Chapter 7: Sympathies

Merlin woke in the morning feeling refreshed. Which was odd, considering last night's beating, and the dreams.

The feeling only lasted until he moved. Simply turning his head on the pillow pulled sore muscles halfway down his back. It was going to be a bad day.

He heard Arthur stirring in the room next to his, and it was the prod he needed to force himself upright – his pride wouldn't allow the agent to find him still lying abed. And he figured Arthur wouldn't pass his room without checking on him.

He was right.

The agent pushed the door open seconds later without even knocking, still buttoning his vest. "How do you feel?" Arthur asked, without a trace of sympathy.

"Peachy," Merlin said sourly, squinting at him. One of his eyes didn't want to open all the way. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He looked for his clothes – mostly dry, but caked in mud from the street.

"Take it easy for a while," Arthur recommended sardonically. "But don't stay in bed all day."

Growling, Merlin made it to his feet, and caught the blanket as it fell to his waist.

Gwen rounded the corner with a fat cream-colored pitcher held in both hands and slopping water down her apron. Gaping at the patchwork of bruises around his midsection that had appeared while he slept, she poured the fresh water into the pitcher on the commode in the corner – with the result that it overflowed before she was aware, dripping down the commode and puddling on the floorboards. She mopped at the spilled water with a corner of her apron hastily, but ended up pushing more to the floor than was soaked up by the material.

"You want a bath drawn?" she asked, not watching her work.

Arthur lifted his eyebrows at Merlin, as if to ask, who is she speaking to?

Merlin said, "Why, so you can watch?"

His rotten mood didn't seem to faze Gwen much; more and more she was taking her cue from Shasta, who was intimidated by nothing and no one, and seemed to find him amusing. A second set of footsteps began to mount the steps as Gwen shrugged one shoulder and smiled up at Arthur. She opened her mouth to say something more to him, maybe to ask a question, but at that moment Arthur glanced sideways down the hall to whoever was coming slowly up the stairs, and moved out of the doorway.

The agent commented, "You look tired this morning," as Freya came into sight.

She didn't answer him; her attention was focused on the tray she was carrying. Merlin's first thought was breakfast tray, and he scowled – they thought he couldn't make it downstairs this morning, did they?

"Shasta's looking for you, Gwen," Freya murmured, balancing the tray on one hand as she made space for it on top of the commode. Gwen shrugged again, giving a friendly smile to Agent Arthur, and left the room in a bounce of black curls to clatter down the stairs.

Arthur said to Merlin, "Looks like you're in good hands," and followed Gwen.

The silence was awkward; Freya seemed reluctant to meet his eyes.

"No need for you to stay," Merlin said gruffly. Assuming she'd take her chance to high-tail it as Gwen had, he turned to where his saddlebags lay beneath his cot for a clean change of clothes, and let the blanket fall, dropping it on the cot. He grunted as he stepped into his trousers, stiffly and not paying attention to anything but bruised muscles.

Freya said breathlessly, "Shasta thought it would be a good idea to clean and bandage your wrists. Percival must have told her…"

He glanced over his shoulder; she had turned her back to him as he dressed. She looked down at the floor, then took his half-dried towel from the commode and knelt to wipe up the water Gwen had spilled – and noticed the blood as Arthur had, holding the towel up for inspection.

She added, "And any other injuries that need it?"

Over her bent head he saw that the tray she'd carried up didn't hold dishes of food, but instead a bowl of steaming milky-white water, a little jar, a small sponge, and a roll of cotton for bandages. He leaned into his shirt and tucked it in slowly, then buckled his belt. He felt like lying back down and going to sleep again; asleep, he wouldn't feel the pain of his abused body. If he could keep from dreaming.

She stood and turned, wadding the towel on the commode for later care. "I can help you with that, if you like," she offered, not lifting her eyes to his.

Was he not still enduring pain that partially stemmed from Burton's misunderstanding of things between the two of them? Could she not just leave him alone? "Go away," he said tiredly. "I don't want your help."

