Chapter 16: Misplaced Propriety
Arthur was waiting for Merlin when he returned to Morgana's at dawn.
"Where've you been?" the agent said tersely. "Change your clothes and wash – Drew's asked the council to meet this morning, and you need to be there."
So he wouldn't have a chance to inform Morgana of the results of her delay. Just as well, he supposed, in his present mood he'd anger her for sure, and find himself ordered to clear his things from his cell. He washed up in his room and buttoned his clean shirt on the way back downstairs, and was still fastening his vest, following Arthur down the hill.
"Freya get home all right?" Arthur said.
"I guess." Merlin was bitter about the timing, but he trusted Amery maybe the most of all the apprentices; she was capable and had a good head on her shoulders.
"We'll need her to come to the Palais too, eventually, give her testimony of yesterday." Arthur's thoughts clearly weren't on Freya. "Drew spoke with five of the council members yesterday, and four of them were inclined to admit doubt about the reeve's version of events surrounding your arrest," he began as they strode along. "I stayed with him last night after I was through with Mordred and Jordan – who'll live, by the way. They're both locked up and charged with their various crimes. The council will want to question them, but when the toll tangle is cleared up, I'll be taking them back to the capital for sentencing and punishment."
"Why are we meeting so soon?" Merlin said. "I thought you wanted a day or so to collect testimonies."
"Early this morning one of the watchmen in the Southgate district pulled a body from the river," Arthur told him. "It was Agravaine."
Merlin absorbed the information without slowing his steps, then asked quietly, "Are we on trial on this morning?"
Arthur snorted, throwing him a sardonic look. "In a sense, yes," he answered. "The reeve's death will look just as convenient for us as the judge's. Their decision will probably hinge on whether they want the hassle of an investigation against two agents or if they'd rather place the blame of the entire situation on a man already dead. Just, please–" he gave Merlin a wry grin – "don't lose your temper today."
Merlin gritted his teeth.
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It was a long day for Freya, spent entirely in the room she shared with Vivian, alone except for the noon meal brought, left, then cleared away by Betsey the plump middle-aged maid, who gave her a snide sideways glance in return for her thanks.
When Betsey brought her dinner, Emma came as well, wearing an elegant dark blue dress slit up the sides to show a white underskirt. She was more composed, but still didn't quite meet Freya's eyes.
"I've spoken with Randall about your behavior yesterday and this morning, and am willing to hear whatever you might have to say for yourself," she stated.
Freya sighed. She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I should not have left Philbert at the cathedral," she admitted. "I shouldn't have left there at all. I thought I was helping Agents Arthur and Merlin in their investigation, and – one thing led to another – and I ended up sleeping the night through."
Emma was shaking her head. Freya supposed she sounded less than coherent, but the full story would be unbelievable to someone like Emma. Even the parts that Arthur could corroborate left the gap of all night.
"Neither one of us undressed," she added. "I slept on a sofa, he in an armchair. That is all I meant when I said–"
"My dear girl." Emma sighed deeply, then crossed the room to where Freya sat in the window-seat. She took Freya's face between her hands, as her mother had sometimes done. "I can believe you guilty of no more than thoughtlessness, and we might have been able to smooth things over with Philbert – who was extremely and justifiably irate – but the words you said this morning before Missus Marcie… and in the clothes you went out in yesterday… and your hair so untidy…" she trailed off, shaking her head again. "I'm afraid, my very dear cousin, that your reputation cannot be salvaged."
"If you and Randall and Vivian know the truth, I don't care about anyone else," Freya pleaded. "I'm not really that set on marrying again, and I don't mind being left home while you go visiting–"
"I'm not sure we can let you stay, you see," Emma said gently. "If it were only up to us – if no one else knew – but we have a young, unmarried daughter to think of. If we go on as if nothing has happened, Vivian's chances at a good marriage would be harmed severely, our relationships with our friends would be affected."
