Berimund marched along a corridor, peeking into every nook and cranny, cranky and grumbling. This was the third time in two months. Couldn't the king get a handle on the child? Last time he'd found her holed up under a bed in a guest room that hadn't seen use in a year. No luck this time.
Berimund finished his quadrant of the search and returned to Huelin inside the king's council chamber.
"Berimund?" the captain of the guard inquired.
"She's not in the west wing." He tried not to look at the king. He could guess he and the child had clashed once again, and the royal would be fuming.
Another guard came running in. "Her horse is gone, my lord."
The king stood, and Berimund was forced to acknowledge his presence, surprised to catch a flash of guilt in his eyes before wrath returned. "Find her."
"Yes, sire," Huelin said. They all bowed their heads and left the room. Berimund meant to return to his regular duties, but Huelin called out to him.
"Berimund! You will join us."
He slowly turned. "Of course."
Riding in misty drizzle in chain mail was downright intolerable. The metal links intensified the cold, his arming coat soaked through, and his gloves slipped from his reins. With every step, he cursed the girl for taking off. Didn't she see what she had? Didn't she know how very lucky she was?
Berimund swore under his breath. The king should punish her harshly this time. Yes, he'd made a promise to her father, and Gorlois had been a great man. No one doubted that, but the king was too soft on the girl, letting her get away with things he never would have his son. Male, female, it didn't matter to Berimund. This was too much, and she needed a stiff reminder of her place.
Huelin paused ahead, consulting with a couple others at the front of the search party. Berimund heard him damn the loss of tracks. He took advantage of the momentary reprieve, leading his patient mare to a gorse bush so she could nibble a treat. He patted her neck and rubbed vigorously when her discontented snort produced a visible puff of air.
Berimund narrowed his eyes. The brush had been pushed back here. He dismounted, pacing several steps in. He raised his eyebrows and called out. "Her horse!"
Soldiers filled the small clearing. Huelin glanced every which way. "Her horse, but not her."
Berimund pointed at the ground. A trail of petite footprints had pressed into the damp earth.
Huelin shook his head. "She intended to mislead us."
Berimund nodded. The girl was clever, if not obedient. As he followed behind the men slashing at brush with their swords to follow the tracks, he thought of the girl when she'd first come to live in the citadel.
She'd been only ten, but her arrival caused a great deal of excitement and gossip. That Gorlois had perished was grievous, but the report that his daughter would take up residence in the castle brought hope. Finally a feminine influence would grace the citadel once more and smooth out the roughened edges of the king and prince.
Berimund snorted. How wrong they had been. From the moment she stepped out of the carriage antagonism and debate had been her way. She was gracious to servants and staff, but the king and prince she targeted for derision. At first, most put it off to grief and being forced to leave the home of her childhood, but the longer she stayed, the more stubborn she seemed. Four years had passed, and still she was a spitfire, the royal court having done nothing to charm her.
Not that the court ladies hadn't tried, but she resisted them. Word was after her mother died, she spent her time riding the wilds with her father, learning sword-craft and the specifics of battle and war, things a son should care more for than a daughter.
Huelin stopped after a hundred meters or so when he reached a green plain dotted with scraggly trees, wispy fog obscuring the view. A gut wrenching whimpering filtered through the mists.
"Arm yourselves," Huelin whispered.
Berimund unsheathed his sword, heart pounding. This was why he liked the castle. There was some excitement now and then, but you usually saw it coming. Out here anyone, or anything, could hide anywhere.
A bleached standing stone appeared as they drew closer, and at its base, a green cloaked figure, forehead touching the rocky slabs bracing the bottom. The figure raised its head to look at them. They'd found the Lady Morgana, tears staining her cheeks, grief in her eyes. She turned her head away from them.
Berimund had expected Huelin to demand the ward get on her horse and return with them immediately, but now that they beheld her like this, in front of her father's grave... The soldiers glanced uncertainly amongst each other, and then all eyes turned on him.
Berimund stared back. Most of them were bachelors, and the three besides himself that could claim children had only very young ones. He sighed. It was up to him, then. He plodded over to the girl, and by the time he crouched down next to her and looked back, the other soldiers had retreated far enough away into the fog he couldn't see them.
"My lady?" Berimund prompted. "We have come looking for you."
