Chapter 4: In Pursuit of Happiness
It took Merlin a week to get used to having Percival and Gwaine around. More than around; one or both was always with him, walking about the streets and collecting offers as they'd done all week.
It had been a long time since Gaius had walked with him.
Still something of a shock to remember slave, though, in reference to his new companions. That he was both citizen and slave-holder at once. Because he'd never really thought slave about Gaius, and because Hunith had been the old man's actual owner.
The first night, huddled on his conjured mattress, tears had come unbidden. He crumpled a similarly-conjured pillow to his face to muffle the sounds he couldn't quite silence, grieving. For his mother, for Gaius, for his life. His mother, he couldn't keep; Gaius had not wanted to stay – but he felt the regret keenly, that neither of them had lived to see that they'd succeeded, with him. He mourned for himself, the loss of the last person he could ask, What do I do.
The curious eyes of the female citizens and their slaves who'd come to gawk, as Gwaine had put it, turned his stomach upside down. And if he'd actually eaten anything else that arena-day, he would have deemed the experience not worth the price. Except that, he was responsible for the provision of the two men whose lives he had spared to claim.
It was the sound of Gwaine snoring, on the mattress laid next to his on the dusty floorboards of the tiny dark apartment, that finally soothed and amused him to slumber.
And it was the sound of them moving quietly and whispering – not to hide the content of their conversation, but to let him keep sleeping – that sense of responsibility of provision, that prompted him to open his eyes and wash and face the day.
Each day this week had been far more public than any in his life. Make himself visible, profit from female curiosity. He'd eaten far better this week than any other week in his life, also, and the rent was paid for another. Merlin on the contract, in place of Hunith.
A concerted effort, and he thought the other two knew it, also. Maybe it had begun with, they knew what they had to do with him and for him, to earn their meals through him, but now… It was cooperative and implicit partnership and an amiable balance that seemed to suit master and slaves, both.
What settled him, however, was the third evening. Full moon, and high energy from the continuing success of their first venture – to sell his presence to public eating-houses – had the two former soldiers ill-disposed to rest.
"Do you mind if we exercise a bit?" Percival had said. Merlin found the big man was more imposing than his companion, quieter and more serious, more thoughtful. He could be intimidating, Merlin guessed, but hadn't yet seen that. "We can use the street – it's deserted."
Merlin wouldn't have blamed them for disappearing one of the previous nights, for all Gwaine's talk of not hurting him, but they hadn't. So when he ventured to watch them, hidden in the shadow of the open doorway, it was not for fear that his slaves would run away.
Gwaine was harder to read. Words came so readily it was hard to take any of them too seriously, jokes and teasing, and he absorbed Percival's succinct jibes with an absolute good humor that astonished Merlin. And made him feel quite warm on the inside, when one made some quip at the other's expense – then glanced at Merlin to include him in the joke. Assuming he understood it, and the fact that it communicated affection. Including him in the affection. The long-haired man seemed completely carefree and downright frivolous at times – but something told Merlin, there was more to him. He imagined Gwaine could be very dangerous if he ever lost his temper – which was why he never took anything seriously himself, enough for that.
That night he'd watched them unseen, marveling a bit at the methodical, military way they went about efficient drills they both knew by heart; he'd never seen the like before, but for the Watch patrols marching the street – infrequently in this neighborhood.
He watched them stretch, exercise muscles, wrestle and race and spar, and he saw friends. Two men who knew each other and were comfortable with each other and cared about each other, something he'd only glimpsed in the arena. He saw two men whose characters he could respect, because he saw what they valued – the respect of their companions.
The fifth night, Gwaine had said, "What about leaving us a brace of torches, please, Merlin?"
And neither had said anything when he'd crouched on the doorstep to watch their routine in the flickering conjured light. Neither had done anything different, even to the laughter and teasing insults.
Percival had said, "Care to join us for a footrace or two?"
And Merlin had. He'd beaten Percival, but not Gwaine, who'd huffed a laugh and informed Merlin, "He's too big to be a sprinter, but Percival can run all day and all night if he has to."