Ah, the opinion of the public. Freya had never felt the unjust weight of it so heavily before. Emmett's Creek had treated her according to Padlow's desserts. And Turad's society would treat her according to a false rumor, unkind gossip.
"We'll talk again tomorrow," Emma said. "I'll visit with Marcie and try to explain, but it may be weeks, even, before we know the extent of the damage."
Damage she'd caused, Freya knew.
"Randall has mentioned a possible solution, but until his suggestion is – is approved, I don't think I should be more specific," Emma offered hesitantly. "Vivian is going to spend a few days with a friend of hers, and you can come downstairs tomorrow, but – it would be best if you didn't leave the house and – and maybe take your meals in the kitchen." She stood in indecision a moment longer, then left Freya alone with a supper she was not hungry for.
Of all possible outcomes of what had happened, Freya expected the most commotion over the news of the reeve's involvement, the capture of the judge's assassin, a little excitement over Merlin's reprieve. Maybe a word of rebuke for her neglect of Philbert, questions why she hadn't at least sent a message. If she'd known how her honest answers would be interpreted, she might have tried to emphasize her help for the agents, the scare of being taken hostage, even the injury to her ankle, which after a day of rest felt only stiff and sore.
How was she going to get out of this?
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It was a grueling day.
There were short periods of intense questioning when queries were thrown at him without pause, even over his answers, when his replies were mocked and his veracity openly doubted. There were also long periods of waiting outside the closed doors of the Inner Chamber, with the glances of a hundred clerks on him with curiosity, suspicion, dismissal.
Pacing conveyed impatience, worry, even guilt. But he wasn't allowed writing materials to add to the ongoing report on the desk in his cell at Morgana's. They called for a short break at noon, but he and Arthur were not told that they were no longer needed for the day til the hour when all clerks were shuffling papers, locking desks, snuffing candles.
Arthur left with him a curt complaint about being late for dinner and instructed him, "Be back here at dawn."
Merlin didn't hurry back to the chalet. He didn't like the idea of sitting down at the dinner table under the eyes of Morgana, Gwaine, and the apprentices, having been scrutinized and judged all day. He figured he'd grab some scraps from the kitchen later.
He walked by way of the Daved. Taliesin was absent, but Merlin left him a note with instructions to meet him at the Palais with any witnesses on the morrow, tucked into a crack of the statue's base. And took his time and a roundabout route back to the chalet.
Still munching the heel of bread that was his dinner, Merlin leaned on the rail of the balcony overlooking the training ground, to watch the end-of-the-day exercises and catch the first night-breeze. Any other day he'd be down with them, but was too exhausted tonight. Tonight he'd rest and try to calm his whirling thoughts.
He heard the door behind him and knew it was Morgana by the scent she wore, faint on the air currents.
"How did today go with the council?" she said, a hint of teasing in her voice.
He grinned to himself and didn't turn, challenging, "You tell me."
She chuckled softly, low in her throat. "There are conflicting rumors," she said. "Some say the council will order your hanging for the murders of the judge and the reeve. Some say Alined and Agravaine were responsible for the excesses of the toll situation and got what they deserved, and the two agents are achieving good results. I figure since you're not in a holding cell tonight, it must be going fine so far."
Merlin took a deep breath and let it out. The council wasn't completely satisfied, but he sensed they believed him and Arthur, mostly. It would help to have Taliesin there, and the housekeeper Elsie, the next day. They hadn't even addressed the issue of the tolls; but in the absence of the judge, Arthur would preside over those meetings, and that, in Merlin's opinion, would be an improvement.
"Re-thinking your desire to be an agent?" Morgana said, her voice deliberately cool.
"I never wanted to be an agent," he told her shortly. "It's just a job, like any other."
She made a noncommittal noise. "Not a job you want to continue doing?"
Not if it meant that he'd face situations where he'd have to decide between the life of an innocent hostage, and letting a guilty man walk away.
"Arthur and Randall are here," she added as she moved away, hand trailing along the balcony ledge.
