WiltingDaisies94: One of the last chapters I have pre-prepared. Thank you all, and please enjoy.
Chapter Forty-Four
A hard ride over the vast stretch of land and forest beyond Camelot had Arthur feeling like a man once more. The countryside had greeted him like an old friend, and even his impertinent stallion had behaved, acquiescing to the merest twitch of his reins and dig of his heels.
The wind whipped at Arthur's back as he turned his horse back to Camelot. No matter how much he might have preferred to remain away from his duties, the cold had cleared his head and given him time to ponder. Now had no choice but to return to the tight embrace of responsibility.
"Hurry," Arthur grunted to his stallion, "back to the palace. The sun is up, the birds are chattering, and I have men to drill."
The stallion huffed and Arthur clicked his tongue, nudging the horse along.
A chill, unrelated to the wind, ran up his spine. That sound was now linked to a certain person. A certain woman with warm eyes, and long hair, and a way with horses.
Arthur shook his head, chastising himself. None of that. If there was one resolution he would not be swayed from, it was giving up the mystery of Lady Juliana. She had lied to him and then disappeared – who she was he might never discover, nor what had attracted her to his wedding. Hers was an impossible trail to follow. Like any other woman, her memory would fade with time.
Arthur hoped.
The castle was beginning to waken as Arthur rode through Camelot's towering gates. The skies were still dark, and though the first snowfall had yet to come, the air hinted of frost, sharp and smooth as a sword. The castle torches were still burning, providing cover for the late rays of sunlight. By noontime the day would be bright enough for them to be extinguished, and at dusk, some five or six hours later, they would be rekindled.
The guards outside the gates bowed as Arthur rode by, and he was heartened to see his men looking alert. Camelot could be his object of adoration, Arthur supposed, even if he never learned to love Guinevere. There was worse in the way of consolation prizes. His subjects loved him. Perhaps not unconditionally, or even constantly, but grumblings mattered little en masse. If Arthur was a good king, he could be proud of that, at least.
Dismounting, Arthur patted his stallion's neck and led him into the stables. "You have been a proper steed this morning, my friend." Arthur's stallion bucked its head in agreement. "I know, it was early," he said, stroking the horse's flank. "But I do appreciate the help."
Preoccupied with his horse, Arthur failed to notice that the stable doors stood ajar. His stallion had begun to fidget, irritated at being returned to his stall when Arthur's early morning ride had him all wound up. It wasn't until Arthur had managed to wrestle the horse – who was slipping back into its willful ways – into the stall that he even heard the affectionate murmuring.
"I am coming, impatient thing! Hold your peace. I will tend you shortly."
Arthur froze.
He knew that voice.
A horse whinnied, and there was silence for a moment.
"Yes, you shall have your carrot. Just wait. My hands are only two, you know."
The teasing voice reached Arthur's ears. Quiet. Chastising. Familiar.
Closing the stall door, Arthur crept down the row and pressed his back to the wall. His mind stumbled over thoughts that conflicted and contradicted. It wasn't possible. He had just spent the entire morning wondering, considering, despairing, deciding…
… and now...
"It will be a long day, I know," the voice continued, unhurried, and a horse stomped and fretted. "And Her Majesty can be difficult. You have all my sympathy, but you will have to muster your courage and carry on, love."
Arthur's heart leaped into his throat and hammered on his windpipe. All his hard-won clarity had taken flight, abandoning him in an instant. She was real, or perhaps not. She was in his dreams, not his reality. She had run from him, so how could she be here? He couldn't bear to even think her name, but there it was, knocking against his ribcage, fighting for freedom.
"There we are." Arthur heard the sound of two hands coming together. "On my way now."
He knew he shouldn't have, but the temptation was too great for his strained, exhausted heart. As a man, Arthur knew the best thing for him to do was to walk out of the stables and return to his chambers. As a king, a part of him could not – or would not – accept that decision. To leave was rational, but it was also defeat. To stay was foolish, but courageous.
With a heart like lead, Arthur rounded the corner.