They'd all sprawled on the curb – after Merlin conjured a wave of water to clean and clear the gutter – to catch their breath. And Merlin had dared to ask, "What put you two in the prison?"
As master, he had every right to the information. The nature of his slaves' former crimes. As friend… he was nervous, asking.
They were neither embarrassed nor apologetic. Nor offended. "I was defending the barracks cook," Gwaine claimed. "A couple of transfers were being insulting, so I showed 'em what it felt like to have a hard day's work so maligned. They took exception."
"And a carving knife," Percival added.
"Percival," Gwaine continued without acknowledging the interruption, "big idiot that he is, thought he was watching my back – and broke the second man's."
Merlin thought about it for a moment. Soldiers, and therefore used to violence. Trained to it. Maybe not even the first time they'd killed. Not quite murderers, though if they started – or finished – a fight that turned lethal, so the crime would be recorded. Nothing underhanded, though, nothing premeditated or even unfair. Defending a friend.
"You have to admit, though," Percival said, addressing the stars contemplatively, "that stew was lousy. It did, in fact, taste of rat droppings."
It was on the tip of Merlin's tongue to wonder teasingly, how Percival knew what that tasted like, but he didn't quite dare.
Gwaine retorted, "I said I was defending the cook, not his food." And he nudged Merlin with his elbow – the first physical contact Gwaine had initiated.
And last night, there had been weapons.
One had mentioned, too bad we don't have, and Merlin had offered. They'd spent half of an hour describing and explaining, til Merlin conjured a pair of swords they were pleased with – and then impressed him with their sparring. So fast, so intricate, heart in his mouth though the blades were dull and neither touched the other.
Neither was leader, between the two, and neither was follower. And that balance suited Merlin, too, as they all grew comfortable with each other's personalities. They learned that he didn't mind comments, ideas, suggestions. And he learned that they didn't resent his; though he couldn't – and maybe even wouldn't – phrase his contributions like orders.
No sullen silences, no veiled glares, no goading insolence. Just three men trying to make the best of odd and unexpected circumstances.
Maybe it was because their lives – necessities and comforts, worry for future provision – depended on his, but he felt about them like he'd felt about Gaius. Companion, with a common goal they'd all work together to reach. He hoped it would stay that way.
Though right now, he was the only one not working.
Merlin stood shifting his weight subtly, watching Gwaine crouch and crawl, arranging the conjured bedding. Mattresses and pillows stuffed with wool, covers of light linen for the season. Though he'd initially offered silk sheets and mahogany bed-stands – as a joke and because he didn't want to insult them by offering something less than what they expected – they'd decided on comfortable, but without extra fuss.
Better than plank bunks and scratchy moth-eaten blankets, they'd agreed. And thanked him.
Did other slaves thank their masters for provision? And did other masters feel warmth in the center of their chests, when they did?
"Don't even think about it," Gwaine said, startling Merlin to attention.
"What?"
Percival spoke from his position across the hearth from Merlin, squatting on his heels with his back to the wall for support. "You were looking for floor-space to conjure a chair to sit down in."
"I was not," Merlin protested, shifting his weight again.
Percival gave him a stern look before turning his eyes to his task again – sewing buttons onto Merlin's blue silk tunic. Both were conjured materials, but it was easier to do them separately, than to conjure a garment with embellishments like buttons.
Sewing buttons. With such a tiny space and next to nothing real to fill it with, there weren't many daily chores. Sweeping, rinsing out the waste-grate. Neither of them minded, rather volunteered when something needed doing, and Merlin made sure he did his share. Tonight, that meant not wrinkling the fine clothing he'd already conjured and donned, while Gwaine saw to the beds it would be nice to come home to, rather than the task of making them, and Percival plied the fine conjured needle with his big rough soldier's hands.
Well, who do you suppose does the mending for the soldiers? he'd asked reasonably, when Merlin had first betrayed surprise at their familiarity with the chore. They'd answered together, matter-of-factly, The soldiers.
"What were you thinking, then?" Gwaine challenged. Finished, he sprawled on the floor between two of the mattresses, legs out and his weight supported on his arms.
