Chapter 10: A Servant's Heart
Freya didn't realize where they were, when Halig's cart rocked to a stop with her in the locked cage that comprised the back of the conveyance. She barely realized they'd stopped at all; she was dizzy from hunger and thirst and numb from the rain. It was autumn, and the first bite of approaching cold could be felt in the dark and the wet.
She blinked, raising her head from the bare floor of the cage, huddling into her crossed arms, seeking warmth that wasn't there; her dress was in shreds from countless transformations, and hope had deserted her when Halig's fist first closed about her wrist.
His voice was audible but indecipherable. Her attention was caught by the stone surrounding them – not the vegetation of the forest, nor the wood-and-mud of a village. They appeared to be in a lane bounded by stone walls to eye level on each side – and there behind her, a great tower rose from a hill, black against the stormy dark of the sky.
It held little interest for her. She laid her cheek down on the rain-streaked floor of the cage as Halig spoke to the horses and the cart jerked forward. A moment later, the unexpected flame of a torch flared as they passed under some sort of protection, and the eyes of a figure wrapped in dark purple, standing there, watching them pass, glittered at her. Then they were in the rain again, rattling and tilting, and she closed her eyes – but the cart halted after only a short moment. She held herself still, but her ears remained alert.
Some time passed before she could make out voices, approaching. Then words – then recognition of one as her captor. Her tormentor.
"You see, Your Majesty, it is just as I have said. Magic, and possibly a weapon if wielded correctly. This creature-"
"I see no creature," a stranger rasped harshly, angrily, and she flinched. "I see a starveling girl-child."
"You need only wait for midnight, my lord," Halig interrupted, eagerly ingratiating. "She transforms into the most heinous beast, like a black cat with wings – and fangs! and claws! She's a killer, my lord, fierce and bloodthirsty, I swear! Why, she's murdered more than-"
Truth and despair shuddered through her frame. The bearded stranger grunted and leaned closer to peer at her, a hand on one of the bars.
"And, if I take her on to Camelot," Halig added slyly, "you know what Uther will do. Immediate execution, and all her potential wasted…"
"You've not wasted any coin caring for her," the stranger responded curtly.
"If I take her to Uther it's wasted, too," Halig protested. "And if you make the purchase, Your Majesty, you can well afford to feed her into peak fighting shape. She'll train easy too, in this form – all that's needed is a firm and ready whip-hand, and-"
The stranger turned away from Freya's cage, his hand dropping across his body to the hilt of the sword in his belt.
"Halig, that's your name?" he demanded, and drew the sword with a dull ring. "By my sovereign right, I pronounce you guilty of the crime of trading in human flesh, and for undeserved cruelty to a subordinate and a dependent. I sentence you to death, and carry out your sentence immediately – all your present property passes to the control of the crown of Caerleon. Maybe the gods receive your soul – for I surely won't tolerate it!"
As he spoke, Halig stumbled back, his face showing rain-slicked horror. Freya pushed herself up on one trembling arm, folding herself so that she could remain upright with little effort.
But no emotion touched her as the stranger – Majesty, Caerleon – stepped forward and thrust his sword through Halig's throat.
He choked on the sharp steel a moment, eyes showing wide and white in the torchlight that hissed irritation at every raindrop. Then the bearded stranger withdrew his sword with an impatient gesture, and Halig tumbled lifelessly to the rocky ground, bleeding into the darkness and rain.
She expected it, but the stranger – the king? – didn't look at her. Instead he turned further away, bellowing to someone she couldn't see.
"Where's the prince? And his tutor? Fetch them, immediately!... Yes, and tell him she's his, now!"
And with that, the bearded man began to stride away across the rainy, wind-whipped space, naked sword dripping at his side. Black spots flickered with the guttering torchlight in her eyes and she didn't know what to feel. Glad, relieved? or perhaps she was worse off, now, and didn't know it, yet. Two veiled warriors bent to seize Halig's arms, and dragged him off, out of her sight beyond the restive horses still hitched to the cart. Freya gulped, and scooted – painfully slow and weak – to where she was resting against the bars to hold herself up.
More voices approached.
"So he said what? What did he mean by that?" A male voice, and young; the response was a mumble she couldn't make out.
Two men were coming to the cage-door at the back of the cart – the one in white shirtsleeves reached up to the lock.
