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Waiting

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Dedicated to Grace, bonesmad - too fanfiction-y, eh?

Yesterday at the market, I saw a couple holding hands... and I realized we'll never do that. Never anything like it. No picnics or unguarded smiles. No rings. Just... stolen moments that leave too quickly.

---- "Tristan + Isolde"

The flame gutters slightly in the sea breeze, spewing shadows out onto the cloth walls of the royal tent. The soft, orange light flickers over the furniture in the luxurious home from home: on the gold threads of tapestries, each one depicting scenes from the French Court and woven by the masters in Bayeux; on the gilded edges of the chests, inlaid and carved, once again showing her pictures of the Court she left behind. It shines over the elaborate pallet that is hidden away in the corner of her great square tent, curtains of velvet and silver shrouding her private sleeping area from view.

Her father sleeps there tonight. And she sits by her maps and waits. Waiting for what – for whom – she could not tell. For daylight perhaps. For her destiny. Or maybe it is just habit that keeps her here, by this candle, waiting for a husband that will not appear.

In the French Court – she is never able to think of it as home – the protocol was very strict. Even for Queens. She grimaces in memory. Particularly for Queens. She remembers – tonight is a night for memories – when she was young and innocent, she used to envy the young matrons of the Court. They had such freedom, she thought, such confidence. She remembers sneaking out from the solar where she had spent hours in her youth, sewing and pricking her fingers, and flying light-footed over to the window above the garde-robe in the West Tower. She remembers watching the matrons ride out with the Royal hunt, glorious as butterflies and birds of paradise in their bright silks, fluttering around their gallants, their laughter clear as bells at Nones. And – instinctively, like moonrise following sunset – she remembers the long elegant fingers settling on his shoulder and seeing the head of carefully crafted curls tilt close by his ear. And how her stomach had tightened then, adult jealousy attacking and destroying the child she had been…

But she had been an innocent back then. She had envied those ladies not realising that for every pair of gilded slippers they wore, every scrap of silk they put on their backs, they had to pay a price.

She knows that now. She has swallowed the bitterness calmly, the burning humiliation of forced gratitude and averted her gaze when her new husband, growing tired of his novelty bride's charms let his fingers linger just a second too long on the waist of one of her ladies. For her discretion, she has her army. And she is home.

Home. The word glows in her mind, a warm fire sending heat around her body and relaxing the tense muscles at the back of her neck. Yes, she knows she made the right choice. It is worth the price.

Absently, her fingers wander over her stomach. She wonders if there is a child there this time. It would be expedient if there were, she knows. Even more so if it were a son. France would appreciate a son. It would give her more power at the Court and… She stops and with a slightly bitter twist to her lips, she drops her fingers from the front of her red velvet gown. The Court of France had done to her what years under her father's rule had failed to do, what her sisters had failed to accomplish. It had turned her cold. It has made her into a politician.

No wonder France preferred the smiles of the Baroness du Gravillard. The Queen laughs aloud, without humour. The blonde coquette rarely has a thought in her head that was not concerning with Court gossip and the contents of her wardrobe. God help her, Cordelia thinks, with a perverted kind of affection for her husband's latest mistress, should she ever have to stumble onto the stage of politics and diplomacy. God help us all.

The candle flame blows out. The Queen of France sits in the darkness of her tent and wonders if there is an assassin hiding in the shadows.

Suddenly an alien flame roars up outside her tent. Despite herself, Cordelia feels fear prickling along the inside of her veins. A weight presses down on her lungs and she no longer wonders why some men can be cowards. She wants to scream – knowing that doing so will bring her guards to the rescue, each anxious to protect their new Queen and earn fame in return. But something stops her. Is it curiosity? Does she want to see the face of the killer her sisters sent? She is not quite sure. But still she does not scream.

There is a murmur of voices outside her tent. Someone has intercepted the stranger. She is given time. Her thoughts fly up in a brief prayer of thanks even as she scrabbles for the jewelled dagger she knows in nestled amongst her maps and charts. The metal is clammy when her fingers close over it. To her fury, she sees her fingers tremble as she seeks a firm grip on the pretty hilt. So much for courage.