They'd agreed upon a sort-of uniform – not a slave's livery, nor yet the military garb they'd been used to, but made them feel more professional than the simple garments he'd conjured the first day - dark blue trousers and soft boots for both. A white cotton shirt for Gwaine, light but sturdy, that he wore with the sleeves rolled up and open at the throat, no bandages while they were out but with his healing brand covered by his hair. For Percival Merlin made a hardier tunic in the same color, sleeveless and thigh-length, with a higher collar that covered the bandages.
The brand-marks had been worse, the second and third days. But Merlin believed the danger of infection past, as long as they kept them clean, though healing wouldn't be complete for another fortnight. And then the marks were permanent.
"I was thinking about, what next," Merlin said.
Gwaine dropped his gaze past Merlin to Percival; Merlin turned to see the bigger man looking away from whatever their shared thought had been. So they were aware of the question needing an answer, too – that was good.
"I mean, it's not that I'm complaining about making a spectacle of myself…" Gwaine grinned, and Merlin backed up a step to lean carefully against the wall opposite him, so he could see both other men at once. "I don't mind making myself available to offers for free meals. But it's going to start to feel like begging, or –" Selling myself, he didn't say.
A moment of silence and another significant look passed between his two companions.
"What about the other sort of offers?" Gwaine said deliberately, his dark gaze on the toes of his boots, rather than Merlin's face.
"Um." Merlin felt his face heat, and then he couldn't look at them either.
Percival pushed to his feet and stepped over his mattress – the one closest to the door – to bring Merlin the blue silk tunic, finished with a row of gold buttons. "I've had requests," the big man said, holding the garment for Merlin to put his arms in, and adjusting the fit over the creamy blouse as Merlin buttoned it. "So has Gwaine. Women wishing us to speak to you about… sexual contracts."
Merlin focused on the buttons. "Mm hm."
"Sums were mentioned," Gwaine said evenly. "Even including a courtship period with expenses included, if you're shy or nervous about being shown to the bedroom first thing."
Lords. Now that would really be selling himself. Begging or prostitution. And maybe it would have been better to take a slave-mark, if this was what his life as a free citizen came to.
"Why," he said softly.
Percival cleared his throat, glanced back at Gwaine. "I had one who said, one-time thing. For fun and… curiosity. More who wanted a child from the union."
"Because of my magic," Merlin said bitterly, and then the buttons were done and he had nothing to occupy his fingers.
"Mirror and comb," Percival said only.
It was routine, by now. Merlin held out his hands and focused on conjuring the items – the fine-toothed comb more difficult than the large plate of polished silver that Percival held for him. He wasn't completely sure why they insisted on this, since he ended up nervously shoving his fingers through his hair at various angles throughout the evening anyway. Gwaine joined them, and this time Merlin did not have to be told – encouraged, cajoled – to adopt their highly-recommended soldier's stance.
Feet even, but apart for balance, toes forward. Shoulders back, head up. Deep slow breaths, and confidence. Eye contact for equality's sake.
"This is why," Gwaine said, beside him in the silver mirror. "You're easy on a woman's eye, kid."
Not much better than, because of my magic. Was it too much to ask for people to look deeper than that? With all the women he'd met this week, he hadn't made any friends.
" 'Course," Gwaine added with an impish twinkle, "You'll never be as pretty as me…"
Merlin snorted, and dismissed the mirror as Percival held it out a bit. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to," Percival told him. "You fought for the right to say no."
He couldn't help wondering – probably they'd both been with women, they were older and well-built and well-mannered and good-looking. He wondered if their first times had been awkward – and his, he felt, was going to be highly significant because of his unique status.
"You could skip the ones that are just for a good time," Gwaine offered. "Go halves on a courtship before you decide if she's worth making a longer-term offspring contract with."
"We'd need ready coin to go halves in the first place," Percival pointed out.
Merlin was nervous and unhappy, standing still and discussing this. "If we can think of something else, let's," he blurted. "If I'm not going to sell myself, I'm sure as hell not going to sell my children."
He turned his shoulders sideways to move between them to the door, but Gwaine arrested him with a touch on his arm both light and brief. "You know," he said in a tone of discovery. "You're a citizen. That means – marriage is a good possibility."