"Where's the driver? He had the key?"
Another mumble-mumble. The white-sleeved arm paused in lifting toward the lock; the dark head turned toward his companion to listen. Freya imagined he was being told what happened to Halig.
Silence. Then, as he turned back to the cage, his eyes gleamed magic-gold, and the lock rang metal-on-metal, springing open and off the latch. The cage-door shrieked into his hand, and it was the first time in three days her vision had been clear of those bars.
She didn't move.
"You're free now," the boy in the white shirt said. He made a motion like shaking rain from his face, and held out his hand. "Really, I promise. I won't hurt you – I want to help."
Belief stirred her heart, and something like stiff, rusty hope slowly uncurled to awareness again, prompting her to drag herself to the back of the cage, to the open door.
There was another swathed warrior beside him, and she hesitated – but the boy in white reached to assist her down off the cart. And even though the remains of her dress didn't exactly cover her, she was too exhausted for embarrassment, and simply clung to his forearms as his hands spread warm against her ribs. She shuddered, leaving the supportive floor of the cage, and her legs buckled under her as her bare bruised soles touched stone.
"Oh! Easy there," the boy said in surprise, his grip tightening as he pulled against her weight to keep her upright. His companion bent to aid him, and before Freya knew it, the boy had one white sleeve behind her back, and one under her knees, and she was resting in his arms.
"I'm sorry," she whispered; neither of them paid the least attention to her words.
"Let me take her," the man suggested.
"No, it's all right, I can manage," the boy said breathlessly. She was tense, feeling his body hard and taut against her – but her arms crept round his neck and her nose was only inches from his jaw, and she didn't want to let go. Raindrops traced down his skin and plastered his hair down in front of his ear; that was all of his face she could – or dared - see clearly.
"As Your Highness wishes," the man said, the title at odds with his casual tone.
The prince? was carrying her. She gulped air and let it out in a shiver of nerves and reaction – wanting to trust, fearing to trust.
The boy started walking, and she had the impression of speed and confidence, in spite of the burden she was to him. He said, with kindness in the words made brief by need for breath elsewhere, "I'm Merlin. By the way."
She didn't respond, only closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation of movement – the cessation of raindrops and the indoor-echo of footfalls and doors slammed – compared to the motion of the cart-wheels tilting and jolting over uneven ground. And the subtle pattern of his breathing as he labored to carry her to his destination.
At one point he said to someone, "Go for my mother. She'll need food – and clothing. A bath and – a place to sleep."
They went up stairs, the strain in his muscles increasing to lift her weight again at every step, and she half-expected to be dropped, or ordered to walk on her own. Indoors, she was more aware of the soaked state of his clothing – and hers – and the heat that gathered between their bodies.
Then he said, "Get the door. Alator's inside?"
She opened her eyes as they passed through the doorway into something like an office, or a library – a schoolroom? Shelves lined the walls, though some held lit candles rather than books, and a long table with opposing chairs took up the middle of the room. The door closed behind them.
"Can I set you down?" the boy said in her ear. "What's your name?"
He dipped as he spoke, and her feet touched the worn cool wood of floorboards. Her legs held as he eased her upright, keeping his arm at her back. She loosened one arm from around his neck to reach to the tabletop for additional support, and balanced – and then looked at him.
Eyes so blue and deep and sincere she forgot to breathe. Full lips, stretched to smile, and straight confident lines of brow and nose, cheek- and jawbone. A handsome boy a year or so older than her – seventeen, maybe.
It was a momentary – but lasting – impression. Across the room, a door banged, and a full-chested man with no hair and piercing eyes came striding to them. Lips pursed in critical study; though he wore no enveloping cloak over long tunic and trousers and boots, the runes tattooed at his neck made her think druid! and cringe back involuntarily against the boy.
The man immediately slowed his steps, raising his hands to show them empty. "Ssh, girl…" His voice was deep and gravelly, but not threatening. "A curse, was it? Be calm… we can help."
She wanted to believe him. But she'd wanted to believe others like him, and they'd turned on her. She shied away, twisting against the prince's arm – he didn't let go, and her eyes darted back to his face.
He smiled again, his eyes alight with assurance. He believed; Merlin believed they could help her.
Her nerves and muscles began to relax. Her lips trembled and her voice broke. "I'm Freya."
