If gold rust

…what shall iron do?

-The Canterbury Tales, Geoffrey Chaucer, 1400

Edmund thought about it a bit less than might be expected. All he wanted to do was collapse in a chair in the chamber he was given and meditate on absolutely nothing for a quarter of an hour before going down to dinner. It was not to be.

He had opened the window and light glinted in many colors off the leaded glass. There were roses blooming on green tendrils and he suddenly remembered, as bright as a painting, Lady Beatha holding a rose just that same shade.

"You know I like peonies better," she had said teasingly.

"I like roses," he had replied, "So I shall give you a rose."

There was a knock on the door and Edmund, hoping it was Peter, looked up and bade the visitor enter. It was Claude. Edmund sighed. The most exquisite Claude was dressed to the nines. Only Claude would take care dressing for dinner one day after polishing off a war.

"Yes?" Edmund inquired long sufferingly.

"King Edmund, did you note the daughter of Leon?"

"I looked on her," Edmund replied tranquilly.

"Is she not a model of perfection?"

"Are you asking for my impartial judgment of her in particular, or my partial opinion of women in general?" Edmund asked. "The latter, I think you know."

"I would ask you to speak in sober judgment."

Edmund eyed him for a moment. He saw before him a young man as besotted as a potted plant growing towards a window. Nothing good came from being besotted. Edmund resolved to sober Claude up as speedily as possible.

"When she was a child, I took great pains to amuse her, which proved to be greatly painful. Unless she is very much changed, she is not quick, has few interests, and little wit," Edmund paused, "I can say this for her, she is herself and not someone else, which is the highest praise that can be bestowed on anyone."

"Will you be serious?" Claude exclaimed. "I truly wish to know what you think of her."

"Think of her? In what way? Is this a cattle auction?" Edmund asked. "Would you have me look at her teeth?"

"An auction!" Claude exclaimed in horror, "Can the world buy such a jewel?"

"Certainly, and a case to put it into," Edmund laughed. "Come now, Claude, do not ask for my judgment. In matters such as these, only yours is material. What do you think of her?"

"She is the sweetest, most beautiful lady that I ever saw."

"I can still see without spectacles, and I observed no such thing. Her cousin, were she not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May does the last of December. I sincerely hope you have no intention of turning husband."

"I would scarce trust myself," Claude breathed. "But if, by some miracle, she would only agree to be my wife…"

"Lion's Mane!" Edmund exclaimed. "Has it come to this? Have you gone soft in the head?" he looked at Claude more closely, "I see that you have."

Another knock came at the door, and this time it was Peter. Edmund looked up gratefully. He could withdraw from the conversation and safely depend upon Peter to patiently continue the inanity.

"The two of you would appear to be plotting something," Peter said grinning. "I hope it has something to do with food."

"No," Edmund said. "It is something akin to death. Claude has had the cheek to fall in love. With Helena, Leon's short daughter."

Peter threw back his head and laughed. "Edmund, she's not short."

"I love her truly," Claude said a little defensively.

"She is a worthy lady," Peter replied, bestowing him with a fond smile.

"You are trying to placate me, my lord."

"No, indeed," Peter replied. "I say only what I believe."

"And in faith, my lord, I do the same."

"If we're all going to share our beliefs than I will say that I neither see her as loveable nor worthy," Edmund replied sullenly. "Fire cannot melt this opinion out of me."

"We are aware that you would willingly die at the stake to keep your opinions, brother," Peter replied. "Why should Claude not fall in love? It has been done before. It is not like the action is without precedence."

"Playing chess one piece short, or swimming during a thunderstorm, or playing ball with rabid dogs have all been done before," Edmund replied.

Peter laughed, "I'll see you weak with love before I die. It would do you a prodigious deal of good."

"Weak with anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my brother. Never with love."

But there was a sparkle in Peter's eyes that told Edmund that he was not to be dissuaded. Peter had long teased him about his general apathy towards romance. All that kissing and lovemaking was twiddle-twaddle, Edmund was wont to say; Peter's response was always that Edmund might look at the thing in a different light were he the main player. 'Pah!' Edmund would rejoin.

"Would you speak to her for me?" Claude asked, turning to Peter.