He straightened. Arthur had left him just over an hour ago, with no hint of accompanying Randall on a planned visit, and for Randall to come here, it concerned Freya. Yet Amery had reported leaving Freya safely at her home on Sycamore Avenue that morning – had something happened in the meantime? Maybe the injury to her ankle was a serious one, and her cousins would demand details of how she'd gotten hurt?
The two men were waiting for him in the receiving room just off the entrance to the chalet.
"What happened?" Merlin demanded as he slammed the door open.
Arthur said to Randall, "Let me talk to him."
Randall, with a grave, disapproving air, bowed his head in acquiescence.
"What?" Merlin repeated more forcefully.
There was a glint of amusement in Arthur's solemnity that calmed Merlin's concern somewhat. "It seems Miss Freya wasn't returned to her home until an hour past dawn this morning?"
"The apprentice that was sent for to escort her did not arrive til just before daybreak," Merlin stated, loudly enough that Randall could hear. "You ordered me, as you recall, to stay in the house because of the risks associated with my arrest – and if that happened while I was escorting Miss Freya, she would have been brought to the cells also. We had no choice but to wait, and I assure you, her honor was not compromised in any way."
Arthur cleared his throat. "It seems when Miss Freya arrived this morning, she was observed by a neighbor. It seems the neighbor noticed she still wore the same clothing as she'd departed the house wearing, the previous day. It seems, she was overheard to say that she had been with you all night, and that she had – slept with you."
Merlin cursed the busybody, calmly and aloud. Randall snorted without a change of expression, and Arthur chuckled.
"The damage is done," Randall said. "I can believe you the same as Emma believed Freya's explanation, but that doesn't change what the gossip and rumors will do to the reputations of all the members of my family. I did warn you once, so I am here to demand that you make reparations, insofar as you are able and willing."
Able and willing? What was he getting at?
Merlin took a wary step back – how ridiculous would it be if Freya's cousin challenged him to a duel? Should he let the man win? he couldn't hurt him.
"You must marry her," Arthur said. His voice betrayed an edge of amusement, but Randall was absolutely serious, and never blinked.
"No," Merlin said immediately.
"I'm not sure you understand the position I find myself in–" Randall began, but Merlin cut him off.
"I understand fully, and the answer is still no. Find someone else, some gentleman to rescue her," he spoke bitterly.
Arthur prodded, "You mean to say, you don't want her?"
Something rose in Merlin's chest, swift and tight, that threatened to choke him. He looked at Arthur, saw in his blue eyes an absence now of mirth, the beginning of a comprehension of Merlin's feelings. That was something he couldn't take back, couldn't change, couldn't beat out of the man, though at that moment he wished he could.
"Damn you," he said instead, calmly but forcefully, and turned to leave.
He sensed movement behind him, but Arthur was smart enough not to crowd him as he circled more swiftly, palm extended to keep the door shut.
"What is it, then," Arthur said in a low voice, "that keeps you from playing the gentleman, and offering for her hand?"
Merlin leaned toward him, speaking now so Randall would not hear. "You should know, better than any. She deserves far better than I could ever offer."
"Here in Turad, she'll not get an offer better than you," Arthur returned seriously. "Not anymore."
"Then I'll take her away from here. Anywhere she wants to go." Merlin knew he sounded like he was grasping at straws.
"Where would she go, except back to Emmett's Creek and in disgrace?" Arthur said.
"She marries me, likely she'll end up there, anyway."
Arthur nodded. "It's up to you, then, how she goes back. Married to the new reeve, or–" he paused deliberately – "worse off than when she left, and because of you."
Merlin couldn't deny it was his fault she hadn't gotten home safely and discreetly at a decent time the night before. He told Arthur, "If she has any sense, she'll turn me down."
Arthur looked past him at Freya's cousin and nodded triumphantly, not bothering to hide his grin.
And what was it, welling up inside Merlin, that suddenly made him feel like grinning, too?