And he meant it when he said, "I'm pleased to meet you."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Freya hovered in the corridor, just outside the line of light spilling out through the door ajar. Inside she could see the queen, seated behind her desk but at an angle, so she could consult the book open on her lap before she wrote on the parchment open on the desk.
She squeezed her fingers, trying to convince herself just to tap on the door and request entrance. She'd never spoken to Merlin's adopted mother just the two of them in private, so she couldn't quite assure herself of the queen's reception. Annis must surely know of Merlin's feelings, but what did she think of their relationship? And what would it mean if the queen received her coldly, or dismissed her altogether? in spite of Merlin's assertion to the contrary.
Approaching footsteps drew her attention to the end of the corridor, where Maegden was hurrying toward her, carrying a stack of folded linens in her arms. Maegden saw Freya at once, and her lips curved in a ruefully sympathetic smile as she came closer.
"Just go in," she advised Freya in an almost-whisper. "Just knock and put your head in."
"I – but, I…"
Maegden ducked closer to Freya's ear briefly – "What would Merlin tell you?" – before pushing the door open further and entering the queen's chambers.
Freya could see him clearly, the brilliance of his eyes and the curve of his lips when he smiled, boyishly amused and endearingly oblivious of where her thoughts went, when he looked like that.
The warm and gentle mobility when he kissed her – sometimes breathlessly hesitant and sometimes with kindling hunger. The way his hands touched her – cupped her face or brushed the outside of her arms or spread against her back to pull her closer. And then her hands – the last barrier between them - would slip from the broad muscles of his chest to curl round his neck or reach down his back as he bent over her…
They'd come a long way in the last four months since he'd cornered her to stammer out, I've never known anyone like you…
A very long way since the week of nights she'd spent in the schoolroom, and he was too focused on the magic and the challenge of breaking a curse declared impossible, to be self-conscious because she was a girl.
But she knew Merlin respected Annis highly, and valued the queen's opinion in return. And if Freya didn't want to end things with Annis' prince and leave – and where would she go? – then this was her only choice. To seize her courage with both hands and make it serve her wishes.
Freya lifted her chin and hoped the tremors she felt on the inside were not visible on the outside. Stepping forward, she rapped her knuckles on the chamber door.
The queen turned from dismissing Maegden to a second door further in the chamber – and her features relaxed from expectation to understanding, if not welcome. Knowing the queen was never effusive with her affection anyway, Freya entered the room a few more steps – squeezing her fingers behind her back.
"Your Majesty, might I have a word?"
"Of course," the queen said, and pointing the feather end of her quill at a chair whose back stood against the outer wall of the chamber, almost sideways to her desk. "Give me a moment to finish this… I must say, though, I rather expected you before now."
Maegden gave her another sympathetic look over her shoulder as she exited through the chamber's second room behind Annis. The queen continued writing; Freya made it across the room and perched on the edge of the seat indicated to her.
Annis lifted a quick, arch glance. "Merlin has told me, you're shy."
"Yes'm, that's true," Freya said. "And I know I don't – actually have any right to ask, but…"
"But if you don't ask, you don't know." Annis dropped her quill into its holder and sat back, thumbing the pages of the book on her lap idly.
"Has there been any word from Camelot?" Freya asked, trying to keep desperation out of her tone. "Is there anything to be done? Anything I can do?"
"I'm going to wait to answer those questions," the queen answered, "til Hunith arrives – I've just sent Maegden to fetch her."
That was probably good – Hunith had been nothing but sweet and kind to Freya since her abrupt and rather violent arrival in Beckon Cove. Almost a second mother to her, too, after the loss of her own. They'd discussed the character of her son more than once – Freya praising and Hunith cautioning, or Freya questioning and Hunith explaining – and Freya never felt self-conscious about opening her heart to the older woman.
But to have both of them in the same room at once – both Merlin's mothers, when it was his future in question…
"He's quite taken with you," Annis added, with a quirk at either side of her mouth. "Of course you both are young yet to speak of permanency, but… have you considered it?"
It, she knew very well. The thought that sometimes dumped ice down her neck even when he was kissing her, or animatedly discussing some wholly unrelated topic and she was thinking about more.
"I try not to," she admitted, feeling her face heat and letting some of the desire to make a good impression slump from her body. "I know how I feel about him, but… I'm almost always sure that anyone else would make him a better… a better queen."