"With Helena? My dear chap," Peter said, "If you don't have the courage to woo her yourself, you won't have the courage when the moment comes to marry the girl."

"Will you at least ascertain if she thinks fondly of me? If there is a chance I might succeed?"

"Be careful," Edmund said morosely. "She might fall in love with Peter. All he has to do is smile at them and they are lost."

"I'll see if she mentions you in the same sentence as spiders," Peter replied generously, "But the heavy work you must do yourself."

"Deliver me," Edmund mumbled, letting his head fall back so he could gaze glassy eyed at the ceiling.

"Claude," Peter said. "Nip downstairs and see if we've missed the dinner bell. I feel as though it must have been time two days ago."

Claude, overflowing with thanks, bowed and left the room. A delightful silence settled in his absence. Peter threw himself down in another chair and stared at the patterns made by shadows on the tiled floor.

"Peter," Edmund said gravely. "He is a potted plant."

"Your reasoning is elusive," Peter replied tranquilly, "But I trust your judgement. A potted plant he is."

A sneeze echoed in the chamber. Peter and Edmund looked at each other, then around themselves.

"Eoin, if it is you, show yourself," Peter remarked to the empty air.

"I can't," Eoin's voice replied.

Eoin, it ought to be understood, though minor, was a particularly eccentric wizard. Sometimes he wouldn't change out of his nightclothes for days at a time; sometimes he took it to further extremes and wore no clothes at all. He had been given the gift of invisibility by a friendly dragon years before; the only downside was that his clothes did not turn invisible with him. Which brought up the age-old paradox: is an invisible man without clothes really naked?

Magic often had its drawbacks. Eoin had never been known to turn invisible in the wintertime.

With a sigh, Peter took Edmund's cloak off the bed and tossed it towards the voice. It caught and hung and presently Eoin came visible. No one really trusted Eoin; it's hard to trust a man who could be standing in the room with you without you knowing it.

"I wish you wouldn't hang about invisible like that," Peter said. "It's very unsettling."

"With all due respect, my lord, you charged me never to let King Edmund out of my sight."

"That was nearly a week ago!" Peter exclaimed. "Eoin, you are a donkey."

Eoin beamed. "Thank you, sir. Very good, sir. Just what I was thinking, sir."

"What's all this?" Edmund asked in irritation.

"After the incident with the long-leggedy beastie, I felt someone should keep an eye on you lest you clumsy yourself into an early grave," Peter replied. "I'm far too busy to organize your funeral."

"Lout," Edmund muttered.

"Your grace," Eoin said eagerly, "Would you like me to do something about Lord Claude? I could smite him unconscious for seven days, or I could give him a potion that causes him to loathe everyone he sees, or I could-"

"No," Peter said, "No to all of it. Hands off Claude."

"In that case, what if I-?"

"No."

"He might have a point, Peter," Edmund said suddenly. "If we can just get Claude back to Cair Paravel he'll-"

"No," Peter said. "Contrary to what belief is rattling around that funny little head of yours, falling in love is no crime. Let us see if the lady loves him in return. Let the boy marry. The world must be peopled."

Edmund clapped his hand over his face. "You should become a free-lance matchmaker."

~o*o~

Dinner that evening was a quiet affair. Edmund found himself seated between Lord Peridan and Eoin the Wizard (who was both clothed and visible again much to everyone's relief). He was beginning to feel exhaustion creep up on him, and seeing as the evening was likely to end in song delivered by the resident bard, he was feeling more exhaustion in mere anticipation.

Lord Peridan talked, more out of duty than inclination, and occasionally Lady Beatha cast flashing glances across the table. Once she picked up an orange and threw it with great accuracy at Lord Peridan; he caught it before it flattened his nose, and her golden laughter hung in the air. More and more as the evening passed, Edmund found his eyes irresistibly drawn back to her.

"I wish she was not so beautiful," Edmund said hopelessly, half to himself and half to Lord Peridan. "She wears her beauty like a queen's raiment. She relies on it. Nothing and no one can touch her."

"Would you like me to-" Eoin began from his other side.

"No!" Edmund exclaimed. "I forbid it. Keep your meddling ways to yourself."

"I could take the edge off it," Eoin noted, then added with rare fervor, "She should not treat you as she does, my lord. It is not right. She commits false report; moreover, she speaks untruths; secondarily, she is a slander; fifth and lastly, she verifies unjust things; and to conclude, if she was a man, she would be a lying knave."

"I feel like I ought to defend my sister, but he sort of has a point," Lord Peridan mused.

"She called you hideous, my lord," Eoin was becoming more animated by the minute, "After you had been voted most Parfit Gentil-Knight Alive by the Cair Paravel Chronicle."

"Her beauty may be her shield," Lord Peridan interjected, "But it is also her sorrow. A beautiful woman is often desired only for her beauty and not for herself. She has mourned her lot for many years."

"That is true enough," Edmund replied. "And let us not pretend that I do not return fire with fire when she taunts me. A good argument could be made that I deserve her censure."

~o*o~

Lady Beatha, for her part, was not entirely certain what she felt when she saw King Edmund sitting straight and tall on his great, gray horse. He had the most unreadable face she had ever encountered and could hide his thoughts in a way that left her sick with envy.

That evening she considered what had passed while she sat in her chair as Helena brushed out her long, long hair. Her hair was one of her greatest prides; very few ladies had hair like hers, shining like waves in an ocean, and Helena loved to brush it, so Beatha let her.

Her own heart had been beating wildly when she finally spoke to Edmund and she supposed that had added bite to her words. She was heartily ashamed now of what she had said, but somehow when she was in his presence, she couldn't help heaping coals upon his head. He had started it, after all. She would have been civil to him if he had only been civil to her.

"He is the most handsome man I have ever beheld," Helena said.

Beatha turned to her in shock, wondering if Helena could read her mind. Knowing that another woman had admired Edmund, even from afar, left her with an odd feeling in her stomach.

"Dragons are also handsome," Beatha replied, collecting herself, "and equally to be avoided." Then she spoke an old childhood rhyme, "Men were deceivers ever; one foot in sea, and one on shore, to one thing constant never."

"He is too young to be a deceiver," Helena said softly, "His countenance is too open, too honest."

Lady Beatha blinked.

"I know him a little. We used to play together when we were children. But now he is so changed!" Helena turned to Beatha eagerly. "Do you have some level of acquaintance with him?"

She was not referring to King Edmund, then. Beatha took a stab in the dark. She remembered that Helena had been sitting across from Lord Claude at dinner.

"With Claude?" she asked, "Not at all."

Helena deflated, "Oh well."

"My brother does and speaks of him fondly," Beatha continued, "But I always thought him a dunderhead myself."

"Oh," Helena said again, then brightened, "But you hate all men and are predisposed to think him foolish."

"I do not hate all men," Beatha replied crisply, rising from her chair, "I distrust them. Most of them, when they see a beautiful woman, behave like dogs at dinnertime; then their eyes wander as they search for their next meal. Lord Claude knows you hardly at all, yet he made eyes at you all evening."

"Oh," Helena said for the third time, "You saw?"

"I did," Beatha replied, then after a moment of hesitation, continued: "There are some men who are beyond reproach… my brother… King Peter, I believe is one."

"Why do you hate King Edmund so much?" Helena asked impulsively.

Beatha became still, gazing at an indeterminate spot on the floor. "I do not hate him," she replied at last.

"Then what evil genius drives you to call a man hideous to his face?" Helena asked.

"Helena," Beatha said, suddenly turning, "Do not use my behavior as a guide. You know me, I cannot help but taunt and make fun. I say what is in my mind at all times. I do not care what others think of me."

"King Edmund is always spoken of in the highest terms and with the greatest honor," Helena pressed her, "It puzzles me why you should find him so repellent."

"Even the most excellent man you have ever known can have flaws, can suddenly reveal feet of clay," Beatha said softly, then she remembered herself and said more flippantly: "Perhaps, Helena, our minds are too similar. Perhaps we naturally repel like magnets."

"Magnets can also be irresistibly drawn together," Helena said.

Beatha laughed. "Helena," she said, "You have been carried away by the wonder of being admired by a handsome young man. Not everyone finds love so straight-forward; not everyone has your kind heart."

Production Note: This chapter is late because the cast of Much Ado About Everything staged a strike to protest unfair working conditions. They claim that they have been repeatedly served lukewarm coffee.