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The reflection that Freya saw in the small mirror over the little table in her alcove that morning made her sigh, and wish that it had rained. Extra fresh, cool water to pat over her face was unavailable otherwise, with what it cost for the watermen to cart their daily supply from the river. She certainly looked as if she'd been crying half the night. What girl wanted to face a proposal from a man who'd been talked – or shamed – into it? Maybe he'd take one look at her and change his mind.
The bedroom door clicked open softly, and Emma's dress hem rustled over Vivian's thick rug as she came around the corner. She drew back at little when she saw Freya's face, then forced a smile that was too encouraging.
"Agent Merlin is here, dear," she said. "He's waiting in the sitting room for you; we'll give you some time alone with him before breakfast."
So early? But she didn't want to postpone the interview, either.
She followed Emma past Vivian's empty bed, and descended the stairs more slowly than her cousin, who gave her a smile before disappearing into the kitchen. Freya paused at the arch doorway of the sitting room to watch him.
Merlin looked so different from when she'd seen him last. His hair was damp from washing – briefly she envied him the extra water - and he was dressed as he had been a week ago, the charcoal-gray trousers and the deep red vest, but this morning he wore the matching jacket she'd returned, in spite of the heat, and a white cravat tied at his throat, ends neatly tucked down. He was clean-shaven and seemed as comfortable as when he'd been rough and ragged, sleeping in an armchair. He could rub shoulders with such as Philbert, today, and to her mind, he was also ten times the man that Philbert was.
He was pacing before the fireplace, hands in his trouser pockets, an intense frown on his face. He was dressed as a man intending to propose to his beloved, but the agitation in his movement betrayed his disinclination, she thought uncomfortably.
Freya wondered if he'd noticed her entrance, but he gave no indication she'd taken him by surprise when she greeted him quietly, "Good morning."
He simply turned and looked at her.
She'd been afraid of what she would see in his face. After crying herself to sleep, she'd dreamed of him in a dozen different moods in reaction to her and their situation – disgust, anger, hate, amusement, condescension. But there was none of that, not even discomfort, she saw, only an attentive patience.
Far cry from Emmett's Creek, he'd said. Can you talk about it? Can you walk with me?
"Can we sit down?" she said, suddenly feeling shaky and unsure. It was hard to hold midnight resolutions, here in daylight and in his presence.
She turned to the sofa below the front window, and he followed. As she smoothed her skirt – more nervous gesture than re-arrangement of wrinkled material – he leaned his forearms on his knees, exactly as he had every day driving Padlow's wagon. And she could see the scars on his wrists, under his cuffs.
"I'm sorry," he said first, startling her. "I should not have let you stay, when I first suspected no one would come anymore that evening. I should not have asked you to meet with Taliesin, I should not have involved you in what I knew might be a dangerous investigation, and I truly seek your pardon for this."
She was speechless for a moment. Of all the things she thought to hear from him, an apology and request for forgiveness had not been among them. But it was very similar to what she herself had intended to begin with.
"I am the one who should be apologizing" she told him. "My mistakes have cost you–"
"Freya," he interrupted, and she met his eyes. It was almost too much for her resolve. That soul-searching gaze seemed reversed, as if he invited her to look straight into his own heart. Never had he been so open to anyone, in her experiences with him. "I came here this morning to ask you to marry me."
For a moment she wavered. But only a moment.
"No," she said, looking down at her hands making a knot in her black skirt. "You came here this morning because my cousin persuaded you that you were obligated, that you had wronged me somehow and needed to–"
"Freya," he said again, but she refused to look at him.
"I won't," she said, feeling a measure of hysteria rising, feeling she had to say what she decided, in the dark solitude of the night before, before her feelings choked her, betrayed her. "I won't let you do this – you have all your life ahead of you."
"You think that marrying you would be a sacrifice for me?" There was no heat in his voice, only incredulity. "I did not say, I have come here to offer to marry you, I said-"
"No," she said quickly. He'd be relieved once he stopped to think about the wisdom of her decision, no matter what his reasons for coming here. "You can go where you please, do what you please, be whoever and whatever you want to be. You must not–"
"Freya," he said a third time, as if warning her not to go on, as if he understood what she was saying, and what she was not, and didn't want her to say either. He moved to the edge of the sofa, no longer easy and comfortable, but tense and wary.