One of Annis' eyebrows arched. "Almost always?"
"Well…" She thought of the few young Ladies of Caerleon she'd encountered at various visits. "Sometimes I'm positive that no one can love him as well as me. And that whatever he needs, I can be that."
The queen made a thoughtful noise, and Freya hoped she wasn't wrong in hearing a pleased note, also.
"But now it's all so uncertain," Freya added, feeling misery threaten the corners of her eyes again.
"I've had a letter this morning," Annis told her – lifting her eyes to the door to add, "Come in and welcome, Hunith. I've had a reply from Alator."
"Oh, did you?" Hunith said immediately, joining them with graceful humility underlaid with confidence. Maegden followed her in, and began to drag another chair toward the desk; Hunith turned to help her, and position it herself before sitting and leaning forward with an eagerness that set her long gray-touched braid swaying slightly over one shoulder of her moss-green dress.
Freya reflected that he hadn't even known the queen contacted Merlin's former tutor; well, if you don't ask…
"I wrote," Annis explained to Freya, "to Alator, to see if he would consider infiltrating Camelot to aid Merlin's escape, should that be his wish, or need."
"And?" burst from Freya's lips.
The queen pressed her mouth slightly, a fine wrinkle appearing between auburn brows that matched the thick fall of hair bound down her back by a circlet. "He writes that, by his reckoning, Merlin is where he belongs at the present moment in time. Destiny moves in unforeseen ways, but always in the right direction. His words, not mine."
"What does that mean?" Hunith asked – calmly enough, but Freya saw her knuckles were white, clasped in her lap. "That he will not, or cannot go?"
"One or the other, the result is the same," the queen said.
"Perhaps I could go?" Hunith offered. "Not to aid any escape, though I would, but at least to offer some comfort, if I can? The court physician is known to me, maybe I could-"
Freya's hopes – and one yet unexpressed, me too? – fell again when Annis shook her head decisively. "Gaius will help no one but himself unless he is allowed to by his king," she said sardonically. "And Hunith – perhaps Merlin would be glad to see you, if you could manage it. But perhaps if he is making plans, your presence would prove… more cumbersome, in the end? If he is forced to consider your safety as well as his own."
"Oh, yes," Hunith said, her own brows drawing gently together. "I… hadn't thought of that."
After a moment, the queen sat forward, keeping the book on her lap but laying one hand flat on the desktop for emphasis. "Dear ladies. We love him and we worry, but I assure you – the king and I are quite confident that he can protect himself, even there, and whatever may come of his surrender and captivity, be it shorter than we hope or longer than we fear, he will allow no serious or lasting harm to come to himself."
She hadn't said, no harm at all. Freya's heart cringed to think of her prince, vociferously sarcastic to cover his uncertainty, discouraged and distressed and surrounded by his enemies.
"And that is all?" Hunith asked, sounding dreary; her voice caught in her throat.
"We will just have to wait on Camelot's messenger, and address that issue when it arrives," Annis said, with an air of finality. "But it might comfort you to know, Sir Tythan has offered any number of contingencies. We are not helpless, but for now… we must exercise patience, first."
Gwen had a scar on the outside of her arm, a few inches above her elbow, from the one time Elyan persuaded her to duel with the fire-irons.
Just hold yours, he'd said, and I'll hit it with mine… And he did, the vibrating iron stinging her hands with every enthusiastic thwack! Until he'd gotten carried away, and forgot to aim for her weapon. And ruined her dress-sleeve, and she'd cried and bled til her father came in from the forge – and yelled til she was scared, too, and lied so Elyan wouldn't get in trouble…
She covered the scar with her hand on her sleeve and rocked nervously on her toes, focusing on the patterns of the changing screen which hid her mistress.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she said hesitantly.
"Of course I'm sure! This is the best idea I've had since… since I've come to Camelot." Morgana stuck her head around the side of the changing screen. "Except for when I chose you to be my maid. Hand me the trousers."
Gwen passed the garment to the younger girl. She disappeared again, and Gwen cast an eye around the room to see if any chore of cleaning or tidying jumped out at her; honestly the duties of a maidservant weren't really any different from what she'd already been doing at home for her father and brother. "It's just… it can be dangerous, using a sword," she added. "Learning how to use a sword. And ladies usually don't…"
"The king said I could," Morgana declared decisively. "What about a belt?"
