Summary
As Gwen faces her first dawn without Arthur, friendships soften the burden of ruling alone.
Chapter 60 The Absence of Footsteps
Gwen stirred awake, her first conscious breath catching in her throat, in that moment between sleep and waking when loss hadn't yet remembered itself. She reached across the empty space where Arthur should have been, her hand finding instead Jacinth's sleeping form, her friend's copper hair spilling across Arthur's pillow. The wrongness of it pierced her heart, unleashing a flood of memories, each one a fresh wound: the assailants materializing in their peaceful glade, Arthur's body thrown against the tree, the attack that had nearly claimed both her life and their child's.
The agony of yesterday's ordeal gripped like a vise – the hours that followed blurred into a haze – the inner circle meeting, the royal announcement, the council deliberations, Cinth's arrival. She had somehow maintained her composure through it all, drawing strength from the secret she carried beneath her heart. Now, in the privacy of their chambers, her hand pressed protectively over her belly, tears leaked down the side of her face.
"A son for Arthur," she wept in the night air, the words carrying the weight of a thousand hopes – their firstborn, their heir, perhaps their only child if fate proved cruel. Why hadn't she told him? She'd been so careful, wanting to be certain, wanting the perfect moment. Even yesterday in that peaceful glade, she'd planned to share her joy, to watch his face light up with wonder as it had when she'd first agreed to be his wife. The memory of his tender touches, his whispered declarations of love, his hands unconsciously protective over the very place where their child grew – all of it now tainted by cruel timing and hesitation. No answer satisfactory, the question burned in her throat with fresh tears that wanted—needed—to be shed.
In the darkness, her fingers traced circles on her stomach, where their prince grew unaware of how desperately the kingdom already needed him. Yet other questions plagued her thoughts – the whispers of magic she felt stirring within, how she would reveal this gift to Arthur when they found him, how they would eventually share this news with a kingdom already burdened by uncertainty...
A soft movement beside her drew Gwen from her thoughts as Jacinth stirred, prompting her to swiftly dry her tears. Last night, they'd sought refuge in memories of Longstead – of washing clothes by the stream, of Mary's herb garden, of simpler days together. But even those memories led back to Arthur, how he'd discerned her fondness of the young maiden and arranged for her travel here under the protection of knights. "You need someone you can trust completely," he'd said. "Let's bring her to court."
Gwen had imagined this so differently – showing Jacinth the wonders of Camelot herself – the grandeur of the citadel, the bustle of the towns, the magnificent sweep of the castle gardens. Perhaps in time, as Arthur had suggested, Jacinth might even become her first lady-in-waiting, a trusted companion to help navigate court life. But these weren't gentler times. Jacinth's first day had been marked by chaos and grief – a missing king, a queen being tested, and protocols that must seem as foreign as a distant land to a village girl.
She exhaled softly, finding no comfort in the chamber's silence save for Jacinth's steady breathing. Even her friend's gentle presence couldn't fill the hollow spaces Arthur had left – spaces that echoed with his footsteps, his laughter, his very being. Each breath seemed to mark the growing distance between her and her husband, each moment stealing happiness from their future together.
Careful not to disturb Jacinth's rest, Gwen eased out the bed, her feet seeking the familiar comfort of her slippers. The simple habit brought an ache – how many times had Arthur teased her about wearing them, even in summer's heat? Tears came unbidden as she crossed to the window, each sob muffled against her hands like secrets too painful to voice. She wept not just for herself, but for Camelot bereft of its king, for the innocent life stirring beneath her heart – their child who might grow up knowing their father only through stories and memories.
Behind her, Jacinth shifted in her sleep, murmuring something indistinct, and Gwen forced her tears to subside once more. Opening the window, she let the early summer breeze caress her face, cooling her. The courtyard's usual morning bustle seemed muted, as if even the very stones mourned their king's absence.
"Your father will come back to us," she promised softly, pale light touching her face. Something steelier than hope began to displace Gwen's grief, and she clung to those words like a lifeline – they were all that stood between her and despair. The crown of Camelot demanded more than tears – it demanded strength. For Arthur, for their kingdom, for the child who would carry their legacy.
Moving away from the window, Gwen crossed to her vanity and settled onto the cushioned stool. Grateful now for Master Leonard's foresight, she reached for the small vial of rosewater he'd pressed into her hand after examining her. The court physician might lack Gaius's years of experience, but his remedies proved just as effective. Working quietly so as not to wake Jacinth, she spent the next quarter hour with cloths soaked in his special mixture cooling her swollen eyes. The naysayers who questioned a commoner queen would search her face for any sign of weakness. They would find none.
The morning bells pierced the silence, and Jacinth stirred at their sonorous call. "Gwen?" she asked softly, uncertainty coloring her voice, blinking owlishly at the unfamiliar canopy above her. She then sat up with a start. "Should I... I mean, would you prefer I return to my chambers?"
Gwen was already beside her. "Stay," she murmured, a fragile smile softening her features as she reached for her friend. "Please." Jacinth nodded at Gwen's gentle tug to rise just as the familiar measured knock of servants sounded at her door. "Enter," she called, returning to her vanity, noting how Jacinth hastily smoothed her new nightgown, her hands fidgeting with the fine fabric.
"Good morning, Queen Guinevere," George announced from the other side of the privacy screen, customarily entering first with several trays of food, every movement a study in servile perfection. In the month since replacing Merlin, he'd transformed their morning routine into a precisely orchestrated ritual. Without a word, he disappeared behind the screen, the soft clink of dishes the only betrayal of his presence. Arthur had grumbled about missing Merlin's cheerful chatter, but even he had admitted that George's efficiency was beyond reproach.
Sefa followed in his wake, her steps no longer carrying that touch of doubt. She came behind the screen with Jacinth's chosen gown, its deep green fabric catching the morning light as she hung it on the divider. "Good morning, my lady," she said softly, dipping into a practiced curtsy.
"Just a few braids today, Sefa."
"Yes, my queen." As she began gathering Gwen's curls at the vanity, she offered a warm smile to Jacinth, who wandered to her new gown, gazing at it with as much curiosity as watching Gwen's morning ritual. "My lady Jacinth, I'll attend to you after breakfast."
Jacinth flushed at the title, much as she had during yesterday's fumbling attempts at protocol. "Oh! I... that's very kind, but I'm not a lady."
"You're a friend of Queen Guinevere. That makes you a lady."
"Oh dear—"
The rest of her protest faded as Gwen's attention drifted inward, to yesterday. The sight of fallen guards, their broken bodies, the flowing ribbons of blood – she couldn't leave them there. Merlin had used magic to tend to them, gently draping their bodies with the same blankets that had witnessed her last peaceful moments with Arthur. Their sobering return had rippled through the castle like frost claiming summer blooms, and Arthur's absence had turned whispers to shouts before she could even shape the words of formal announcement.
Sefa tucked the last braided strand and Gwen rose to stand before the full mirror, removing her sleeping wear and stepping into her crimson gown. Had it truly been only hours since her bodice was heavy with blood, the phantom pain of Mordred's blade still burning in her side? She reached under her breast, could almost feel it again – the cold steel. She remembered her desperate plea for her child's life, the terror that had gripped her heart before darkness claimed her. