon and then there was nothing for it but to face the night.
"I'd put my sword between us, but I need to have it at hand, so the fire will have to do."
"Gwaine…"
"I'm afraid we're out in the wild and have no choice but be very unrefined." With a grunt, he stretched himself out on his blanket. "Good night, Mistress Laura."
Almost immediately, she heard him gently snoring. She lay on her back, staring up at the black canopy. Sparks from the fire undulated upwards and melted away into the darkness. She wasn't used to the noises of the forest at night. There was a lot more rustling and hooting and cawing than she felt comfortable with and purely on account of this she would have liked to move her blanket closer to Gwaine's, but of course that was out of the question. Some small critter scurried through the underbrush behind her and she felt her heart beating faster. Just a mouse or maybe a rabbit, she told herself. She tried to avoid the thought of less fluffy creatures in general and of snakes in particular. It was not an easy undertaking. Somewhere in civilised Camelot the minutes were ticking away, but out here nothing divided the expanse of the night, and no sleep came to her rescue for a long time.
Towards dawn, the way these things always go, her sleepless night gave way to a heavy slumber. It was bright daylight when she woke. The fire was out and there was no sign of Gwaine. At least the horses were both there. She nibbled a heel of bread and tried to order her hair. Another day of hostile companionship lay ahead. She frowned at the prospect.
Rustling grasses alerted her to Gwaine's return.
"Where have you been?"
"Busy." The tips of his hair were dripping. "If you want to wash, there is a shallow bank some twenty yards over there. I'll get the horses ready."
And that was all he said to her between sunrise and noon. In the early afternoon, they rode along the foot of a gentle line of hills. Laura recognised them and knew they were close to their destination.
"Gwaine?"
He kept his eyes ahead and his mouth close.
"Gwaine, will you please speak to me?"
"About what?"
"The silly comment I made, that evening. Was that it? Was it that bad? I was just being contrary."
"You were contrary all the time. What man would keep going in the face of such perverseness? I'm sure you'd be the first to demand that a man should know when to take no for an answer."
"I thought you enjoyed our battles of wit. And anyway, I thought you were only having me on."
"Well, I wasn't. I was dead serious about you, Laura, but you spurned me once too often, and I decided there had to be other fish in the sea. You know, for a man like me, with my good looks and noble heart and clever mind, and what else, oh, yes, great sense of humour."
Laura gasped. "You eavesdropped!"
"Hah! Noble knights like me don't eavesdrop. Gaius told me."
"He told you?"
"Yes, why not. He's my friend. Men are not averse to the occasional gossip."
"I see," she said quietly. So her whole heart had been exposed to him, and this was how he had treated it. "I thought Gaius could be trusted."
"Gaius had reason to tell me of your visit. He is my friend, as I said. He'd heard the whole story from me first. Sir Gwaine and the Headstrong Dressmaker. How She Broke His Heart With Snide and Pride, as sung by the minstrel."
"You don't look very heartbroken to me."
"It's the armour."
"Hm."
She couldn't leave it at that. She had to probe just a little bit deeper.
"Why, Gwaine? I mean, how? How could I possibly break your heart? You hardly know me, and I'm not that pretty."
"You're pretty enough and I know you well enough. Besides, I've watched you, long before I ever set foot in your busy, busy workshop. I'd been waiting for a chance to know you. You are so sure-footed in life, so self-assured, so purposeful. I admire that. The last kind of woman I'd ever want would be a damsel in distress."
"Hm. But I wasn't so sure-footed with regard to you. I put my foot in my mouth."
He chuckled. "Well," he said, glancing into the distance. "Maybe things are not wholly beyond repair. Next time you have some slack in your busy schedule, perhaps you could try to do some mending."
With a grin, he urged his horse forward and once again she let him ride ahead so she could think things over. Gwaine's challenge was clear. Mending the tear in her skirt would be child's play in comparison. But at least there was still hope.
The arrival in Comlyn was not without awkwardness. The villagers stared at her escort and while some of them greeter her cordially, many put their heads together and began to whisper. When they reached her parents' house, she became keenly aware how small and plain it was. Plain was also her mother's dress and her sister's. She hugged them both and commented on Linda's radiant looks, but even as she held her mother in her arms, she wondered how this would all work out. What would Gwaine think of their food? Where would he sleep? There was only the main room which served as both kitchen and workshop, and the little chamber behind it with two beds.
"Will you introduce me?" Gwaine said.
"Of course. This is Sir Gwaine, one of the king's most trusted knights, who has been charged with the task of escorting me. Sir Gwaine, this is my mother, Ingrid, and my sister, Linda."
"I am delighted, ladies," said Gwaine and bowed. Laura couldn't detect any mockery in the gesture. He followed the women into the house, where her father was busy at his wheel, and further introductions followed.
"We have nowhere to put him up," her mother whispered to Laura.
Gwaine pointed at the narrow stair. "Where does that lead?"
"Just the hayloft, sir. I'm afraid –"
"Wonderful!" cried Gwaine and was already half-way up. "I'd hoped this trip would give me an opportunity to sleep in the hay."
Her mother and father exchanged glances.
Over supper Linda sung the praises of Olwyn, her husband-to-be. Later, as the sisters lay in bed together, the interrogation began.
"Have you known him for long?"
"A couple of months."
"Is he really just here to protect you?"
"That was the king's command, yes."
"So he's one of the famous knights of Camelot?"
"Yes."
"He's very handsome. Do you like him?"
"Shh, Mother will hear. Let's sleep now. You've a big day tomorrow."