"It's hanging over the screen there behind you – on the last panel." Table and floor swept; dishes and laundry taken out for cleaning; bed made… okay. "But why do you want to?"
"Because Arthur ignores me." Morgana twirled out from behind the screen, her tiny waist half the circumference of Gwen's, long black curls flying out behind her as she spun. "How do I look?"
"What do you mean, Arthur ignores you?" Gwen asked, touching the short fuzzy tail that stuck out from the back of her head self-consciously. And, "Do you want me to braid your hair? That will keep it out of your way, at least."
"Yes – good idea." Morgana hopped to her dressing stool and perched; Gwen followed and picked up the hairbrush from the dresser-top. "You've seen him at dinner, and lessons."
Gwen felt her face heat, and focused on drawing the soft bristles through Morgana's fine dark locks. The prince was a handsome boy, but she hoped no one had noticed how she watched him – would she get in trouble?
"He's very quiet," she ventured, "but he speaks to you politely enough." Even when her mistress was being deliberately provocative.
"Humph," Morgana said, flouncing on the stool; Gwen had to pass the brush through her hair again to divide it evenly for braiding. "He ignores me. He doesn't meet my eyes, and he doesn't ask me things. He only says what his father or Lord Geoffrey tell him to – and otherwise he's always on that training field and you've seen how he acts there!"
She had. Gwen kept her eyes conscientiously on smooth, even plaiting, glad that a blush wasn't obvious on her face. Arthur was someone else when he was out-of-doors – not quiet, or polite – but she suspected it had more to do with the king's influence on his behavior than Morgana's.
"I'll learn the sword," her mistress declared, sitting straight. Her eyes flashed at Gwen in the mirror like gemstones. "I'll practice every day, more and more and harder and harder, til I can beat him." Gwen couldn't quite stop a doubtful grimace, forgetting that Morgana could see her reflection, also. "I can! Don't you think I can?"
"I think…" Gwen paused, reaching for a ribbon to wrap securely around the last curl at the bottom of the braid. "I think you can do anything you set your mind to," she finished honestly. "But they say he's good – and why do you want to be better than him, anyway?"
"Because…" She wiggled on the stool impatiently, but the end of the braid stayed in Gwen's hand, swaying as she tied it. "Because everyone else will already give me what I ask for, and do what I tell them…"
Gwen held her breath, and very deliberately did not roll her eyes. The Lady Morgana, her mistress now for the better part of a year, was what she might have called spoiled in a stranger. Her statement was perfectly true, and if Morgana was a thoroughly self-centered person, it might have been a terrible thing – and impossible for Gwen to work as her maidservant. But her eyes would flash and demands would pour forth when she encountered a kitchen-boy whipped for some minor infraction or the runt of a litter on its way to the mill-pond, just as fast as concerns for herself. It was one of the reasons that people did allow her to request and direct as she did.
"Except Arthur," Morgana added. Gwen let go of the braid, and Morgana turned her head to study her reflection critically. "But if I'm better than him with a sword, I can make him do what I say."
Gwen doubted. She was sure there was a flaw in the reasoning somewhere – and wondered briefly why such control over those around her was so important to Morgana.
Til she remembered how she'd felt, years ago when they told her, Mama wasn't going to wake up, nor to get better from being ill in the bed. It had felt like falling – like there was nothing to hold on to, and no one to catch her or hold her, and any moment the fall would stop suddenly and painfully…
Maybe this was Morgana's way of reaching out for some stability. And if Gwen hadn't had Father and Elyan, or if she'd had strangers trying to replace her father and brother…
"I think you might be going about this the wrong way," she said, following as Morgana leaped up and skipped to the chair by the door for her boots. "Elyan and I used to argue all the time, we couldn't get along. And I could never be better than him, or stronger or older or taller…"
"You get along fine with your brother now," Morgana tossed out, knotting the laces in her haste. "Anyway Arthur isn't my real family."
"I know." Gwen knelt on the floor at her feet to untangle and lace the boots properly. "But… I mean… it wasn't until I quit trying to be better, and he realized…"
"What did he realize?" Morgana asked, sounding interested.
That he could really hurt me without even meaning to. "That…" Gwen stumbled over her thoughts and words, "That I cared about him, too." Enough to lie for him, rather than tale-bear.