Merlin was startled enough to stop, and turn to face both of them again. Gwaine was grinning back at him; Percival gazed thoughtfully into a ceiling corner.
"You have your pick of any girl who'll say yes," Gwaine continued triumphantly. "You might even get a few offers like that, eventually. Means you'll be able to raise your own kids with one woman – though actually, if you wanted kids, you've the right to proposition and negotiate for custody."
Merlin felt sick, and Gwained looked thrilled until he noticed.
"What's the matter? Surely it's a good thing for the first male citizen to be a father." He glanced at Percival, who looked faintly disapproving. "Eventually."
"What do you know about your father?" Merlin said. "I know nothing. Nothing. Not his name, who he was… I only know, my mother was stationed at the north-eastern garrison of Ealdor when she was caught with child. Left the military because of me. Bought Gaius because of me, lived here because of me." He flung his arms out to indicate the tiny apartment at the bottom of the lower town.
He'd never spoken about this to anyone, not even Hunith or Gaius. And he hadn't allowed himself to think of it in a long time.
"Scraped a living caring for kids whose mothers paid someone else to do it, to focus on their business. For me. And my father? Out there somewhere. Growing up, my mother conjured very little, because she couldn't. It was hard for her, it was exhausting. What little we had, I made. So I think, my strength must have come from my father. Who didn't dare try for the arena."
And now he was having to wipe salt-water tears on the cuffs of the fine white blouse he'd conjured, while he waited for their reactions – pity, embarrassment –
"My ma was a whore," Gwaine said, and Merlin was startled as much by the utter absence of humor in his voice, as by the words themselves. "No, I mean that literally, she was a professional prostitute, employed by the military to distribute rewards for the soldiers that earned them. She didn't even know who my father was, and she didn't care. Any more than she cared about any of her kids."
Silence. Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn't suppose he had it so bad after all… and especially if he'd earned the trust of a man like Gwaine, to tell him a story like that.
"It's not uncommon," Percival observed calmly, "for a child not to know their father, in the poorer sections. When a woman has no coin and no slave of her own, to accept illicit liaisons." They both looked at him, and he shrugged his great shoulders. "When I was a kid, I hoped that my neighbor's slave, the one who trained me, was my father, but I didn't know for sure. My mother wouldn't tell me."
"At least you had someone to look up to, to train you and teach you things," Gwaine said, but thoughtfully and without bitterness.
Percival hummed agreement. "And you had Gaius, Merlin?"
"Yes." Merlin took a deep calming breath, and let it out. He hadn't spoken of his mentor to his two new companions yet, but they really did need to get going if they didn't want to anger their hostess and jeopardize their dinners. "Let's go."
Out the door, their boots fell into a comfortable marching pace behind him. As they threaded their way through the streets – past carts and booths and puddles, around corners and upwards toward the finer neighborhoods closer to the palace – Percival spoke.
"Was he the one who taught you how to conjure that burn paste?"
Merlin kept his head up and his eyes forward, but spoke over his shoulder. "He was slave to a physician, most of his life. Sold when she retired, but she'd given him a good education, training in healing by conjuration and nature. That was when my mother bought him."
He'd offered his old friend a manumission, after his mother died in spite of everything Gaius could do, when the old man blamed himself for not being able to cure her. Only to find out that Hunith had offered to free the old man many times, at least on paper, and Gaius himself had refused, content to remain where and as he was. For Merlin's sake, he thought, but probably for his own as well – with the old man's health failing, where would he have gone and how would he have provided for himself?
"Healing by conjuration?" Gwaine asked. "I've never seen that – our healers used plain old needle and thread, and boiled bandages. And good luck to you."
Merlin threw a distressed grimace over his shoulder.
Percival shrugged. "Border garrison soldiers."
"Oh. Well – you know conjurations don't last more than twenty-four hours, so there's some things it can't help with. Stitches, for one. And you have to know what goes into the ointments and tonics and in what amounts, before you conjure that. But hot water and cloths and bandages that have to be changed anyway, can be done easily. Crutches to specific measurements…"
"How come," Gwaine spoke up, "your honey or herbs can work in that paste, but the same conjured honey or herbs, doesn't do a bit of good down your gullet?"
