I.
Uther Pendragon waved his servant away, preferring to pull tight the laces on his pants himself. "Boots," he barked, which was his way of communicating with the manservant who had waited on him for many years. The servant neither needed nor expected polite coddling from the king.
Uther was not a man or a king given to softness. He knew what many of his subjects thought of him. He knew that many found him to be hard, ruthless even. He cared not, as long as they saw that his ruthlessness served to make Camelot strong. His ruthlessness, he reasoned, had put Camelot out of reach of its enemies, especially the practitioners of the old religion. He had vanquished the old religion outright. He had given no quarter to its practitioners, driving them from his land and making his people safe as a result.
He sat and allowed the servant to help him into his boots. He felt no guilt, no remorse about his uncompromising approach to magic. He felt it made him strong. And now with the recovery of his son, Prince Arthur, from the bite of the questing beast, he had further proof that the old religion was obliterated. Surely if Gaius, the court physician, could cure his son from the bite of this so-called magical beast, it proved that magic held no sway in his Camelot.
Now Uther stood, his arms outstretched for the servant to place the tunic over his head ... scarlet and gold, adorned with the Pendragon crest. Finally, the servant approached carrying a scarlet cushion upon which rested the band of gold that symbolized Uther's authority. The servant held it before him, for only the king touched the crown. Uther took it from the cushion and placed in on his head. He was ready now, ready to join the celebration marking his son's survival and return to vigor.
He had been touched by the outpouring of the people who had gathered in the courtyard to bid farewell to the prince as he lay in mortal peril. His son had recovered, and he vowed to thank the people when his son regained his strength. Today, all of Camelot was treated to a day of celebration. That night, the court would celebrate with a feast.
*****
And so it was at the feast that Uther first noticed a change in his son. Uther knew that in the minds of many, he seemed a cold and distant father to the prince. But Uther also knew that what Arthur needed most was to be prepared to be king, not to be pampered and fawned over. Had his wife, Igraine lived, she could have given Arthur the pampering of a woman's affection. But she had not lived. Uther loved his son, though he did not express it as his wife would have. He tried to show his love to his son by giving him ever increasing responsibility, and trusting him with important duties. He tried to model the discipline and strength he knew Arthur would need when he eventually became king.
On this night, after the speeches were made, after many toasts were drunk to the health of the prince and to his recovery, after a bountiful meal was consumed, Uther noticed it. It was subtle. So subtle, that his observation of it must disprove those who thought he paid too little attention to truly understand his son. It was little more than a moment, a look that passed across the prince's face, but it was a telling one.
Prince Arthur stood, goblet in hand, with a group of Camelot's knights. The evening's festivities were winding down. From his seat at the banquet table in the castle's great hall, Uther watched his son; he was filled with pride at the obvious respect Arthur commanded from the knights. It was then that Uther followed Arthur's gaze across the room. Arthur, he saw, was looking beyond the knights surrounding him to where Lady Morgana, the king's ward, stood conversing with her maid, who attended her at the feast. Only Morgana, Uther thought, would waste time with a servant when so many, more worthy of her attention, were in attendance. He would speak with her about it tomorrow.
It was right that Arthur's eyes should seek out Morgana, but following his son's line of sight, he saw that it was not Morgana that Arthur sought. Instead, Uther saw that Arthur's gaze rested, almost waiting, until the maid lifted her eyes to his. She had a pretty face, framed with ringlets of dark curls. Her dress, the color of a sun-bleached cornflower, though it suited her station, fit her figure well and was flattering on her. All this Uther observed, even as his son did. It lasted only a moment or two, then the maid averted her gaze quickly. But not so his son, Uther noticed. There was something altogether different in Arthur's look; something Uther had not seen there before. His son's expression was not bold or lustful or blatant, rather it was a look full of admiration, respect even. He looked on her with mature eyes, with a new gravitas. Arthur's gaze lingered on the girl, who was now in animated conversation with Morgana. Then, he returned his attention to the knight who was speaking. A few moments later, Arthur was bidding them goodnight and taking his leave.
Uther leaned back into the corner of the great chair he occupied. He was rarely surprised, yet now he was. He was taken aback. He was intrigued ... and he would know more of this maidservant who could evoke such a look from his son.
II.