"No," she said again, straightening her back. No, she could not allow fanciful daydreams, or the desire to touch him, or the regret that she would not belong to him… "No," she repeated, forcefully.
He put his hands on the edge of the seat, to brace himself, or to push to his feet. She didn't think he was looking at her anymore, but couldn't risk a glance to be sure. He was better off without her; they both knew it.
"Tell me to go," he said in a low voice. The skin of his scarred knuckles was white from his grip. "Tell me to go, and I will not trouble you again."
She said softly, "Go." Anything further would catch on the sob rising in her throat.
Merlin pushed himself up and quit the room in a handful of strides.
Freya heard the front door close firmly moments later, and twisted on the sofa, kneeling so she could see out the window, watch him walk away one last time.
He closed the gate behind him, settling his hat on his head, the wide brim throwing shadow over his face in the rising sun. For a moment he stood outside the gate, gazing down at the sidewalk, hands pushing the tails of his jacket back to plunge into his pockets. He paced forward, stepped around the sycamore, and was gone.
That was that.
All that was left her was to pack her few belongings once again, gather the little coin that remained from the sale of the wagon and horses. And decide which direction to walk.
Her cousins couldn't keep her without great sacrifice, and they had already given her so much. She wouldn't return to Emmett's Creek to face the questions and pity of her friends, to exacerbate the situation with Padlow's enemies for Merlin to deal with if and when he came, to have to face him there again in Percy's common room.
Tears threatened, burning the back of her throat. She was worse off now than when her mother had died. All of it had been for nothing; she had nothing to show for the last six and a half years.
Emma appeared in the doorway of the sitting room to say with surprise, "Agent Merlin didn't stay to have breakfast with us?"
They would be angry with her now, all of them. She felt nervous again, to the point of nausea. She answered softly, "No."
Emma beckoned, and Freya followed her to the breakfast room, where Randall and Arthur had already begun their meals. As Emma seated herself, she prodded Freya gently, "Don't you and Agent Merlin have an announcement to make?"
Freya stayed standing; she was beginning to hate the word. "No," she said again, even more softly. The room itself seemed to be listening, and Arthur watched her sharply from the foot of the table.
"He made you a proposal of marriage?" Randall questioned evenly, laying down his fork.
Respectfully, she moved where he could see her, and nodded.
Emma's mouth dropped open, before she burst out disbelievingly, "You didn't turn him down?"
Freya flushed miserably. The same chagrined surprise was reflected on both men's faces. She spoke mostly to Randall, but it came out as little more than a whisper. "I appreciate that you approached him to make the offer."
"But – why?" Emma said in exasperation. "My dear girl, do you not understand-"
Randall lifted his hand slightly, gesturing to his wife, who fell silent. "We did not think we would have to counsel you to this course," he said in his deep, rough voice. "But I am sure you have good reasons for a refusal?"
"I – made a mistake when I – remained with Padlow," she said haltingly, dropping into her seat. She had not explained much about her marriage to her cousins, and had no desire to answer those questions now. Had no desire to try to explain her feelings. "I do not want to – put myself into another – marriage, without being sure that–"
"Miss Freya, surely you know that Merlin and Padlow are as different as night and day!" Arthur interjected. He glanced quickly up the table at Freya's cousins, as though aware that he should not reveal to much. "You should expect that Merlin would treat you – much differently."
Emma looked at Arthur speculatively; Freya didn't want those questions to become more pointed. "I know," she said softly; she was mashing her napkin into a ball below the tablecloth. "But he should not be punished for – what happened – I can't do that to him, just for my reputation–"
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Emma exclaimed, exasperated.
Randall reached up to wipe his mouth with his napkin, a puzzled wrinkle between his bushy graying brows. "Have you considered his reputation?"