"Well, I don't care about Arthur," Morgana declared, flipping her braid over her shoulder as she jumped up and spun to the door. "And I am going to beat him."
Gwen sighed, and made to rise and follow. "Yes, my lady."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Gwen followed Morgana from the receiving chamber, having to hurry to keep her in sight, and ducking past several upset courtiers with a murmured apology, til they reached an otherwise deserted gallery, and Morgana's steps finally slowed in the morning light from the row of windows.
"My lady?" she called softly, daring to approach.
Morgana leaned on her hands on the balustrade, staring blindly down at the lower levels, galleries open to the enclosed courtyard beneath. She was white as a sheet, her jaw clenched.
Gwen wondered whether the scene in the receiving chamber had disturbed some memories for Morgana, too. The king had neglected, then interrupted Arthur's report on mercenaries at Cenred's border with a look of fear; rising from his throne, he demanded to be left alone. For a moment Gwen thought he was speaking to the prince, but everyone had followed Uther's pointing finger – to an empty spot of flagstones before the open doors. He began shouting, and Arthur and Leon had acted immediately to drag him from the room, followed by Gaius.
"I'm so sorry," she said in a low voice, leaning on her elbow a short distance from her mistress – facing Morgana, rather than the drop over the white stone rail.
"Why should you be sorry," Morgana responded dully.
"It must be hard to see him like this," Gwen suggested. Because she didn't feel any personal connection to the king, and her duty was to Lady Morgana over any other, even the one who was probably most dismayed right now, the man's son – and Arthur was with his father at the moment.
Morgana made a cynical noise. "What do you think he saw?"
"What – do I…" Gwen didn't know how to answer.
Morgana lifted her chin and turned to her with a flash of dark eyes, and the emeralds at ear and throat that matched the green silk of her dress. "Last night at the banquet…"
Gwen remembered. Uther had seemed a bit unsteady in his toast, delirious with joy or wine or both – and Arthur had teased him in front of everyone. The prince reclined in his own high-backed chair, lazily satisfied like Gwen hadn't seen him in a very long time. And moments after the king had stumbled out to the side courtyard for air or well-water, they'd heard screams. Of course the guards had surrounded their king first – but then Gaius, and Arthur, and Morgana, had not been far behind.
"He said first, leave me alone. And then threatened to have someone hanged, whoever or whatever he saw," Morgana continued, sounding almost savage. "Perhaps an enemy. The ghost of someone who considered himself wronged, come for revenge. But Arthur said, last night evidently he'd seen a vision of Queen Ygraine. Why would he see her? Why would that torment him?"
"I don't know," Gwen said truthfully.
It made her stomach twist to think of anyone moved to such screams, or the growling threats edged with panic she'd just heard – but when it was the king, everyone was unsettled. Obvious questions regarding competence arose.
"But it doesn't do anyone any good to be anxious," she added. It was only a few days since Morgana's return to Camelot, but because she seemed unchanged, everyone looked to her as they always had, gauging truth in rumors and making assumptions about the well-being of the royal family. "I'm sure it's not because of you."
Morgana inhaled swiftly, straightening like she'd been insulted – or attacked.
Drat – she'd misunderstood. Sometimes Gwen forgot that she and Morgana weren't close anymore. Or, yet.
"I mean," she floundered to explain. "We were all under a lot of stress this year, we were worried about you. The king pushed everyone so hard, and sometimes called for Gaius in the middle of the night, I guess he wasn't sleeping much, or well, it's no wonder he's finally falling ill, if that's what it is, but that's not your fault, of course."
"How could it be my fault?" Morgana snapped unhappily.
Because she did blame herself, Gwen recognized. That was when Morgana was at her most defensive, when she felt guilty, but she'd never been taught that genuine apology cleared the air like nothing else. Given her guardian, it wasn't surprising – but this time, she shouldn't have anything to feel guilty about.
"Would you like me to go check on His Majesty?" she offered. "I could bring you whatever news there is…"
"Yes, fine." Morgana tossed her hand in a careless gesture of dismissal. "Take your time, though. I'm going to lie down to rest, and I'd prefer not to be disturbed."
"Yes, my lady." Gwen bobbed a curtsy, and watched Morgana stalk away down the gallery.