A bawdy laugh rings out. In the shadows, her royal father stirs in his dreams. The frightened woman ignores him. The red velvet skirts sweep around her feet as she rises, one hand on the edge of the table for support. Hidden in the folds, the dainty blade of her dagger brushes the soft cloth. She tilts her chin and awaits the stranger, whether he brings death or no.

So much for courage.

The curtain door of her tent flies back and for the first time in that new hour, a light shows in the tent. It flares up and hurts her eyes. She longs to screw them shut. The light is bright, too bright. But she is Queen and she forces herself to remain straight, open-eyed and defiant.

Then the light cools. She can see once more. Adopting hauteur, she gazes at her intruder. Once she heard a lifelong courtier tell her father, the power in his gaze alone to turn a traitor's blade from its purpose. She prays there is truth in that. She prays she has that power.

Then she sees the light pass over his features. The brown hair, the gentle, kind mouth, the stubborn jaw. His high, intelligent forehead. Her heart stops beating. But she isn't sure until she sees his eyes.

When they flash towards her, over her, green as grass mixed with streaks of grey sky, she knows. She knows better than she knows her own skin. It's him.

Him.

Her knees buckle beneath her. The dagger falls to the ground softly from loose fingers. The wood of her chair is hard against her back as she collapses back, the pulse and thump of her blood rushing in her ears. For some reason she cannot fathom, her throat feels tight and swollen. Her hand flies up to it. It is as if she is trying to contain her cries of relief and joy.

He starts forward, green eyes creased and worried. His hand stretches out to touch her. It is close, so close he can just about feel the heat from her body, from her soul warm his fingers.

But then he checks. When she raises her eyes, he is at her feet. His head is bowed and moonlight from the open doorway picks out lighter strands on it she had never noticed before. She can just about see the curve of his cheek in the shadows cast by his torch. He stays kneeling even as the rustle of her dress catches his ears. He will not tempt Fate too much.

A warm sensation lands on his shoulder, light as a summer breeze. It rests there for a moment, and then sweeps down, cupping the top of his arm in a grip that urges him to rise. He resists. After all, she is not his to gaze upon.

The fingers squeeze a little. The silent order to rises resonates around him mind as if she had shouted. Roared like her father.

But Cordelia is nothing like Lear. She asks, does not order. She smiles instead of bawling with laughter. Her eyes dance with hidden mirth instead of indulging in the amusement aloud.

He wishes she had shouted instead. The head of brown hair dips lower. "Your Royal Highness."

"Edgar…" The title strikes her with a body blow. She feels weak, even as she pleads with him. "Edgar, please…"

She catches his glance up. Holds it. The words whisper out, rising from her infancy, her childhood, her girlhood, from all the stages of her life he has been in and she has loved him. Suddenly, she feels like a child again, tugging at his tunic and demanding the moon, making her father's other squires and pages laugh. But she needs this. She needs to know that for him she has no role to play but herself.

He stays silent and she grows desperate. Does he need her to beg him? Her fingers dig into the sleeve of his jerkin. "Edgar, do not do this to me… not you." Not you too.

Green-grey eyes study her blue ones. Then, quietly, Edgar, son of Gloucester rises to his feet. At his full height he is tall, taller than she is. She, whom her sisters had ridiculed for years as a beanpole, dropped her hand and ran her tongue uncertainly over her lips as she looked up at the only man she has met who made her feel wanted. Even her father, always bluff and effusive in his affection, had never shown her in word or glance that she was ever more important to him than power or the land.