Linda giggled. "My last night in my old bed. And tomorrow…"
"Hm."
"Do you have a sweetheart in Camelot, Laura? Is it Sir Gwaine?"
At this point, Laura pretended to have fallen asleep.
oOoOo
"It's a pleasant village," Gwaine said as she led him around what had to count for the local sights: the well, the smoke house, the meeting hall. "So, this is where you grew up? I was surprised to find your father a potter and not a tailor. I would have thought you'd learned your trade from him."
"A tailor, in a place like this? No, people make their own clothes here. I was apprenticed to Mistress Gunda when I was twelve years old. Two years ago, when she died, I became her successor."
"Against the competition of half a dozen more experienced seamstresses?"
"Gunda named me herself, when she was on her deathbed, as the most suitable candidate."
"And you were how old then?"
"Five-and-twenty."
"And ever since you have run the workshop like clockwork and all the other seamstresses, even those twice your age, follow your lead without a grudge. See? How could anyone not admire that?"
"It's admirable, perhaps, but how is it amiable?"
"I don't know. I just like an independent woman. A woman who can look after herself, make her own decisions – she's so much more worth winning than a timid maiden who clings to her hero."
"Hm."
They had arrived by the village pond, which was bordered on two sides by willows and alders. A few shimmering ducks paddled through the duckweed.
"See that tree over there?" Laura pointed. "I used to climb that when I was little. It had a branch overhanging the pond and that was my favourite spot to sit. Later, the first time I came back from Camelot, I tried it again."
"Let me guess – they fed you so well at Camelot that the branch snapped under you."
"I hadn't just become fat! I'd grown up, too. Anyway, yes, I got a right good soaking."
When she glanced at Gwaine and caught him smirking, she suppressed the urge to tell him that she'd cheerfully shove him into the water. Instead she said, "If you'd been there, you could have rescued me."
"And get my cloak all wet? No way. Can you swim?"
"Tolerably."
"No point in rescuing a woman who can rescue herself."
"Is that part of the chivalric code now?"
"It should be."
"Let's get back home, it must be nearly time."
The wedding began at noon. It was a simple ceremony performed by the village elder, followed by a simple feast of bread, ale and spit-roasted hog, followed by simple merry-making. Gwaine was to her right in the circle dance. His grasp of her hand was firm and unabashed. When the dance finished and the circle broke up, he didn't let go. Instead he led her to one side where an overturned wheelbarrow made a crude kind of bench. They sat down. Gwaine placed both his hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a face from which for once all mockery was removed.
"Now then, Laura. Will you or won't you be my sweetheart?"
"I thought I was supposed to make amends first?"
"Oh, who has the time to wait for that? I could die before you come off your high horse."
A memory stirred in her mind: Gwaine in the courtyard mounting his horse, looking up at her window and giving her an ironic wave. He could have ridden to his death that day, and pretty much any other day. How does a man brace himself against such knowledge? One way is to make light of everything.
"Oh, Gwaine!" She flung her arms round his neck and pressed her cheek against his. "We've wasted so much time."
"Let's waste no more then."
oOoOo
Amber sunlight trickled through tiny gaps in the roof. Laura had been awake for a good while and, her eyes accustomed to the twilight, had watched the sleeping Gwaine with rapture. Somewhere at the back of her mind lurked the question how she would eventually make her way down the stair without her parents realising where she had spent the night. That question could wait, though. Right now, she needed to drink in the sight of Gwaine's random curls, the sound of his calm breath. The temptation to stroke him was strong, and after a period of valiant resistance, she gave in to it. He stirred, reached for her hand and, with eyes still closed, grinned.
Downstairs, she could hear her mother opening the front door and calling her name.
"I'm up here, Mother!"
"What are you doing up there?"
"I've brought Sir Gwaine water for washing. And now he's asked me to help him with…his armour."
"You're a terrible liar," Gwaine whispered into her ear.
"I can hardly tell her the truth, can I?"
"Why not? People will find out eventually."
"And then what?"
"You're wasting time again, Laura." He embarked on the important business of kissing her.
Snuggled against him in their bed of hay, she asked the question that had started to bother her.
"Gwaine? Gaius knew that I was going to ask the king for a leave of absence. Did he tell you that?"
"He did."
"And?"
"I may have dropped a little hint to the king that our master dressmaker was way too valuable an asset to Camelot to be left risking her life alone in the forest. It was Arthur's idea, of course, that I should go with you."
"Of course." She considered this. "So you were actually hoping that we'd come to an understanding during this journey?"
"Hoping? No, planning."
"Gwaine! You let me stew on purpose, you nasty little… you…you…!"
Gwaine wore the widest grin she'd ever seen on his face.
"I tricked you," he said, pulling her closer. "And I won in the end."
Briefly, Laura clenched her hand into a fist, then she relaxed it and ran it across his chest.
"No. I think we both won. In any case, I most certainly don't feel like I've lost." She moved her head a little so she could hear his heartbeat. It was, without a doubt, the most amiable heart in Camelot and she would have jousted in the arena against anyone who said otherwise.
Her mother's voice rang up the stairs. "Laura? Will you come and help me with these pies?"
"Not now, Mother." She giggled. "I'm busy."
The notion that Gwaine cherishes independence in a woman is based on a traditional King Arthur story, The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle.
I considered briefly calling my heroine Orgeluse like the lady who gives Sir Gawein so much trouble in Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parzifal. Orgeluse? I thought better of it. Aren't you glad?