Part 1 - The Prince Spars

Prince Arthur woke with the kind of energy that could fuel and feed him for an entire day. He was anxious to get on with the day, anxious to be on the practice field, anxious to be moving. He was glad that Lancelot had returned to Camelot. While he was not a knight, Lancelot fought better than any knight, and he could practice and spar with the knights teaching them much in the process. If Arthur had his way, Lancelot would, even now, be a knight of Camelot. But Arthur's father, King Uther forbade it. So Lancelot came to Camelot not as a knight, but as a friend. More perhaps, because Arthur owed Lancelot a debt of honor and gratitude that he felt remained unpaid.

By the time he'd had his morning meal and dressed, the sun had risen well into the sky. It would be a sunny day, but the air remained cool and crisp.

As he left the castle, he spotted Guinevere and Lancelot in the courtyard deep in conversation. He paused to observe them from a distance. Her countenance was relaxed and confident in Lancelot's presence. She made a girlish movement with her head, tossing her hair over her shoulder. And Arthur noticed now that it was loose about her shoulders, rather than pulled back and restrained as usual. At first her face was serious, as was Lancelot's. But then, Lancelot made a gesture with his hand, as if explaining some physical action to her, and her face gradually gave way to a smile. It was not broad, but it was genuine, and danced across both her lips and her eyes. Lancelot smiled too, and leaned toward her in a way that suggested a familiarity between them that Arthur never guessed existed. Indeed, he never considered before how well they knew one another. Arthur skirted them completely, and then stalked directly to the practice field, with long, hard strides.

Once there Arthur found his servant Merlin in one of the outbuildings adjoining the practice field, pretending to polish the prince's armor, but really looking a million miles away; his lips moving almost imperceptibly as though he was reciting something softly to himself again and again.

"Armor, Merlin," the prince commanded, as Merlin looked up with a start, not having noticed his entrance.

Merlin helped Arthur into his mail, and then asked, "I thought today was a practice day ... drills and that sort of thing?"

"I'm of a mind to spar today. I woke up spoiling for it. Shoulder plate," he said, holding out his arms to enable Merlin to strap the shoulder plate in place. Merlin pulled and buckled the leather strap under the prince's arm. "Pull it a notch tighter, Merlin."

"Are you sure?" responded the puzzled servant.

"Just do as I ask," was the prince's gruff reply. His face was taut and serious, giving rise to curiosity in Merlin as to what occasioned this intensity in the prince. But he did as asked, or commanded, and tightened the strap a notch beyond the norm. "That's better." Arthur headed off toward the practice field, leaving Merlin with the unasked question on his face.

*****

The hilt of his sword was hard within his hands. The sword itself was heavy, yet perfectly balanced. He heard the sound of metal on metal ... the clang of sword on sword. A charge, a parry, an attack ... countered, then a deluge of blows against his helpless victim. Another knight defeated. Arthur sighed as he removed his helmet.

Then he saw Lancelot at the edge of the practice field watching like a mere spectator. Tucking his helmet under his arm, he approached Lancelot. "Feel like sparring Lancelot? I need more of a challenge," he added confidentially. "Merlin will get you kitted up."

*****

Arthur and Lancelot stood facing one another on the practice field. Each put on his helmet. A nod sufficed to indicate the start of combat ... or rather, sparring.

Lancelot, imbued with spirit, but a far less tactical fighter than Arthur, charged first. For Arthur, his mind raced ahead two or even three steps, but the movements remained instinctive. Here alone, on the field, did he feel completely himself, completely at ease, completely in his element.

The clang of Lancelot's sword meeting Arthur's rang out across the field. Arthur let Lancelot attack first. He hung back, observing Lancelot's charge. Lancelot was neither wild nor precise; he had a style and approach all his own. For a time, they met one another blow for blow. One advancing as the other fell back; and then reversing roles. For a moment they came together, swords pressing hard against one another, until Lancelot gained the leverage necessary to throw Arthur back on his heels. Arthur found himself momentarily off balance, and had to pivot to regain his footing. He did so just in time to counter Lancelot's attack.