Freya opened her mouth and closed it again, as though trying to decide if she should speak her mind. Then she ventured, "You sometimes need help," very quietly and with a rising inflection, like a question. And the quickest of uncertain glances.

He stood as if frozen; he couldn't have been more stunned if she'd punched him in the stomach. She couldn't know – how could she know what he'd dreamed? She couldn't. He sat down on the cot, too abruptly, and winced.

She moved to kneel in front of him, where she could still reach the tray, submerged the sponge in the steaming water, and squeezed it out. And reached for his right hand. He pushed his sleeve up with his left.

"Why do you risk it?" he asked shortly.

"Risk what?" She began dabbing at the dried blood smeared on his hand and arm, not touching the rope-weal yet.

"Being nice to me."

Her lips curved in a small smile as she bent over her work. "What is the risk?" she inquired. It reminded him strongly of the night he'd spend in Reeve Whatley's jail, when Percival and Shasta had left her alone in his cell to say her thanks.

"You don't seem to realize that I could do just about anything to you, and be done with it before I even let anyone hear you scream," he said. "Anything at all."

She gave her head a little shake. Her hands were steady and gentle, and never paused. "You had your chance," she said, and looked up at him then. Her eyes were dark, and unfathomably deep. She added quietly, "It's nothing that hasn't been done before, anyway."

He studied her face with skepticism, not sure if she understood what he alluded to. Then he realized she spoke the truth; it was not naiveté, it was experience. She blushed under his scrutiny, and dropped her eyes to her work.

"Burton?" he asked.

"He's tried. He hasn't caught me alone for a long time."

"Padlow?"

She paused, dipped her head a little more. It was answer enough.

His own wife. Anger coursed through Merlin; his hands clenched into fists before he realized it. "Why do you stay with him?" he blurted.

She shrugged one shoulder. "He married me," she said tonelessly, stating fact. "I am his wife. It is something I must make the best of."

One more thing to be avenged when Padlow drew his last breath. She would be free even as Merlin would, when it was over. He tried to shift the thought of Arthur aside; with Padlow dead, he could sit in a cell for a year and be happy to do it. At least he could relive his revenge in satisfaction every day. If there was satisfaction to be had; he frowned, recalling his conversation with Gaius.

"I am hurting you?" Freya said, drawing him back to the present.

He glanced down; she'd paused, the sponge reddish with his blood. "No," he said, so she continued her work. "You ever think what you'd do if he – never came back?"

She took a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. "Of course. But as long as he does come back, I – do what I can. Live one day at a time."

"He doesn't deserve it," Merlin said roughly. She was starting to dab at the deep groove rubbed into his wrist, and whatever Shasta had put into the hot water stung. It made him angry. "You of all people should want to pay him back for what he's done."

"It's not an excuse. I have to do what's right, in spite of him."

"What if the right thing to do goes against your loyalty to him?" Merlin asked suddenly. She sat back on her heels, raising her eyes to his. There was a sharpness there he'd never seen before. He'd taken her to be a little dull, a little slow. Maybe he'd been wrong.

"You are one of the governor's agents?" she said.

"Arthur is."

She nodded once, a faraway look in her eyes. "And you are what, a bounty-man? A thief-catcher?"

He weighed his options swiftly. If she should tell Padlow everything, Padlow might seek him out, would probably seek him out – which was what he wanted anyway, a confrontation. There was little risk of a man with his reputation hiding til danger was past. But if she did so, Arthur could take her as Padlow's accomplice, and she probably knew that, too. On the other hand, she might be persuaded to give testimony against Padlow, if she could be convinced it was the right thing for her to do, rather than warning her husband that the law was seeking him.

He decided to be completely honest, and leave the choice to her. "I am a revenger," he said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Whatever Freya had expected to hear, this wasn't it. But after a moment's reflection, it made sense. He wasn't after Padlow for the money, though, it was personal, somehow. That explained the hate.

Of course, now she was in a dilemma. Government agents had very clear and indisputable authority. She would be bound to honesty with such men, and also complete and unquestioning obedience, as would any. But a revenger was a private person, with equal standing as she before the law, with no right to command obedience or truth, no consequences if she refused.

He was watching her, eyes dark and hooded.

Her hands went about their business of cleaning the marks on his wrists on their own, it seemed; he had denied the pain of his wounds, and she could see no indication that he lied. He was a very hard man - he would show no mercy to her husband.

Of course, Padlow had never been a merciful man, either.

"Why?" she said. It was the same question she'd asked Padlow, the morning after he'd taken her. He'd backhanded her for answer, and she'd never asked him again. But Merlin wouldn't do something like that, she believed that as surely as she believed the sky was blue. He might be dangerous and mean and full of hate, but he did not delight in cruelty and inflicting pain.

"Why what?" he said.

"Why are you a revenger?" She squeezed the sponge out and took his left hand gently, turning it so she could clean the inside of his wrist.

"Does it matter?" he said bluntly.

"It's just not something you think of a man choosing to do, like other professions," she said. "Not something a father raises his son to do, or sends him to be apprenticed in." She glanced up at him; his face was like rock, his eyes fixed distantly on a point over her head. "It's – quite a violent business, I understand," she faltered.

It was a long moment before he answered. "It can be," he conceded dispassionately.

She thought of the speed of his reflexes in turning Burton's dart back on him, in catching her from falling from the tree. The unflinching way he threw himself into a fight… the way she'd seen him stride across the half-finished roof of Gaius' office without a glance down or single misstep. But…

"Violence doesn't come naturally to you," she said. "For some it seems to, but… not for you."

"I learned," he said, his voice like cold steel. "I had to."

The hate was back, she saw. So whatever was in his past that had brought him seeking Padlow for revenge was tied to his choice of profession. Perhaps he'd become a revenger for that purpose, even. But at least he wasn't looking at her now, hating her.

"I know that I'm probably the last person you want to talk to," she said haltingly. "I'm not blind or stupid, I know that my husband must have wronged you, and you seek to–"

"Me?" he interrupted, his voice thick with scorn. "Me? No. He has done nothing to me."

"Then who?" she said. The intensity of his gaze bored into her as if he would read her soul. She held that gaze, determined to hold if it burned right through her.

"If I talk to you, you would tell it to him if he asked, wouldn't you?"

She felt a little color rise to her face. "I'm not in the habit of telling what I've promised not to," she returned.

His voice was even, but she couldn't help flinching at the question. "Are there many in Emmett's Creek who confide in you, then?"

She looked down then, and didn't respond, studying her hands in her lap, then reached for the strips of cotton Shasta had given her for bandages. She felt his eyes on her, watching her coat the strips with salve so they would not stick to the open wounds. She lifted it toward him; he did not move to accommodate her, but when she took his hand again, he let her position it and didn't draw back.

"I have been here four and a half years," she said softly, winding the bandage slowly and carefully around his wrist. "Padlow brought me here in the back of his cart, and everyone looked at me as you are looking at me now. Except for my friends – Gaius and Alice, Percival and Shasta, and Gwen. I am not as close to any of them as I was once to my mother, but yes, sometimes they tell me things they ask me not to repeat, and I've kept their secrets. And Padlow – does not ask me questions."

"If you do not keep your distance from me," he said deliberately, "that may change when he returns."

"What do you mean?" she said, tying the bandage and tucking the ends under neatly. She did not raise her eyes to his face, but instead focused on his hand. He had strong hands, with long fingers and rough calluses. Nice hands. Cleaner than she had ever seen Padlow's.

"Gaius told me, I haven't hidden the fact that I'd like to act on my hatred for my enemy," he said. "It won't be long after he returns til he knows about me, and if we don't meet immediately, he'll want to learn all he can of me. You're the likeliest person for him to ask."

"Why me?" Freya said, beginning to soak a second bandage in the salve. "I told you, he doesn't ask me–"

"Burton thinks you and I might be – involved."