She even walked differently. Instead of gliding, comfortable and confident in silks and slippers, she stomped like she hated the fancy delicate footwear, and wore her expensively beautiful gowns of before like they now chafed.
Poor Morgana. All of this year weighing on her with none to help if she wouldn't trust them – and now the king's developing condition on top of that.
But at the moment, Gwen felt more impatience than pity. How was she supposed to help Morgana carry her unknown burdens if she wasn't allowed to? And would Morgana become ill in the same way as Uther, or some other way, if she didn't have some surcease?
She turned to retrace her steps past the receiving chamber, to the corridor where the king's quarters were located. To be told by the guard at his door, The physician is with him – no visitors, no questions, no interruptions. And the prince? Just down the hall in his own chamber.
Gwen smoothed her embroidered apron over her lavender dress and took a deep breath before continuing down the hall. Her relationship with the prince was hard to define, if royalty could only have friends among their peers. It was different than with Morgana; this year Gwen had given Arthur orders when he was injured, and he'd obeyed. She'd seen him exhausted, discouraged, disrobed for treatment. And several times she suspected, they'd come very close to duplicating the hurried kiss in his tent that had freed him from enchantment in time to survive his encounter with King Olaf a year and a half ago.
She paused before Arthur's door, fist lifted to rap her knuckles against it. That day, Arthur had made a public apology for something that wasn't really his fault – and the kingdoms had remained allies, peace treaty signed.
Where had Arthur learned that? Maybe it was something he inherited from his mother.
But when she knocked, she discovered that the door wasn't latched firmly, as if it had been slammed and rebounded an inch or two. Instead of tapping clearly, her fist only shuffled the door open several more inches. Inside she heard his voice in a muffled exclamation, and another soft slam! like a book on a table.
Hesitantly she pushed on the door, enough to slide half her body through the opening. "Arthur?"
He was slouched behind his desk, which was scattered with papers – several of them also on the floor. At the sound of her voice, he jerked upright, reaching toward the book sprawling open on his desk. But his eyes, widened in alarm, were focused on her, and he only succeeded in knocking the book to the floor on the other side of his desk.
"Guinevere!" he said.
She loved the way he said her full name sometimes – when he was surprised, like now – and she was halfway across the room before she realized he hadn't actually invited her in. He leaped up from his chair as she knelt to pick up the book for him, and his papers – ever the maidservant's instincts, and the reason she'd forgotten protocol to begin with.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said.
"That's all right, you don't have to do that, I was just-" He reached for the book.
She shifted the papers together and tucked them behind the book for neatness, babbling on. "Morgana was upset by – what happened this morning, so I said I'd try to find out if there's any news from Gaius. She was going to lie down, and Gaius is still with your father and honestly, even with all I've learned from him this year, I can't think of any illness which might possibly result in-"
As she spoke, her eye fell on the cover of the book. Wine-colored leather with embossed symbols that made no sense to her. And the prince's attitude was apprehensive consternation, inordinate impatience to have the volume back in his hands, but…
She frowned, and her thumb edged over the pages to open it. There were more such indecipherable symbols, but a few lines of text caught her eye. The spell of… with which one… of a thing may be…
A book of magic.
Why on earth would Arthur Pendragon have a book of… Oh! She met his eyes. "Do you think, your father's illness – do you think it's a curse?"
"Or an enchantment, perhaps." The prince's body deflated with a sigh; he'd been trying to keep her from discovering the nature of his suspicions – or just the book, maybe. In normal times, he might be in a lot of trouble for having such a thing in his possession – and she might be in a lot of trouble for not reporting him. But with the king so… ill, the prince was probably relieved someone else that he trusted, knew what he was thinking.
"Where did you get this?" she asked, hefting the book. There were signs of wearing around the edges – used, then, but also cared for.
"It's Merlin's," he said, and his voice sounded odd.
She looked at him; he looked back, like he was waiting for her to come to the same realiza… oh. She moved forward slowly, laying the book on the desktop as he relaxed back to sitting in the chair. "Do you think… that he did something to your father?"
"It's a hell of a coincidence," Arthur said. "My father has him publicly beaten – and two nights later he's seeing ghosts? Today, in public, seeing things that aren't there and reacting in front of the whole court?"
"But that necklace thing," Gwen objected. "He can't do magic. And if he could, why not defend himself, instead of… this?"