There was a buzz among the knights. It was not support for either man. Rather, it was appreciation for a battle well met by both combatants.

At last, Arthur wearied of the give and take. He knew now was the time to seize the momentum; now was the time to press his opponent. Now, though tired, he raised his sword and moved forward in attack. His muscles fired together, propelling his arms and legs in unison. Lancelot fell back for a moment, but a moment was all Arthur needed to press his attack. Swinging his sword again and again, moving from the right and then the left, he backed Lancelot away. Finally, recognizing that a knight must use all at his disposal, not just his sword or weapon, he suddenly moved back, momentarily causing Lancelot to stumble off balance. Arthur raised his elbow and swung it into Lancelot's chest, dropping him to the ground. Arthur held his sword to Lancelot's chest. Lancelot laying on the ground, relinquished his sword and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Each removed his helmet, and looked at the face of the other. Arthur could easily have walked away, but instead he extended his hand to Lancelot and helped him to his feet. He would not have done so for one of the knights, but he owed Lancelot this much.

Lancelot rose and both men stood winded, their faces glistening with sweat. Lancelot bent and placed his hands on his knees for a moment, trying to recapture the breath that Arthur had jarred from him. Arthur leaned heavily on his sword, which he'd planted into the ground before him. Then he noticed Lancelot looking beyond him. Instinctively he knew. He turned, and there at the edge of the practice field stood Guinevere, watching them intently. He had no idea how long she'd been there. He tried to read her eyes. There was a look in them as they moved between Lancelot and him ... a look of concern, and perhaps disapproval, but it mixed with something else as well. Something he could not read. And for a moment he wondered whether Lancelot knew her well enough to read her expressions. When at last her gaze settled on him, she drew back her shoulders, gathered her cloak about her, and left the practice field with a backwards glance that he could definitely read.

Arthur felt an ache that went beyond muscle and tendon, but it was a delicious ache ... the kind that reminded him that he was alive ... and that he was a man, not just a prince.

Part 2 - A Woman Takes Counsel

Gwen woke as she did every morning with her mistress Lady Morgana's needs and wants for the day in the forefront of her mind. She had risen before dawn and made her way to Morgana's chambers in the castle, to find as she increasingly did, Lady Morgana suffering from an aching head the result of too little sleep and too many dreams. She had brought the court physician Gaius to tend to Morgana, and then headed home to her cottage in the village.

Gwen used a knife to cut a small bunch of lavender from the larger boughs that hung drying in the corner of her cottage. Then she did the same with some sage. She tied them together with as small a piece of ribbon as would suffice, seeing that ribbon was dear to her, and then headed back to the castle to see Gaius.

Though her thoughts were of Morgana, she herself had much weighing on her heart and mind at present. She thought of two men--one she felt inexplicably needed her somehow, and the other she knew wanted her. Her thoughts and feelings about each were a tangled skein. Time and again, she pulled at one end, but the other end, in the form of clarity or an answer, always eluded her.

As she made her way back through the village for the second time that morning, Gwen was struck by the disparity between the lives of the servants and the nobles they served. Sometimes she believed that the nobles gave no thought to the lives of their servants, that they cared not at all about the concerns and worries of those who waited on them. But then she remembered the times that Morgana and Arthur had demonstrated through their deeds how much they cared. She thought of the time they had placed themselves in peril to aid Merlin. So perhaps she did them an injustice, but Morgana and Arthur were exception rather than rule. Still, no one, she believed, woke each day with her well-being foremost in their thoughts.

When she arrived at Gaius' chambers, she found the door ajar. She knocked to announce her arrival, "Gaius?" she called.

"Ah Gwen, come in," the physician was perched on a stool at his worktable, preparing something no doubt intended to treat Morgana's aching head.

Gwen approached him and stood at his side. "How is she?" Gwen asked, genuinely concerned about her mistress' frequent headaches.

"I'm preparing something now to help ease the pain, but I must say that the frequency and intensity of her headaches worries me a great deal."