"Yes," she answered. "To have a wife that he was forced to marry for appearance's sake – and a constant reminder–" And he was so young, yet…
"Have you considered," Randall repeated, more slowly, "his reputation, if he doesn't marry you?"
Freya stared at him speechless for a moment, then said faintly, "He won't care about rumors… and he doesn't have to stay here…"
"If he chooses to?" Arthur said.
"Do you think he cares about his reputation?" Freya asked him.
The agent smiled. "Not usually. But do you think he wants to think of himself for the rest of his life as the man who didn't guard yours?"
Oh. Oh, now that… That was different. That made her think…
"Will you at least re-consider," Randall said, "letting him do the honorable thing?"
"I don't think you will be able to persuade him to come a second time," Freya said slowly. She should feel relief; why did it seem more like sorrow?
"I gave your written testimony to the council yesterday," Arthur said. "But you could come with me today to see if they wanted to question you – and he'd be there–"
Emma was shaking her head before he finished. "That would be inappropriate, for her to appear at the Palais for questioning, even without this – incident, on her reputation. Possibly she could go out after dark, if she kept her face hidden."
Freya felt the heat rise to her face – to creep around in the shadows as if ashamed hurt a pride she thought she no longer possessed. And perhaps, after all, she ought to submit to her cousin as the head of the household and to Arthur as an agent of her government. Allow Merlin to do the honorable thing, here and now, even if it would have seemed a ridiculous requirement, elsewhere.
"Well, that's an option we can explore tonight, then," Randall concluded.
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"What a day," Taliesin commented breezily, leaning one hand down on the stone steps of the Palais entrance to help lower himself down beside Merlin.
He didn't open his eyes or shift from his fully-reclined position. The steps were wide enough that the majority of clerks leaving for the day had plenty of room to go around him, and he'd heard the shuffle-tap of Taliesin's gait descending to him moments earlier. He concentrated on the low glare of the late afternoon sun on the back of his eyelids, the scarlet, yellow, and orange patterns pleasantly threatening to blind him slowly.
"That council sure can put a man through the wringer," Taliesin continued. "They're finishing up with Andre, now."
Merlin was officially on parole on Arthur's word and as his responsibility, but no one had mentioned revoking his status; he was free to come and go from the council chamber and even to pose his own questions to the witnesses as each council member could, but as the hours went by he found it harder to care, to sit patiently and silently through the squabbling and nitpicking among the members.
They'd begun that morning with Freya's written testimony, and the questions and answers Arthur had copied at the end of the transcript, clarifying her statement. Merlin hadn't stayed to hear it – it put him right back in that house, seeing her beautiful and elegant and scared.
Remembering that he'd never see her again.
By the time they dispersed for the noon meal, the council had examined both Mordred and Jordan – transported from the holding cells for that purpose. Jordan had been eager to place as much of the blame as possible on Reeve Agravaine and Mordred, claiming ignorance of the judge's involvement. Mordred had sullenly admitted to the judge's murder and the attempt on Councilman Drew's life, the sole motive being greed – violence for the promised payment.
Merlin remained outside the Inner Chamber for their questioning also; Arthur agreed his presence might prove unhelpfully antagonistic.
They had not voted on the matter, but most of the members seemed to agree that the reeve was primarily responsible, the judge's participation questionable enough to be glossed over. They discussed holding elections the next week for the reeve's office.
The afternoon's session had included Elsie the housekeeper, Bud the deputy who'd clubbed Merlin when his back was turned, Andre the lockpick from the holding cell, and Taliesin himself. It was a lot of information to sift through, but from Merlin's viewpoint, it was little more than confirmation of what they already knew. Elsie and Andre were absolved of any blame, and Bud's only punishment was removal from his position, since he'd been following orders and claimed not to know that Merlin was an agent.
"You know, I should probably thank you," Taliesin mused, and Merlin cracked one eye open to look at him. The old man's clear blue eyes twinkled. "Never had an excuse to set foot in the Palais, before."