"It would be an unexpected tactic, for a barbarian," Arthur agreed. "And otherwise he's been honorable. But he might have managed a bit of magic while we were sparring, and… suppose it's all been a show, so he can get inside the citadel for something like this?"
Gwen shifted her eyes from his face so she could concentrate on her one memory of the prince of Caerleon. "I would hate to believe it of him," she said slowly. "I want to like him. He was polite, and funny. He told me he was in love with a girl, back home in his kingdom."
"I want to like him, too," Arthur admitted in a low voice. Eyes on the book, and he reached to pass a thumb over the roughly-cut corners of the pages.
It occurred to her how lonely he looked, how far from the picture he'd made at the feast. Even though the whole kingdom celebrated their victory last night, recovering their lost Lady, even though he'd formed solid relationships with several of the knights over the last year… when something like this happened, he probably couldn't help but feel isolated from everyone who was not the kingdom's next heir. Morgana wasn't the same friend she'd been. And Gwen was just a servant. And even Leon wouldn't presume to be a friend, unless Arthur said it first - and he was too proud for that, maybe.
But Merlin was also a prince. And maybe the kings of Camelot and Caerleon were enemies and held grudges – but that didn't mean the princes had to.
"Sire," she began tentatively.
He tilted a grimace up at her – no titles, Guinevere, not when we're alone.
"Perhaps your father's illness has been caused by magic, somehow," she said. "But it doesn't necessarily follow that it's been caused by Prince Merlin. Gaius would probably know if magic was involved, but if he can't say with certainty…"
Arthur inhaled his eyes thoughtful. "Merlin would be the obvious suspect – but sorcery is hardly ever obvious, in our experience, is it. If Gaius can't tell, or if he can but doesn't know a cure…"
She spoke the treasonous thought for him. "Maybe Merlin can help."
Fingers drummed and the silver ring he wore on his forefinger tapped softly on the book's binding. "Gaius is familiar with Merlin's family, and they seem to have accepted the connection. If he is causing this illness with magic, perhaps Gaius can get a confession out of him. And if he isn't the source… maybe Gaius can persuade him to help."
"Even just to give advice," Gwen suggested encouragingly, not liking the look of distaste on the prince's face.
Arthur sighed and repeated, "Even just to give advice."
He pushed himself up from his chair and came around the desk, leaning his hips back against it and taking one of her hands in his. She held very still, even as her heart leaped and fluttered.
"Thank you, Guinevere," he said, his voice betraying the gruff undertone of sincerity and emotion. He watched her fingers as he toyed with them, and the flutters of her heart sent a tingling message outward through all her nerves. "This whole year, you have been… invaluable to me. I don't know what I would have done without you."
She wanted to hug him. It wasn't the first time she'd felt that particular desire, either.
"I'm glad to help," she whispered, and it was true. Where would any of them be if their future king had given in to despair, or conversely protected his heart by allowing an unfeeling layer of ice to form and remain? She'd seen both extremes threaten him, more than once that year. "I live to serve, my lord."
Oh, what a stupid thing to say. She felt her face and neck heat up, but the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth was worth it.
"As do I," he said. "For what is a prince, or a king, but a servant of his people?"
And that was why everyone loved him so much. She swayed toward him, shyly opening her mouth to say that – or something more – but a voice behind her interrupted.
"Court physician, my lord." A guard, leaning in the door – she'd forgotten that it was half-open, and blushed again, snatching her hand back.
"Excuse me," she said to the prince, dropping a little curtsy and retreating to the door.
"Guinevere," he called.
She paused; the door opened further to admit Gaius, halting in place as he sensed he was interrupting, one white eyebrow lifting curiously.
"You have been a very good example," Arthur concluded, with a self-conscious half-smile.
The remark of praise warmed her in places the embarrassment did not, and she knew she'd needed that, too, after the internal struggles trying to reclaim the relationship she'd had with Morgana – though beginning a new one might meet with more success.
She smiled at Arthur, nodding in another gesture of gratitude and respect; he was a very good example of self-sacrifice, too. She turned her steps toward Morgana's chamber resolved to be patient once again, more understanding and supportive, in spite of her mistress' secrets standing between them.
I live to serve.
A/N: So my knee surgery is Thursday (outpatient, orthoscopic, no worries). Don't know yet whether that'll mean more or less time to spend writing, so the next update might be delayed…