"It's because…" Merlin stopped and squinted at the distance, the square of the buildings and the curve of the roads, gilded by the setting sun. He called to memory one lecture that had resulted from his insistence for more than because, then turned to face them. "Okay, for most illnesses or injuries, your body can heal itself, without any external aid, even if that aid does come in handy. Something like honey only helps your body fight off the infection, stitches help a wound to close and bleeding to slow, willow-bark tea helps pain to subside more quickly than it would do, on its own. Yes? But your body cannot produce its own nutrition. So conjured substances can effectively supplement the healing process – but not the digestive."
Gwaine's dark brows were down in a grimace of protest. "That's simple enough to be true," he said sardonically.
Percival shrugged acceptance, if not understanding, and commented, "It's an idea."
"What is?" Gwaine asked.
"A clinic."
Merlin stopped halfway through turning to continue on their way. "A clinic?"
"Sure. If you already have a decent training, and you can conjure a certain amount of your supplies – that means no work needs to be done cleaning them up afterwards, either – then all we'd need is…"
"I know a few basics," Merlin said, excitement and panic warring at the center of his chest. "I would need to learn –"
"Half a dozen physicians in this city," Gwaine put in. "At least that many apothecaries. Maybe someone would take you on for –"
Merlin was already shaking his head. "The newest citizens get apprenticeships, that's true," he said. "But there's no way any of those dozen women are going to pay me enough for three men to live on, when they can pay a girl with no dependents who's still living at her mother's home, and has no expenses."
"What about books?" Percival said. "You can learn from books, can't you?"
Merlin felt his eyebrows leap up. "Yes, probably – I bet the palace has a good library, and the princess said if I needed anything to ask her. Permission to read their books – that's not asking for much."
"Not much at all," Gwaine agreed, eyes and teeth gleaming in anticipation.
Merlin felt the same, almost giddy at the prospect of a decent idea that wouldn't compromise principles, that would make use of skills he already had, but require more learning and study at the same time. And, if it turned out he could conjure supplies in any great quantity, he could probably keep costs down and be able then to offer care for the poorer people – freedmen and slaves and children among them.
"All we'd need is a place to rent," Percival said. "That apartment wouldn't do."
And some initial supplies and furnishings. If Merlin was tired with the conjurations for three adult men – more than he'd been used to, with Gaius – he didn't want to overestimate his abilities and exhaust himself while there were still patients waiting for care.
"So we're back to needing funds to start with," Gwaine said, disappointed.
Merlin's hope didn't budge an inch.
"We need a sponsor," he said. "An investor." And that, was definitely within the realm of possible.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The woman was beautiful.
For a moment Percival forgot everything else in the room – myriad mouth-watering aromas, the sight of guests in the fanciest clothing money could buy or imagination could conjure. The noise – conversation and laughter, the music of the stringed trio in the corner – the heat of a crowd on a late summer night that made him glad he wore no shirt beneath his tunic.
Glossy waves of midnight hair that fell to her waist. Startlingly green eyes emphasized with dark liner. Ruby-red lips and milk-white skin, gown the color of blood, a silk so embroidered with black thread that it had to be real.
As she approached – first Percival and Gwaine, tacitly guarding their young master at his small private table from too much attention at once – she glanced between them. Then, smirked and tossed her hair back in a single expressive move, and her spell was broken.
She was trouble.
He kept his face stonily impassive, but Gwaine grinned at her unabashedly, and though her path brought her closer to him than Percival, she swerved minutely. Percival caught the flicker of his friend's glance down the woman's low-cut bodice as she leaned to speak into his ear, moving his hair a bit in a way that was almost intimately confident.
Maybe it was necessary, because of the noise of the room, but Percival had a strong suspicion she'd done it that way on purpose – and it worked. The woman gave him a sweeping glance of green fire, as Gwaine turned to the table to speak to Merlin. Percival shifted to put the young man in his side vision, watched him nod to Gwaine before using his napkin and setting it aside along with plate and cutlery.
Chicken in orange sauce, buttery beans and seasoned potatoes. Better than he and Gwaine would have, afterwards and on their walk home, but as long as his belly was filled, he didn't much care what went in it.