For a moment Freya's attention was caught by the conviction that he'd used the word involved instead of something more harsh, even obscene. Then the realization of what he meant hit her, and she gaped at him, feeling her face flush.

His mouth twisted wryly. "He's jealous," he said, again referring to the trapper.

"Burton did this to you," she said, dropping her eyes to his wrist, remembering the horrible bruising on the rest of his body she'd glimpsed before turning away to give him some privacy, "because he was jealous?"

He straightened stiffly. "I asked you why you risked being nice to me," he said in a hard voice. "The risk is not only what I might do to you, but others, too."

She thought about that for a moment, then gave a little shrug and laid one end of the bandage to his other wrist. She would not stop being who she was, doing kindness where she could, just because someone like Burton was jealous.

He was silent as she wound the second bandage carefully around his wrist. The room was small, and she found herself increasingly aware of his proximity.

And her senses began to betray her, sending her shy little messages about the strength in the fingers that brushed hers, the warm intimate whispers of each breath he took, the knowledge that his eyes were still on her. How he'd lain injured and vulnerable in his dreams, and had calmed to her touch. How differently he was speaking to her since their last conversation in the tree shelter, how differently…

She risked a quick glance up into his eyes, just inches from hers, and saw darkness and depth. Pain and anger. And also uncertainty, which was unusual.

But no hatred, not directed at her. He had spoken to her. He had all but warned her about Burton.

What had changed?

Gaius' warning came into her mind. "Just be careful around him," he'd told her. And Alice had said it was a pity, whatever had happened to make him the way he was, strung like a fiddle-string, turned once too many times and ready to snap at a single wrong touch. So deeply troubled that he fought even his dreams. So poisoned by his hate that he'd driven himself into illness before he'd even reached Emmett's Creek, and had spent several days unconscious and delirious as a result.

But his smile was so young…

"I will tell Padlow nothing of you," she said. "Nor would Gaius or Percival, Shasta or Gwen." She tied the second bandage neatly, and sat back on her heels.

The room still felt small, even with the door open; the wall opposite the cot was almost at her back. He shrugged as though it mattered little, the tough exterior he wore closer than his skin settling over him like the scowl that shaded his eyes. He began turning the cuffs of his shirtsleeves down over his newly-bandaged wrists.

So odd. So unlike Padlow. What had happened to him, to set him on this hard road?

She didn't realize that she'd spoken her last thought aloud, until he pushed abruptly to his feet. He wasn't the tallest man she'd ever seen, nor so large as a number of men in Emmett's Creek, namely Percival, but he could move quicker than thought. She flinched instinctively away from him, losing her balance and collapsing awkwardly against the wall.

He frowned down at her, then bent to raise her gently to her feet - though every movement caught his breath like someone was jabbing a nail into his ribs. And his hands were gentle on her arms as well as strong.

She was right. He could be kind.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Her question was like a bolt of lightning from a blue sky, and Merlin covered his reaction by helping her to her feet.

"Why do you care?" he said roughly.

She took a step back, a step that had her back to the wall. "I – I don't–" she said, a little breathlessly.

"Get out," he said, turning to find his boots. Every movement pulled hard at bruised muscles – and maybe one cracked rib – but he wouldn't allow himself to feel it. "Get out."

She moved quietly and quickly, but paused at the door; he felt this rather than saw it, with his back to her. That's what he got for letting his tongue run away with him. Women are never satisfied with what you tell them, they always have to ask one more question. And somehow manage to find the one sure to prod at the most vulnerable place. He heard her on the stairs, descending.

Merlin stamped into his boots and paused. He needed to find work, again. Needed to keep his body hard, reflexes quick. Needed to distract his mind from Gaius' troublesome questions. Half his time waiting in Emmett's Creek had passed, and when the weather drove Padlow home again, like a bear to its lair at first snowfall, he needed to be ready. Since there was no more work to be done on the physician's office, he needed another job. Only, with his muscles screaming in protest at every slow step down the tavern's stairs, and the question of a cracked rib unanswered, what could he do?