His hand cups the curve of her jaw, the rough, hard skin barely touching her. He seems to think she is fragile and she feels fragile, resisting the longing to reach up and press his hand more firmly against her cheek, to kiss it as a loyal wife would and then…

His thumb strokes the nub of her chin gently, a feather's brush, and she can feel the calluses that have developed there. She knows how they have come to be, of course she does. French spymasters are among the best in Europe and even in her short time at Court she gained the loyalty of Reynard, the captain of her husband's intelligence corp. It was he who disappeared into England a few months ago when the first rumours of her sisters' treachery washed up on France's shores. It was he who sent the numerous messages to her over the past few weeks, detailing the King's debasement at the hands of Regan and Goneril, his growing insanity, Gloucester's disowning of his true son and replacing him with his common-born bastard. It was he who guided loyal Kent to Dover, to her tent and it was he finally discovered Edgar's deception and disguise at the bedlam Poor Tom. She owed him so much and now even more. When the battle is finished she will see that he is rewarded. An estate perhaps. In Aquitaine, in Normandy… somewhere. He deserves that much for delivering Edgar to her.

But that is in the future. This is now and Edgar is in front of her, breathing… alive.

He leans in. She can smell the tang of sweat, the stink of damp leather. There is another scent there too. Earth, she thinks. The scent of soil and mud.

Then his lips touch hers and she doesn't think.

It was like this the first time. It will be like this for them for the rest of their lives. She knew that then, she knows it now. She knew when he first kissed her, a dare she had challenged him to when she was fourteen and too stupid and intoxicated by her official debut at the Court to know better. She knows it now, on the eve of battle when she stands in his arms, another man's wife, and savours every second as the wind blows and the candle flame flickers.

Eventually they break apart. His breathing is heavier, her cheeks are flushed with shame and longing. Her father sleeps innocently in the shadows.

He draws his fingers out of her flaming hair slowly, like a man letting go of life. Swallows. "This is wrong. You know that."

She doesn't smile. Blue eyes shine up into his. Gently, she reaches down. He lets her take his free hand without protest. He does not protest as she turns it over, running her long pale fingers along the seams etched in his palm. He does not protest as she lifts it to her lips and kisses it gently. Instead he understands. He can feel the flame-red strands of her hair twist around his fingers, delicate as spider's silk.

She opens her eyes. They had been closed and she opens them. I do not care.

"Cordelia…"

They narrow. She steps in closer to him. The scent of her perfume drifts and he catches it on the breeze. Lavender. Rising on her toes, her breath brushes his ear. He can feel her fingers grasp the collar of his jerkin for support and instinctively, he helps her, putting his hands on her waist. The perfume grows stronger. It's caught in her hair, in her skin. "I do not care." She whispers.

It is so tempting.

The moment drags out longer than centuries. Then he steps back. The hair caught in his fingers clings on, pulling out as his hands fall to his sides. She does not notice the pain. It is a pinprick to the crippling dagger that plunged in her at his rejection. Suddenly, she feels that beanpole once more. A clumsy beanpole that destroys everything she cherishes. The Queen of France ducks her head. The heavy curtain of red hair hides the tears she can feel prickling.

He hates himself then. He should have kissed her then, loved her then, loved her all night until the sun bled over the horizon and destiny called them in separate paths. He should have made her laugh, like he had done so many times in her youth. But instead he has made her cry and Edgar despises himself for a coward.

When she lifts her head, he is still there. Whether that is wise or not, neither are sure. It would have been easier to part if he left then when she was not looking. He could have stolen out of her life silently and they would be left with regrets but she could have borne that.

He is still here, however. Turned away from her, he inspects the hilt of his sword. Unwillingly a smile tugs at her lips. It is like him to act like that.

"Is your father resting?"

He starts. "Yes, he is… tired. The past months…" A gesture, a tightening of his lips. She nods in understanding. The past few months had been hard on them all.

A shout cracks the stillness of the night outside. They turn and Cordelia freezes. It is law that no man should touch the body of a Queen but her King. If the soldiers should find an unknown man – an Englishman – in her tent-chamber, both of them unattended except by an old sleeping man… She pleads with whatever God there is out there in the limitless sky above her head, that it is merely a drunken guardsman. An annoyance but not dangerous.

The shout fades away. She exhales, the air brushing past her lips. It is only then that she realises that she is holding her breath.