The woman accepted a goblet of wine from the tray of a passing slave, and seated herself at Merlin's table.
Percival couldn't hear the conversation, but noticed that the two of them drew a great deal of attention from other guests in the room. They did look striking together, he had to admit, black hair and fair skin, the deep blue of his tunic next to the dark red of her dress. He wondered…
Merlin looked interested in what she was saying, leaned closer to hear better – but his gaze stayed on her face, Percival was proud and relieved to see. It was Merlin's choice, but… she was trouble. He spoke in turn, using his hands in small gestures between them; she cut him off, shaking her head. Flicking her fingers, she conjured a charcoal pencil –
And as she did so, her eyes gleamed gold.
Percival was startled into turning his head a few more degrees to watch, ignoring the jostling of the mingling crowd. Merlin gave her a smile like Percival had seen only a few times, that week, full of unexpectedly boyish delight, and kept their eye contact as he conjured a scrap of paper.
He was not sure if that rare side effect signified anything, whether it was a mark of pride or shame, but it startled her to see in Merlin's eyes, Percival noticed with grim satisfaction.
She sat back just a bit, and a thoughtful look crossed her face – a hint of harder calculation – then she wrote on his conjured paper, briefly, before dismissing her pencil without so much as a smear on her pale fingers. She leaned closer to Merlin for a moment, hand on his wrist, to whisper in his ear, even as she was moving her knees away from the table to stand.
Merlin's head dropped to listen - maybe to allow him to study the scrap - and stayed down as she rose and swayed her way back into the party, triumphant as a queen. She didn't look back – and when Percival turned to Merlin –
Gwaine in the vacated seat, attention on the scrap – Merlin met Percival's glance and absolutely beamed.
Oh, that woman was trouble.
They didn't stay long after that. Merlin ignored the remainder of his dinner and seemed restless and excited, and at the first glimpse of their hostess, he shot up from the table to speak to her, gesturing Gwaine and Percival to follow.
She scowled, but moments later they were out on the darkened street, and Gwaine and Percival each had a generous heel of bread stuffed with the plump chicken and oozing tangy orange sauce.
"Wha'd sh'say?" Gwaine asked around his first mouthful.
"A business offer," Merlin said. Even his gait seemed happy to Percival, eager ungainly grace. "That's – actually the first one of those I've gotten. The first person who thinks I'm more than a fraud, or a curious aberration of the natural – magical – order, a new and interesting plaything for the bedroom. I can't believe it! We are so fortunate! To think that –"
"What did she say," Percival dared to interrupt, speaking more deliberately.
It never occurred to Merlin to take offense. "She's a moneylender. An investor. Asked if I'd made any deals with other partners yet – partners! she said partners! – and if I had ideas of what I'd like to do, with my life. I mean, that's just –"
Unprecedented for a woman, Percival guessed, a bit unhappily as he swallowed the last of his dinner. Maybe even Merlin's mother never talked to him about that, too focused on getting him to an adult citizenship, and maybe afraid to risk bad luck, talking about freedom and choice like it was a given for him. And this from a woman who shared a unique trait among conjurors, at a time when Merlin was so in-between, in reality and in emotion. When he was so in need.
"So we're meeting, tomorrow morning," Merlin said. "If she's impressed, she's ready to invest. That's what she said."
"What's her name?" Gwaine asked.
"Morgana."
Gwaine repeated it, drawing it out sensually, and Merlin shoved a bony elbow into his ribs, gaining only a huff of amusement.
Percival couldn't find the words to express the feelings he had. It was like walking into an ambush – he knew they weren't seeing everything, he sensed there was danger of some sort, he wanted to slow down and be careful. But he wasn't in the lead; it wasn't his place to say.
Gwaine did not seem to have similar inhibitions.
"Of course she's playing a game, what woman doesn't," he responded in a low voice across the space between their mattresses, when their boy-master's breathing had finally calmed and evened out in the dark. "Of course she's not offering him charity, free gold out of the goodness of her heart. Of course she's got an angle. But that doesn't mean she's an opponent – why can't she be an ally?"