So it was back to planning, at least for today. And that would keep his mind occupied, anyway.

He needed to figure Arthur out, to learn enough to be able to guess the man's reactions accurately. He'd observed him all the way from Camelot, seen how he'd adjusted his own plans on the spur of seeing Merlin again, seen him flexible and autonomous enough to ride five days into the end of nowhere and stay – for how long? a couple of months, until Padlow returned? – to check on an accusation of dishonesty. He'd seen him play Gaius' game of information exchanged, and gain a good idea of the tenor of Emmett's Creek from one man's stories. Now he'd watch how the agent went about his job.

Go to Leon, Percival had advised. Biggest ranch in the Emmett's Creek region, and seven leagues north. So be it.

Merlin heard the family in the kitchen at breakfast, and knew he would have to force the considerations of hunger from his mind later in the day. Not a problem; going hungry was something he'd done regularly since he'd been on his own.

He left the tavern and crossed the street to the livery stables, avoiding the standing puddles. It was early, but Emmett's Creek was already awake and beginning to bustle with the day's activities. He noticed that someone had removed the rope from the stable signpost.

Next door to the stable, Elyan was lighting his forge, but the skinny attendant was nowhere in sight, there or in the stable; Merlin made a quick and impulsive detour. Elyan glanced at him, unconcerned, as he gave the head-high bellows lever a few experimental heaves.

"Kendall sleeping in, is he?" Merlin remarked, referring to Elyan's skinny employee.

"Kenny's leg is broken," Elyan told him. "He was kicked in the shin by a mule two days ago."

Well, why not? Hard work, and long, he wanted. "How is it going alone?" he ventured, as if he did not care, either way. The smith only grunted. "Have you thought about taking someone on?"

A sharper glance from the other's eyes, shiny and black. "You?"

Merlin shrugged noncommittally.

"I've seen you working on the physician's roof," the blacksmith said. "You're a hard worker, fast and skillful. But you're moving slow and stiff, this morning."

Merlin bared his teeth in a grin. "A fight," he said. What else? He didn't have to say how it ended, though.

Elyan grunted again. "If you work for me, there'll be none of that, in my place or on my time, you got it?" Merlin jerked his head by way of assent. "Will you be moving a little quicker tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Merlin said for confirmation, and moved back toward the stable. His body had taken a severe punishment, but he would survive. He always did.

Saddling the nag was another round of torture that left Merlin a bit trembly, and clammy with sweat. But reasonably sure the ribs in question were intact. He mounted stiffly, and rode out the rear doors of the stable instead of onto the main street.

It was past sunrise, but the sky was overcast with gray; Merlin would have bet money the sun wouldn't show til the next day. Not a breath of air stirred, warm even without the sun. Summer had passed its peak and would now decline, but slowly. The sparse grass on the hills around town had been brown and yellow for weeks, but now the leaves would be starting to change their color, too. Winter, and Padlow, would soon be making a slow way toward Emmett's Creek. The thought made Merlin grimace a smile of anticipation around the jolts of pain that rippled through him at every step the nag took.

He held the horse to a brisk walk, heading just east of due north. Not only did he want further opportunity to read Arthur, but he wanted to gauge the reaction of Emmett's Creek to the presence of an agent, openly recognized or not.

A three-pace wide tributary of the Creek the town was named for ran right by Leon's ranch house, and over the years it had channeled itself deeper and deeper into the soft earth of its banks. This year had been a dry one; now a rider could splash the miles along this smaller stream almost up to Leon's doorstep without being seen by anyone more than twenty paces or so from its banks.

Leon would likely be out with one of the herds and its crew, so his wife would have to send one of their sons to bring him in – unless Arthur chose to ride out after Leon himself, which wasn't likely, in Merlin's opinion. That meant that even with having to travel the winding curves of the stream, Merlin could expect to reach the ranch house in time to eavesdrop on the rancher's conversation with the agent.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya thought to herself, she should've brought breakfast with the bandages, up to Merlin's room. That, or watch what she said to him more carefully.