For an instant, he was covered in relied. Although he could not see the maiden's face, her clothing declared that she was a servant. The masked woman who had taken Arthur's time and heart and breath had been wealthy, with rich gowns that rivalled those of his Queen. But relief was swiftly choked by doubt. Could two such different women really have such similar voices? Such similar movements?
Then the maid reached for the horse, and the air left Arthur's lungs.
The fussy, anxious mare was Kit.
The Queen's horse took two steps out of the stall, searching for the promised treat.
"Here you are," the serving girl said. She smiled and reached out a hand. Kit nuzzled the open palm, and Arthur watched the horse's front legs bend, a sign of deference to the maid, who proceeded to pat the horse's nose and offer a curtsy.
Memory hit Arthur like a lance to the chest.
There was only one person on this green earth who exchanged bows with a horse.
"Juliana."
The word echoed in the gloom of the stable, departing Arthur's lips without his leave. It was less a word than a prayer, the painful psalm of a man who does not know if he asks favor, protection or forgiveness. Dry wood, warm horses, and musty hay were his humble messengers, conveying the word to the waiting ear.
The maid whirled around, and her gaze connected with Arthur's.
Kit bucked, but the maid didn't notice. The stable was drenched in quiet, a heavy absence of sound. Arthur stared into the face he would have recognized anywhere, now unmasked. The dark hair was tied up, but her unmistakable eyes, disarmed and petrified, were the same. The lips Arthur had dreamed of were parted in shock.
"You," Arthur murmured. He took a step forward, mystified, the whole world floating away in pieces. "You are here."
She was still as a statue. The proud demeanor she had so often worn for him crumbled to rubble, the ruin gathered around her feet. She looked at him helplessly, watched as his steps brought him closer.
She was a servant, Arthur realized. A maid in his castle. A favorite of his wife.
Arthur moved as a sleepwalker, swimming through a sea of confusion. Everything she had embodied, all the knowledge and compassion she had displayed… it had never crossed his mind that she could be anything less noble.
"Juliana."
She flinched as though slapped. Her eyes – those eyes – were wide with fear. Every muscle in her body was tense and ready to bolt.
His grip must have been harsh, for she cringed when he touched her. But to Arthur, he might as well have been wading through a bog. Time and movement had slowed for him as he placed his hands on the girl's arms and pulled her toward him. Through his haze, he felt her struggle, her will to pull back. But he would not let her go.
"Please, Your Majesty," she whispered, her voice breaking, "I beg you, please do not kill me. I did not mean to… I have spoken of this to no one, I swear to you, I– "
Arthur kissed her.
No thoughts remained to halt him. There was hurt, and bewilderment, and awe, and anger. But these too departed as he enveloped her soft, trembling lips with his own. He was a starving man at the first sight of bread, a frozen man before a roaring fireplace, a vagrant taking shelter in a welcome refuge. Her lips were balm to the searing pain that had settled in his soul.
But it was not the same for her. The maid was still as a statue beneath his hands.
Mastering himself, Arthur pulled away from her mouth. His hands, however, remained.
"Come to my chambers. Tonight."
The maid's eyes widened. "I cannot."
"You must."
"I cannot."
"You would defy your king?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Then you will come?"
"I cannot. I ride this evening for Mirendale… with the Queen."
Arthur had forgotten. As he forgot his wife every time this girl came into his presence.
Silence returned, covering the king and the chambermaid. Neither knew what to do.
Kit whinnied behind them, nudging her caretaker's back.
"I… must go." The maid touched the mare's nose, stepping into the safety of the horse's shadow. "I have my duties." She curtsied, a fragile, broken dip, and began to back away toward the stable doors. "Majesty."
Arthur took two long strides and caught the maid's hand.
She stopped. Arthur could feel the tremor of her fingers.
"When you return, we must speak." He saw protest in her eyes, and turned his words from request to order. "You will meet me on the castle grounds. By the grove of trees I showed you, where the wooden swing lies. Come at midnight. Come alone." His eyes bore into her. "As your king, I command you."
Dropping her hand, Arthur turned on his heel. "Ride well. Until then."
He left the stables at a ferocious clip, leaving her frightened assent in the air behind him.