"You mean, none of the cases you helped me with went to trial before," Merlin said wryly. Taliesin chuckled. The sun blazed on Merlin's eyelids.
"So – how does your lady feel about the revenging business?" Taliesin ventured. "She seems kind of gentle to be a partner in that."
Merlin grunted to discourage that vein of conversation. Not my lady. Never will be.
"Quite a lady," Taliesin continued anyway, and Merlin heard the grin in his voice. "Pretty. Brave. Pretty brave."
"Merlin?" It was Agent Arthur's voice from behind them.
He didn't move. Wouldn't it be nice just to sink into the steps, become part of the stone, just lie there and feel the afternoon sun, everlastingly.
"We're done for the night," Arthur continued. "Tomorrow morning, same time. Mister Taliesin, thank you for your testimony, you've been extremely helpful."
The other agent's footsteps passed them, down the wide stone steps, blended with all the rest, folks hurrying home after their day's work. Home – a dangerous mirage, he'd once thought. A distraction he'd never be allowed.
Last night he'd dreamed he was driving Freya up to the ranch house in Ealdor, that his mother and his curly-haired sisters had been crossing the yard, his father lounging in the open door of the barn. That he'd presented Freya to his family, introducing them to his wife. And everyone had been smiling. And that had felt like home.
"Mister Taliesin," the old singer repeated, and chuckled. "Well, Mister Merlin, you know where you can find me. Been a pleasure, as always."
Merlin waved a hand to acknowledge him, but kept his eyes shut.
He laid there, hands crossed over his chest, jacket folded under his head to protect the still-tender bruise from the stone. He laid there, trying to kill the alertness that had his fingertips sliding over the hilt of the knife he'd begun wearing in his belt again, every time a footstep came within six feet of him, and failing utterly. He laid there trying not to think, trying to think of anything but her. Another loss, again alone in the world.
He failed at that, too.
When the glow of the sun faded, he opened his eyes and watched the first star, directly overhead, pierce through the fading blue.
Merlin made his way back to the chalet slowly, paying the tolls rather than circumventing them. She didn't want him, just as he'd told Arthur and Randall. Of course she wouldn't, he would be a lifelong reminder of Padlow and her close brush with death. Foolish of him to hope and dream, even for one night, and if it was disappointment he'd felt at her answer - and all day - he had no one to blame but himself.
He bypassed the dining room, not feeling in the mood for bright light and talkative company. But his cell on the third floor felt tight and stale, his report dry and meaningless, his bed hard and hot. Craving air, he leaned out the open window, reaching ineffectively into the empty night… then looking down into the wide shadowy yard. He needed work – hard physical work.
Morgana's training grounds were right there, and thanks to her well-stocked equipment shed, he didn't need a partner or an opponent.
Two dozen or more stars were out, and one of Morgana's groundsmen lighting torches around the training field, when she came.
He stood twelve paces from the man-shaped target, arms loose, muscles relaxed. Fifteen different blades he had, different sizes, different shapes, some in sheaths and some held in place only by his clothing. He heard the door behind him, heard the voices and distinguished each in seconds.
Arthur – Randall… Freya.
There should have been a storm of emotion sweeping through him – resentment, outraged pride, fury, betrayal, hurt – hope? – but he kept his focus on the target to keep that at bay. This was something definite, something tangible, something he could control. Or at least believe he could control.
Merlin threw himself into motion.
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Freya had spent the entire day in a state of agitation.
After the breakfast conversation, Emma hadn't brought the subject up again, but they both felt the awkwardness of ignoring it. And the morning post brought a lengthy letter from Gaius that threw her emotions into more turmoil – anticipating Merlin's eventual acceptance of the post of reeve, and lamenting her absence.
It felt almost a relief to pull a light hood over her head and climb into the hired carriage with Randall and Arthur, and she thought she understood the energy Merlin sometimes displayed, when a time of waiting was over, and action was imminent.