The next morning Uther eagerly awaited Gaius. He had sent for him some time ago, and was impatient for his arrival, when a knock at his apartment door signaled the physician's appearance.
"If I'd been seriously ill, death would have taken me by now, Gaius," Uther said as the physician was ushered into his presence. The king sat at his large writing desk that overlooked the castle's courtyard. He was not yet dressed for the day, wearing only a muslin shirt, his breeches, and boots.
"I beg your pardon sire. I was attending the Lady Morgana," Gaius returned in a voice schooled by many years of service to the king.
"Morgana?" Uther's voice was ripe with concern. "What ails Morgana this morning?"
"A sore head, I'm afraid. Many of those attending the feast last night will suffer from the same I suspect." Gaius was intentionally nonchalant.
"Perhaps," Uther began, "but how many of them have been suffering from the same for many weeks, as Morgana has? And how many of them have been seen wild eyed, and near hysterics? Is there something seriously wrong with her Gaius? She is my ward and I ought to be told if there is." Uther's eyes held Gaius'.
"She suffered hysterics as the result of waking from a bad dream. That is all. She is better now, and this morning, I can assure you, she suffers from nothing more than too much drink and a very late night." Turning the conversation, Gaius asked, "And what can I do for you this morning, sire?"
"I do not suffer from a sore head," Uther told him firmly. "No, my complaint is my gut." Uther placed a hand to spot beneath his ribs, "Here."
"May I examine you, sire?" Gaius asked as he moved to the king's side.
"Very well."
Gaius looked into each of the king's eyes. He asked the king to open his mouth, and examined his tongue. Finally he took the king's hand and felt the pulse in it beating strongly and rhythmically. As he did this, the king inquired, "Tell me Gaius, what do you know of the Lady Morgana's maidservant?"
Gaius' movement slowed imperceptibly, alert with interest as to why Uther would inquire about her. "Gwen, sire? She's a very good sort of person; very loyal to her mistress ... and to Camelot," he added lest Uther's thoughts turn to Gwen's father, killed by the castle guard under Uther's orders.
"Gwen? you say. That is her name?"
Gaius gently let go of the king's wrist. "Yes, it's short for Guinevere."
Uther seemed content with this information and returned to the subject of his own health. "So, old friend, what is your verdict? Will I live?"
"I fear, sire, that you suffer from nothing more than an over-indulgence in venison, pasties, and sweet-cakes at the feast last night."
"That is an old man's diagnosis, Gaius," the king chuckled.
"We are none of us getting younger I'm afraid, sire. But I can prepare something to ease your discomfort."
The king grew unusually contemplative, "You know, I don't feel any older today than I did the day Arthur was born. Yet, here he is a man himself, and daily proof that I have grown old."
"Older, sire, but not old."
The physician was right, Uther thought, he was older but not yet old. He was still solidly build and could still wield a sword when necessary. He was wiser too, and that was a blessing of growing older. "Thank you Gaius," the king rose and watched as Gaius left his chamber.
Then he called his manservant to him. "I'll dress now," he said, then added, "Then go and find the Lady Morgana's maidservant, Guinevere she's called," so that there could be no mistake, "and bid her come and see me in the Council chamber."
III.
Uther intentionally took his time. He had waited until Gaius returned with an elixir designed to soothe his aching gut. He waited for it to take effect. He had toyed with accomplishing some work ... beginning a letter, then setting it aside again. He knew that she would be waiting for him all the while. It suited him that she should wait and wonder.
He knew who she was. He did not let on to Gaius, but he could hardly forget Morgana's spirited defense of the girl and her father. He may not remember her name, but her eyes were unforgettable. Her dark eyes were filled with fear as she knelt before him, with grief when her father died, since then with thinly veiled contempt.
A good sort of person, the phrase ran through his mind. Was it her goodness that inspired that look in his son? He would find out, and he would judge for himself what kind of person she is. All well and good that Gaius would describe her as such, but would he?
He took a private passageway that joined his chambers to the Council chamber, and entered it from the far end of the room from where she stood waiting. His manservant stationed himself by the main doors, from many years of practice. "You may leave us," Uther said, appearing in the room like a specter.