The family usually breakfasted in the kitchen together; a simple affair, unless they had overnight guests. A government agent didn't exactly qualify, and was seated at the small corner table beside Gwen, who was pink with pleasure at having caught his notice.

Time and again Merlin had slipped out before the family was awake or at least ready to eat, when he slept there, and occasionally had passed through to grab a heel of bread and a cup of coffee when he'd come into town from sleeping the night outdoors, but this morning Freya had hoped he might eat with them.

Why had she asked that question?

She sat on the edge of her ladder-backed chair in the corner beside Shasta, letting the conversation wash around her, her ears listening for the sound of Merlin's boots on the stairs. He couldn't be that far behind her.

But Shasta was picking up Freya's dish before she even realized Gwen and Percival had also risen, the meal finished. Either Merlin had stayed in his room, or had left through the front door of the common room without a sound. And without anything to eat. After last night.

For once Freya kept her seat, feeling too exhausted to help clean up.

The agent eyed her, and bent to retrieve a scrap of rag from the hearth, lifting the coffee pot from its warming place to refill his cup. He gestured to hers politely, but when she shook her head, he replaced the pot on the hearth.

"So you are Padlow's wife?" he said, his tone low, so the other three would not hear them over the noise of the kitchen. "You know of the record book?"

Ah. The record book. Her mistake, mentioning that. Or – maybe not a mistake, maybe it had been the right thing to do? Should she keep silent, loyally holding her husband's probably illegal secrets? No, by law she was required to answer this man's questions honestly – a lie to an agent was a lie to Uther himself, a punishable offense. And it was right to abide by the laws of the territory she lived in.

A thought jumped into her mind – maybe this was the reason Merlin hated Padlow so much. Maybe he had cheated him in his taxes, and others had suffered because of the loss, and the lack.

Arthur raised his eyebrows, and she sighed. She'd known it would come to this when she'd first learned of the stranger's identity. Arthur already knew the answers to his two questions, and looked at her with the same disgust that all the others did – only more faintly, with curiosity rather than animosity, as he had looked at her when he'd come into the tavern. When he'd ridden into town.

Now she faced the interrogation she'd feared ever since the first uncertainty of her husband's honesty had snuck into her mind.

But the agent followed his first two questions with one that was unexpected. "Did Merlin ever tell you why he's hunting Padlow?"

"He hates him," she said slowly. Were taxes enough to hate anyone over? Emmett's Creek evidently believed so.

"He never told you why?

She shook her head. "I guessed maybe he thought Padlow cheated him collecting taxes?"

"Not him. His father. So he believes." Arthur watched her over the rim of his cup as he took a swallow of coffee.

"Oh." Freya opened her mouth, then shut it again, confused. Of course there had to be more to it. Any number of farmers around town felt the same way, but none had sent their sons after Padlow. But Merlin had first become a revenger – how had that happened?

"My name is Arthur," he said. "You know I'm one of Uther's agents." There was a sharpness in his blue eyes as he toyed with his half-full cup on the tabletop; she didn't know what he saw in her face now, but he nodded, and reached his hand across to her.

She took his hand briefly to complete the introduction. "Yes."

"First I heard about it was my assignment," the agent continued. "Go bring an orphaned boy back to Camelot for cadet service. When I got to Ealdor I stopped by the reeve to get directions to the farm; he was the one who sent the message about Merlin. He took me to see the undertaker, first–"

Freya raised her hand to stop him. "If I hear it, I want it to be from him," she said. "It doesn't – feel right, otherwise."

Undertaker? Orphan? That might explain the pain in his eyes, and maybe the nightmares… Ealdor wasn't that far, after all, from her hometown, maybe two days walking distance north from Redwillow. And Merlin had been in government service, then, as an underage boy. It was not such a leap to imagine him becoming a revenger after that, especially if he had training in the cadet corps.

"I saw the way you looked at him when we rode in yesterday," the agent said, watching her keenly, lifting his cup to his mouth again. "So did Burton. Your husband's partner."