She looks back to find that he is gazing at her once more. He smiles a little, a small inscrutable curving of his lips. She watches it, a little fascinated. That tiny, half-bitter smile is not from the Edgar she knew. With a shock, she realises she is not the only one changed by her marriage. "Your battle tomorrow, pretty dove." He observes quietly.

She blushes a little at the pet name. It is a link to her girlhood, when he had found her ensconced in her father's aviary; white dove feathers falling on her like snow. He'd been ten that time, coming to Court with his father before being sworn to her father as a page. He'd leaned over the doorway at her, grinning. "The king has an new dove in his keeping." He'd remarked. "But this one is a red-head." She'd pulled a face at him and giggled at a soft breast feather fell from her head and landed on the tip of her tongue. After that, it became a secret joke between them. Until he became a man and she a woman and their joke became more secret than jest.

She nods. "Dawn." Reaching over, she pours wine into an abandoned goblet. Silently, she offers it to him.

He grasps the metal, a grateful smile passing over his lips. Their fingers brush, skin against skin. All gratitude drops instantly. He takes the wine and drinks deep.

She waits until he is finished. He brushes the stray droplets of wine from his lips and watches her carefully. "If the French win…"

"We will win." She insists, defiant and certain. He nods doubtfully.

"Do you ever consider that…"

"I may lose?" He nods once more. She wraps her arms around her, as if chilled by a sudden draught. He waits patiently.

Finally she looks up and meets his gaze. "I cannot." She says simply. "I cannot lose and neither can I think on it."

"If…" He hesitates. There is a creeping feeling pressing down on him, as if voicing his concerns is an evil omen. He shakes himself a little. "If… it should happen, I will come for you. I will find you. Take you away from here."

Blue eyes watch him distrustfully. You would not love me, they reminded him. Should I trust you?

Edgar meets her stare for stare. He tries to promise with his eyes the multitude of confidences that words cannot shape or express. "We can escape. Go to the country. Have a farm. Sheep, cows…" He takes a deep breath. "Children."

Her eyes widen slightly at the last word. Immediately her fingers cup the non-existent curve of her stomach. A faint smile lightens across her face. "The Duke of Gloucester and the Queen of France in a country hovel."

It sounds sweet.

"It can happen."

"Are you trying to tempt me into defeat?"

"I…" He sighs. "No."

Another, faint, smile. An answering softening of his eyes.

Her father coughs. A harsh hacking sudden, broken and wheezing like an unmended bellows. He rolls over in her bed; his thin spectre of a body convulsing with the cold that has taken hold of his lungs.

It is the signal they need. Abruptly the sounds of a waking camp clamour around them .The low moans and yawns of tired soldiers, the curses as the smiths try to coax the flames to white-hot heat. The French camp is up and shaking slowly into action. Battle is only hours away now.

Their night is over.

"I must leave. If I am found here…"

She nods. "Yes." There can be no other answer. They both know that. "I have a separate doorway there." One white finger points at a split in the white linen and canvas wall. "Leave that way. No one will see."

He replaces the goblet on her table of maps. She sees the sup of Bordeaux wine left at the base. She must dispose of it before her councillors and generals arrive. Green eyes meet her own and he bows, a subject once more. This is their parting and he says nothing, moving quickly for the hidden escape-door.

She cannot do it. Slippered feet pad across the packed earth floor. "Wait!" She catches his sleeve. "Edgar, wait…"

He turns back, not knowing what he will receive, a blow or a plea. But he can not deny her. Ever since he was ten years old, he has not been able to deny her. Open arms, caught in the moment, welcome her in.

Cordelia pulls his head down low to her and kisses him.

Not hesitation.

No restraints.

No pretences.

Nothing. She is Cordelia, he is Edgar and she loves him so much it hurts. Her fingers curl around his collar and he pulls her closer and they ignore the world. Because when one loves like this, the world is worth ignoring.

The war trumpets blare. Squires dress their knight masters. The blue and gold of France is unfurled, ready to lead the Queen's army. The lovers slip away.

After all, their destinies are waiting.