His manservant said nothing, only bowed deeply and left, closing the doors behind him. Uther assumed his seat in the large, ornate wooden armchair that dominated the chamber. The room itself was imposing, and he hoped she would feel the full import of it. She stood several feet away, and as he sat, she curtseyed low before him, "Sire."
"You may stand. Guinevere, isn't it?" he asked as though in doubt, raising an eyebrow to punctuate his question.
"Yes, sire," she said rising to her feet.
Uther knew that she must wonder why she was summoned, and that she, as he did, must harken back to last time she was brought before him in this room. She had kneeled and asked for understanding, and received none from him. "Come closer," he commanded. She closed the gap of several feet that separated them until she stood no more than four or five feet from him.
Now, for a moment, he studied her features as she stood before him. Her appearance was quite different from the previous night ... much more austere. Her dark curls were restrained in a thick braid down her back, only a few wisps escaped. Her clothing too was more simple, better suited to a day waiting on Morgana, than the more fitted dress she wore the night before. For all that, she held herself with grace. Her hands clasped modestly in front of her; her held at an angle that could not be mistaken for pride, but just as surely showed her self-respect. She was no ordinary servant, he thought.
"You serve the Lady Morgana, I believe." He had caught her off-guard. She had not known or guessed why she was called to his presence.
"Yes, sire."
"I understand that she is unwell this morning," his deep voice resonating through the empty chamber.
She swallowed deeply before she answered, meeting gaze in fleeting glimpses, "Yes sire."
"And do you know what ails her?" he asked rising from his chair and walking towards her.
"Too much drink and gaiety last night I believe, sire."
Now Uther circled her as he interrogated her. "A studied response, I think."
"I don't understand, sire," she responded simply, though his meaning was clear.
"Gaius said exactly the same," he king continue to move around her, observing her minutely.
If he discomfited her, the only sign was her deep inhalation of breath and a weary look in her eyes when she answered, "Perhaps because it is the truth, sire."
"But if there were more than that wrong with your lady, you would tell me," he practically dared her to say otherwise.
"I would hate to lose Lady Morgana's trust," she said in a very small voice, a bit intimidated by the direction the interview was taking.
"But as her protector, it is my right to know, is it not?" the voice he used was familiarly cold and harsh, the rise in volume intended to intimidate.
"Sire," she said in agreement as she bowed her head to him.
At last he stopped circling her and came to stand in front of her, assessing her. She was not tall in stature, nor was she delicate. Instead she was strong, yet soft and womanly at the same time. Uther noticed the line of her neck and its intersection with her collarbones. "You don't like me, do you Guinevere?" It was a full on attack on her composure. And for a moment it worked.
"Sire, I ..." she began, flustered, not meeting his stare. Then she composed herself, almost visibly drawing herself together. Her eyes met his. "Sire, I respect you as our sovereign. Camelot is safe and at peace, and I respect you for that as well."
Clearly she had some backbone, Uther thought as he resumed his seat. He could pierce, even destroy, her careful façade by simply reminding her what he'd done to her father. He could use words like traitor and coward to describe her father, and she would crumble. But he would not. Not this time at any rate. Uther knew how to use all at his disposal in due time, and with patience and purpose. Now was not the time.
He sat, allowing her, he thought, to twist in the wind, unwilling to simply dismiss her. Several long, uncomfortable moments passed between them in silence. Uther leaned to the right, finding that the pain that Gaius' elixir had temporarily cured now returned. He put his hand to it; his face involuntarily contorting from the grip of pain.
"Are you unwell, sire? Should I bring Gaius to attend you?" she moved toward him, close enough to reach out and touch him, yet she held back.
Was it genuine concern he saw in her eyes, or merely the sense of duty a loyal subject owed to her sovereign? "Go. Just go." he murmured softly, having no desire for her to see him in a moment of weakness and vulnerability.
"Sire?" she responded not sure that she comprehended his words.
"You may go," he commanded. This time in a voice befitting the king.
"Sire," she again curtseyed before him, and then he watched as she made her way quickly across the room to the doors of the Council chamber, no doubt grateful to be released from his presence. In an instant she was gone.
Uther leaned back; the pain subsiding. He closed his eyes and summoned to his mind the image of his son's face the previous night. He felt inexplicably flushed and angry, jealous even. He felt a something inside he'd never felt before; he felt truly old.
~~the end~~