She frowned, but didn't say anything, feeling her color rise a little. How had she looked at Merlin? She'd been glad to see him back, surely, but… the agent's words had been observation only, not question. He settled back, hooking an elbow over the back of the chair.

"It seems your husband's been dishonest in his tax collecting," he said. "And that might be the least of his offenses, if stories are true."

Freya glanced around the kitchen; Shasta and Gwen were occupied with their regular morning tasks, as well as hers, and Percival had left the room. "I–" she said, and stopped, troubled. Confused. "Padlow doesn't talk to me much," she said. "I don't know many people in Emmett's Creek, either, and–"

Arthur smiled, a quick there-and-gone-again smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not interested in gossip or hearsay," he said. "I'm interested in facts and sworn statements. The fact is, that little record book of your husband's doesn't match the records the agents have taken when your husband brings the taxes to Camelot. Not by a long shot. We know those are accurate; I'm here to find out how accurate Padlow's private records are. I understand it's awkward for you to talk about your own husband, so I won't ask it of you now. But I also wanted to warn you to keep clear of Burton, and to let me know as soon as you do, when Padlow returns."

"For my safety, or so I don't betray your case?" Freya said, and could've bitten her tongue at how caustic the question sounded.

But the agent only grinned. "Both. Not that I think you'd betray me, not on purpose." The smile flattened, turned calculating. "You've got more spirit and backbone than you first appear to. And I think your feelings lean more toward Merlin than you realize. But Gaius tells me you have a habit of telling the truth, even when others might consider it an inappropriate time."

"No – there's no feelings," Freya stammered. "I mean to say – I'm married. But you know that, unless you're suggesting–"

He cut her off. "I didn't say you were in love with him, girl. Heaven knows what any woman would see in that stubborn, tight-wound sonuva–" he coughed apologetically. "A better word would be – sympathies. By all reports, your husband has a dark side – just how dark, is my job to discover. Not that Merlin doesn't have a dark side as well…" His lips twitched ironically at that; she wondered why. "Most of us do. But if I'm right, you're hoping that it never comes down to choosing between them, yes?"

She was silent. She felt – pale. Maybe even transparent. She knew she had a soft spot where Merlin was concerned, he so very obviously needed… someone. But – she should talk to Gaius, maybe. Figure out how to right her feelings again.

Agent Arthur stood, retrieving his hat from its place hung over the corner of his ladder-backed chair. "I may have more questions for you later, but for now… good day to you," he said, pleasantly enough, but she barely heard him, barely noticed when he thanked Shasta for breakfast and left the kitchen. Shasta and Gwen were both shooting glances at her, wondering, no doubt, what had been said.

What am I supposed to do now? She sighed and pushed herself up from the table. Talking to Gaius would have to wait until after she'd heated the water and gathered the family's clothes for laundry.

Freya's arms were beginning to tire of scrubbing article after article of clothing across the washboard, when Shasta stepped out of the kitchen door behind the tavern. She tossed out a dishpan full of dirty water that only a week earlier would have been poured carefully along the rows in her vegetable garden.

"It'll be time for the last picking, soon," the older woman observed. "In a couple of days."

Freya pushed a lock of sweaty hair away from her forehead with the inside of her elbow; anything closer to her fingers was coated in laundry suds. Shasta tilted the dripping dishpan against the kitchen door and settled herself down on the back step, watching Freya. Her eyes were unusually sharp; Freya kept scrubbing.

"We've never known him to lose a fight," Shasta said eventually. Freya didn't have to ask who she meant. "Percival told me, his wrists were tied." She paused, then asked, "Did he tell you who did it?"

Freya made a face. "Burton."

"Ah." Shasta nodded, picking at the end of the long red braid that hung over her shoulder. "That surprises me. I'd not have put money on Burton in that fight." She watched Freya squeeze water out of one of Percival's shirts and drop it on top of the basket full of wet clothes. "Did he say if he was going to let it go, losing a fight?"

Freya shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "He didn't say," she said. "But what do you think?"