Percival rolled to his back, and told the ceiling, "I hope you're right."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Ah, the smell of books.
Gwen leaned her back against the inside of the door and inhaled – and smiled a little sheepishly at the records custodian, as she always did, as the woman turned from a proprietary survey of the nearest shelf. The custodian was a tiny woman with white hair, by turns sweet and fierce, and had been a fixture in the shelf-filled chamber since Gwen could remember. Probably since her mother could remember, as well. She smiled back, nodded knowingly, and said nothing. She was used to Gwen taking refuge here for an hour or so, every now and then.
It was the perfect hour for the room, and Gwen wandered for a bit before heading for her intended shelf. Late afternoon, no candles or torches necessary, but the sunlight was indirect; warm, but the open windows admitted the first of cooling evening breezes. Her sandals, laced to the soles of her feet, made no sound on the thick woven rugs, and as she rounded the last shelf, she reacted to the surprise of company, by freezing in place, then drawing back from sight.
Between the shelves was a small but sturdy table and four straight-back chairs with rush seats. But past that, there was a window alcove, with a cushioned bench. And sprawled on that bench – one foot up with knee bent, one leg lazily extended; elbow propped so fingers could shove haphazardly through golden hair –
Arthur. Dressed in his fine dark trousers and boots, but his tunic had been discarded elsewhere, and his white blouse was open at the throat.
For the last week, she hadn't exactly avoided her two suitors, but she'd deliberately withdrawn, even while keeping company. Maybe she was making too much of it, maybe a natural maiden shyness was subconsciously delaying her choice, but it seemed to be about more, now, than simply what she wanted her child to look like.
Of course, it didn't mean she owed them anything, once the child was conceived and borne. There was no obligation on her, to change her mind or opinions, or do anything but uphold the centuries-old laws and customs of Camelot, just as her ancestors had done. But it seemed very like, this choice would inform all future choices. Like it would define her, and her reign, before the child – the daughter – found herself facing the same choices. It felt like, in making this decision, she was making it on behalf of the whole kingdom, one future or a very different one. And so she hesitated.
As she was doing now. Feeling curious and naughty, she lingered hidden by the penultimate shelf, and studied him. She'd never seen him so relaxed, and while she knew he'd been educated as his mother's steward at the garrison, she'd never seen him with book in hand – when was the last time she'd seen any man with a book in hand? – much less so engrossed…
Only a moment passed, before he let out a soft, incredulous Ha! and shifted his position, dropping his leg to lean forward over both knees. It startled her, which in turn alerted him to her presence. He snapped the book shut with one hand as she stepped out, and made to rise.
"No, please don't," she said. "You look so comfortable, and really I'm just going to stick my nose in a book anyway."
Arthur eased back, but didn't open his again. "Any one in particular?" he asked, and she relaxed a bit at his tone. Not another loaded, get-to-know-you have-you-chosen-yet conversation, but something light and inconsequential and comfortable.
"Not really," she hedged, angling her body toward the shelf and letting her eyes pass over titles inked and embossed onto spines. A single glance told him that he'd tilted his head and smiled in teasing disbelief. "Well… I have one book that I've been skimming for a while. It keeps disappearing from my room. My maid claims to know nothing about it and I believe her… It keeps ending up here, back on the shelf. I don't know how." And because of which book it was, she didn't make a big deal of asking anyone else.
Her eyes fell on it and she reached – but he stood at the same time and her attention was diverted. His smile was pulled half-sideways, but it was genuine, as was the interest that lit his blue eyes and raised his brows.
"Taliesin's Prophetic History of Albion?" he said.
She stared. Then looked away to bring the heavy tome safely down from its place like a shield against her chest, turning to the table to put the furniture between her and Arthur.
"How did you know?" she asked.
"I think the far more interesting question is, why are you reading that?" He glanced at the book to indicate his meaning, and followed her, coming toward her as close as the table would allow. "It's written by a man."
His tone was sarcastic in a way that invited her to share amusement at social prejudices, not to attack, as though their gender automatically made them opponents on the question. She blushed and couldn't help the smile, lifting her chin in challenge.