Gwen was quiet for a long moment, letting his words sink in. Then she began cautiously, "Gaius?" she said, placing the bundle on the table in front of her, "I've brought some lavender and sage. I dry them at home in my cottage, and I find their fragrance very soothing." She went on carefully, mindful of Gaius' skill as a physician and that he might think her impertinent, or worse, silly, "I thought that, perhaps, a tincture of lavender and sage applied to her temples might help ... in addition to your remedies, of course," she added hastily and nervously.

Gaius turned from his work and looked at her, his face grave. "I dare say it will do no harm, and may, in fact, promote a feeling of well being." He stood and moved slowly to the end of the worktable. He returned with a heavy mortar and pestle, which he placed in front of Gwen. "Every tincture begins with a good deal of elbow grease," he said.

Gwen crumbled the leaves into mortar, and began pulverizing them with the pestle. She rolled up her sleeves for freedom of movement. Gradually the combined scents filled the chamber. They worked side by side in silence; from time to time Gaius glanced at Gwen, and admired the way she engaged her task. He also noted the weary expression on her face, but he said nothing, focusing instead on balancing the proportions of his pain remedy.

After a time, Gwen broke the silence. "Gaius? Did you know my mother?"

"Yes," he replied, stopping his work to look at her. "Not well, I'm afraid, but yes, I knew her."

"Tell me about her ... what you remember, I mean."

"She was much like you. She was lovely and gentle. Strong too ... until the end, of course. Most of all, she was absolutely devoted to Tom, and to you." Understanding now her intense expression, he asked, "Why do you ask? Now, I mean."

Gwen's hands continued their work. One hand turning the mortar; the other working the pestle. "I find myself thinking of her a great deal of late. It's quite strange, I'll be out in the meadow, and the breeze will carry a scent my way, and suddenly there she'll be in my mind. Yet for the life of me, I cannot remember her face or the sound of her voice."

"You were so young, Gwen."

"I know it sounds silly, but there are times when a woman needs the counsel of another woman. I keep thinking that if my mother were here she could tell me ..."

"Tell you what?" Gaius was concerned. "Is something troubling you?"

"Yes, well no, not troubling exactly," Gwen struggled for a moment, fumbling over her own words. "There are things," she began cryptically, "you know, thoughts and feelings ... my mother would understand. I know she would."

"And you feel you can't share them with Lady Morgana? After all Gwen, you and she have much in common. You have each grown up without your mother."

"True, but there are things that I can't discuss with her." Her feelings of guilt about that which she withheld from Morgana swept through her with a sudden rush of heat. She wondered if Gaius sensed it as well. "And she has so much of her own to cope with at the moment, without me adding to it. No ..." she went on thoughtfully, "I won't add to her burdens. Don't mind me Gaius. I'm fine, really," she said choking back tears and returning her full attention to her work.

Now Gaius watched her work, searching for the right words, "Guinevere, though your parents are gone, you are not alone. You have Morgana and Merlin ... and Lancelot," he added grudgingly, for though he believed that Lancelot meant well, he always seemed to stir trouble as well. "Even Prince Arthur, in his own way, of course ... all care about you. And, you have me. I may be ill suited to substitute for your mother, or indeed even your father, but I have both the age and experience to give you counsel if ever you need it. And I care for you a great deal. So please don't feel alone."

At last, her hands ceased their restless work. She turned to Gaius and threw her arms around his neck, startling the old man. Burying her face in his shoulder, for a few all too brief moments she let go of the conflicted feelings that last few months had wrought upon her. Although she had not spoken of the confusion in her heart, she found relief and comfort in Gaius' awkward patting of her back. After several moments, she collected herself and released Gaius from her grip, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand. Their eyes met, "Thank you Gaius. I believe you truly understand what a woman needs ... this one anyway."

She turned back to the worktable, and resumed her work. Gaius, too, collected himself and returned to his work. At length he began, "About this tincture of yours Gwen ..." as if nothing had happened.

~the end~