Now here she was at Morgana's chalet again, Randall and Arthur both in attendance. Morgana ushered them out-of-doors again, to a level grassy field hidden behind the chalet, and Freya's heart was beating like a trip-hammer the whole way.
She'd worried most of the previous night about what Merlin would say when he came to propose, what his state of mind was concerning the situation. Now she tread those same patterns in her mind again.
He was very proud, she knew. And she had been not a little insulting.
"There." Morgana pointed him out as they left the chalet for the torch-lit darkness of this great and surprising yard.
Merlin wasn't far from them, but he had his back turned, facing down the field. He stood motionless, jacket tossed to the ground, sleeves rolled up, one hand tucked carelessly behind his back. He stood casually, his weight on his back foot, but all his attention was so focused on a target down the field that Freya stopped walking half an instant before the others did. He was armed with a single belt knife, as far as she could see, with some sort of leather guard strapped to each forearm, but then he moved, and she realized her mistake.
Quicker than thought, fluid as water, he twisted, turned, bent, and leaned, plucking hidden blades from here and there about his person, to send them hissing and twinkling toward the target. Aim, hurl, reach, both hands moving as swiftly and accurately as a practiced card dealer.
Beside her, she heard Arthur chuckle, and Randall suck in a surprised breath.
Thud. Thud, thud, thud-thud-thud. She lost count. Thud, and… thud.
Freya had seen him fight, fists and feet, and associated the violence with his rough-dressed self, not the immaculately-suited Merlin who came to call on the week-end day. This was the first time she'd connected the two, in her mind, and was startled by how natural it seemed.
She gripped Gaius' letter in her pocket through the slit in her skirt as Merlin turned to them, unhurried and unsurprised, face expressionless as ever, and not even breathing hard.
He said nothing, made no move to join them, and suddenly the other two were looking at Freya instead of him. She told her feet to move, but it seemed to her they delayed before taking her slowly to him.
"A letter came from Gaius today," she began, keeping her eyes on the still-neatly-tied cravat at his throat. "It is for you to read, also, but first I wanted to ask you a question. Well, two questions. The first is, did what I said to you this morning cause you to change your mind about what you offered?"
"Have you changed yours?" he said in a low voice. Which wasn't really an answer… but maybe it was.
"Do you love me?" she blurted the second question. She supposed it didn't matter much, plenty of people enjoyed happy marriages without marrying for love. She just wanted to have this clear between them.
She hoped wildly he wouldn't turn this question back on her as he had the first one.
He only raised a hand to rub wearily at the scar on his forehead, but she had the distinct impression he wanted to pace restlessly. "Why do you ask me that?" he answered, his voice so intense it sent chills down her arms, but pitched so only she could hear. "I have no desire to hurt you."
She looked up into his face then, his eyes dark with the shadows, twin reflections of torchlight shining back at her. Curiously disappointed, she said, "You don't love me, then?"
He studied her as if they were the only two people on the field, in the world, and they had just met. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, spoke haltingly, "I don't love anyone. I may not be capable of it any longer."
That made her want to cry. She wanted to argue with him, show him how wrong he was. Instead she nodded her head, recognizing how difficult it was for him to answer.
"I spoke hastily this morning," she faltered, and his eyes fastening on hers. "I – made such a very great mistake – with Padlow, that I was afraid of doing the wrong thing – with you. I thought – you'd be better off without me, but I didn't… um, think that all the way through?"
"You know me," he told her. "You know I'm not a perfect man, and I never will be. I may not even be a good one. I can't promise you much but trouble–"
Freya shook her head, cutting him off. She'd had trouble before, married – or not, as it turned out – to Padlow. Life with Merlin would be a walk in the park in comparison. He might not be thrilled about being trapped into marrying her, but she knew how he would treat her, how he would commit himself without looking back. She knew he would make the best of it, for her sake.
She took a deep breath. "Yes," she said, and was surprised her voice did not shake. "Yes, then, I will marry you."
He looked at her, then stepped close and drew her into his arms. It felt the most natural thing in the world, and she was content.