"Yes, I know. Now tell me, how did you guess I was looking for this one in particular?" She set the book down and settled herself in one of the chairs.
He took the seat diagonal from hers. "There's an old legend about Taliesin. That his book could never be destroyed or lost, because there was a spell on it to make it reappear in its proper place. The royal library of Camelot, obviously."
Gwen's smile twisted slightly. "That's a funny story, magic doesn't work like that."
Arthur shrugged, toying with his neglected book. "Is it any good? The library at Dubois doesn't have a copy."
"I'm supposed to say, it might be well-written, but it's riddled with error," Gwen said archly, tracing the rounded symbol of a tree embossed into the old leather of the book's cover.
"You're supposed to?" he said, his voice softly intrigued. "Can't you tell me the truth?"
She looked at him, really looked at him. He looked back, and said nothing. Because in reality, she couldn't. Shouldn't, whatever. Nimueh confided in no one – Gwen never really had, either. Not everything to a single person. And a man, even if a freedman.
Why did he want her to. What would happen if she did.
"Tell me something first," she said, just as soft and serious, holding his gaze. Give me a reason to trust, my confidence won't be used against me in this game, this dance. "Something true. Something you shouldn't say."
A muscle in his jaw shifted, but he didn't look away. He was deciding to trust her. To reveal something perhaps forbidden somehow, to a woman, a citizen, the princess. Gwen found she was holding her breath – was there more to men than acquiescence to female desire and adherence to duty, and what, and what would it mean for all of them, if that expression was allowed? encouraged?
"My parents are married," he said.
Again she found herself staring at him; thoughts skipped through her head like children through a chalk-game.
His father was a soldier, if a high-ranking one, not even a freedman – had the queen given permission? Ygraine was her cousin – did Nimueh even know?
No wonder Ygraine had told Vivienne no.
And. He had trusted her with a secret that he'd been trusted with, someone else's secret, and that someone else very close and important to him, if not also very dear. If Gwen betrayed him, it would lose him his mother's confidence, and the consequences would be born by his entire family. She was impressed, she was privileged –
She was a little annoyed that his confidence put such a weight of importance on her.
"It was – before I was born, but after my mother knew she was carrying a child," Arthur went on, a determined set to his expression. "A child, whether son or daughter. She wanted to buy his contract from the crown, make the marriage public, but – she didn't know if the queen would allow it, or whether even asking would damage Queen Nimueh's faith in her, and force the separation she was trying to avoid. I gather that extra funds were saved to buy my freedom instead, after I was born and – no other children were."
"What's your father like?" Gwen said, fascinated. Realized a second too late she should have said sire, but he didn't seem to notice. Some tension left him, for amusement.
"He is – a commander, through and through. His men jump when he bellows – and I always did, too – but my mother can direct him with a single look or touch."
And these two, had raised Arthur, educated and trained him. That lopsided smile was back, and it was ridiculously endearing though he wasn't beautiful like Lancelot.
"Now. Your turn… Taliesin?"
"Well," she said, straightening and placing her hands over the cover and the tree. "His chronicling of the ancient kings is obviously biased–" she forestalled him by adding– "but of course to say that and be fair, you also have to admit that Blythewin's account is also biased. I think the truth is probably somewhere in the middle."
"And you read of the ancient kings to avoid their mistakes, someday when it is your turn to rule?" The question was genuinely curious; he looked at the book as if he'd like to slide it out from under her fingers and page through it himself.
"Every reign has mistakes," Gwen said carefully. "I think it a wise thing to learn from the past, if one is in a position to change the future."
"And –" he leaned on the table, extending one arm to touch the tip of her book's spine. "Do you read of the future as well?"
Again, curiosity rather than sarcasm, and she couldn't help thinking of one of the passages of the book that always caught her attention.
As water seeks its level, so the world will balance again, turning as seasons from light to dark and death to life. One man to match one woman as equals and opposites, is inevitable as change is inevitable and each will have a part to play – royal and slave, healer and killer, wild and tame, cup and sword. I have seen him. I have seen her. I have seen them, and it will one day come to pass…
She said, "Sometimes."
A/N: CeriDouglas and Tif S, how's that for plot-hole-filling? *wink*