Shasta chuckled, slapping her hands lightly on her knees. "Ah's me. Reminds me of Percival when he was young, this one does. Percival had a temper like lightning, he did, and his fists were the thunder."

"Percival?" Freya said incredulously. Percival was big, sure, and not at all hesitant about stopping a brawl in his place, himself, if he had to, but she had always thought him as mild and patient as Gaius.

Shasta nodded; the sharp look was still there. "A wild boy will sometimes make the best husband. Once they fall in love with you, there's no safer place to be than with a man who's not afraid to use his fists."

Freya felt a hot, faintly embarrassed flush spread through her. Suddenly she was not sure they were still talking about Percival. And though Padlow had surely been a wild boy once, there was never any hint that he was in love with her, even when he had married her. Shasta answered her questioning look with a nod and a small knowing smile.

"You know I'm married," Freya protested.

Shasta heaved herself up, came to take Freya's place at the washtub, pointed her to start pinning the wet clothes to the line stretched from a pole to a hook on the corner of the tavern wall about head height.

"You're the only one who acts like it," she said tartly. "Never catch Padlow telling folks he's married, or caring about being faithful to you, or even treating you decent like a fellow should treat his wife. Now, you catch his eye–" she held up the next garment, significantly Merlin's shirt – "he could keep you safe from the likes of your husband." The last word fairly dripped with scorn.

Freya was glad of an excuse to turn her back to the big woman. Her face felt bright red. "It doesn't matter what Padlow says or does. He took me as his wife, so I–"

"I've been a wife a number of years, too," Shasta interrupted. "And believe me when I tell you that he–"

"Shasta, please!" Freya was close to tears, it made it hard to hang the wet clothes on the twine of the clothesline when she couldn't see properly. "I really don't want to talk about this!"

Shasta clucked her tongue, but with her back turned, Freya could not tell if her expression was one of sympathy or exasperation. "Darlin', you best go talk to the doc, as an educated man. See which one of us is right for once and for all."

It was an old argument, one that made Freya regret telling the older woman how Padlow had married her. Shasta had been trying to persuade Freya to leave him off and on since the first time he left her alone in Emmett's Creek and she had dragged herself into town bruised and half-starving, looking to work for some food and shelter, because he had not left her any money for replenishing supplies or transportation to and from town, and Burton would not leave her alone. That first time, she had believed – or convinced herself – that Padlow, unused to being married, had forgotten to make provision for her while he was gone. She had learned better since then, had learned that Padlow had no intention of letting her get anywhere close to his money, had no interest in taking care of her.

"I can't," Freya said automatically, as she always did. "I couldn't talk to a man about – that." She pinned the last pair of trousers to the line, and slowly returned to the washtub, where Shasta scrubbed energetically, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up reddened arms to the elbows.

"You're just going to wait til Merlin kills Padlow, then consider yourself a widow?" Shasta said.

Freya's breath seemed to stop, heavy in her chest, and she struggled for a moment to catch it up again. "Kills Padlow?" she said. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, Freya." Shasta sighed, leaning on the washboard and shaking her head. "You really believe that one followed Padlow all the way here and near killed himself doing it, just to scrap with him? You really believe Padlow would take a beating and learn his lesson, and go on without coming back at Merlin?"

"I thought–" Freya said breathlessly, "well, he brought the agent back from Camelot, so… I thought he'd arrest him, maybe…"

Shasta gave her a look that was equal parts affection and incredulity. "Doubt it," she said succinctly. "That one came here for blood. For blood, and death. He's carrying it around in his eyes, can't you see it?"

"I – I–" Freya stopped. She'd seen the hate in Merlin's eyes, sure – but was it murderous hate? "Shasta, do you mind if I go talk to Gaius after all?"

"Go on." Shasta jerked her head in the direction of the physician's office. "Gwen need more to do this morning anyway." She smiled to take any sting out of her words. "She gets too used to having less to do while you're here." She gave Freya a wink and began scrubbing at the laundry again.