"Leave me alone."
Berimund drew in a long breath. "We cannot, my lady. The king insists we find you and bring you home."
She turned her head, fixing fierce green eyes on him. "Camelot is not my home." Her gaze returned to the stone pillar. "This is my home. He's my home." Tears brimmed in her eyes, and Berimund felt suddenly sorry his thoughts had been so hard on her. He wished Mariella were here. She always handled the tender emotions of their daughters.
"Gorlois was a good man," he attempted to console her.
"You knew him?" Morgana asked, piercing green depths honing in on him again.
"Enough to know he was good for Camelot."
Morgana sucked in a sharp breath and rested a hand on her collarbone.
"What troubles you?"
Her response was faint and pained. "I'm forgetting him. His touch. His voice." Her hand went to her face, covering it.
Berimund shifted, kneeling. "He is always part of you."
"How do you know?"
"Because I remember his arguments with the king. How they fought! But it was good for the kingdom, and that part of him is in you." Berimund smiled thinly. "You haven't granted the king a day of rest since you came here."
Morgana lowered her hand. "I...speak too much. The ladies tell me that. But my father told me to be strong. His last words..."
"Yes, my lady?"
"Be strong, Morgana. For me." She reached out to stroke the stone.
"You have been. It is a hard thing to leave all you know and love."
"Have you ever left everything behind?"
Berimund let his own eyes wander the stone. "My grandparents died in a lord's raid, and it was Uther who took retribution on the lord." He looked back to her. "The king is fair and just, my lady."
Morgana let out a sharp breath. "I can't agree."
"You may not, but he does care about you. He loved your father, and he loves you, so you must never believe Camelot does not want you."
"Do you have a daughter?"
"Two."
She smiled at him. "They are blessed to have you."
Berimund stared at her. If she were his own, he would have drawn her into an embrace. She was but a child, lost and fearful in a world that had dealt her a fateful hand. She wanted for kindness, not judgment.
Morgana sighed. "I will return." Berimund clasped her arm as she rose to her feet.
When they dismounted in the citadel courtyard, Morgana addressed Huelin. "I wish Berimund to accompany me."
Huelin eyed him. "Berimund."
He bowed his head briefly and took up position next to her, climbing the steps and heading to the king's chamber. They passed by Prince Arthur leaning against a statue.
"Back, Morgana? Father will clap you in irons this time."
"I'll have your head with my sword," she snapped back.
"Go ahead and try."
"I'm going to beat you again, Arthur Pendragon!" she shouted over her shoulder.
"Give it your best shot!" he yelled back, and his stomping footfalls moved away.
Berimund glanced at her scowling face and suppressed a smile. He supposed one good thing had come from her presence: Prince Arthur had met his match.
Berimund paused outside the king's door. "Do you wish me to enter with you?"
Morgana let go his arm. She lifted her chin. "No. Thank you for walking with me."
Berimund bowed his head and pulled back as she knocked and entered. There was no shouting or yelling. No chastising or threats. Uther asked after the reason for her absence. She simply replied, "I wanted to see father," and Uther gathered her in his arms, declaring how much he mourned Gorlois himself.
Berimund retreated to preserve their privacy.
That night, as the candles burned low and the children crawled into their shared bed, Berimund knelt near them.
"Father?" Helene, his keen eight year old inquired.
"I wanted to say..."
His youngest daughter at five, Nora, tilted her head. "Da, you're sad?"
He smiled gently. "No." He reached out to stroke each girls' cheek and pat ten year old Watkin on the arm. "I love you all. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, da," Nora giggled.
Watkin rolled his eyes. Helene slapped his arm. "What?" he groaned, rubbing his shoulder.
Berimund kissed each head, even Watkin who tried to squirm away, then let the curtain fall.
Miriella, curled in their own bed with two year old Tamas asleep in her arms, stared at him expectantly. "What was that about?"
He blew out the candle and snuggled in next to her. "I love you, and I never want to leave you." He kissed her cheek.
"Whatever happened today,"―he heard her smile in the dark―"I hope it happens more often."
Berimund frowned. It had turned out well, but drizzle and fog and chain mail and muddy boots and a backside sore from a ride on horseback? He dropped off to sleep pleading silently with the young Lady Morgana to reward his sympathy by never disappearing again.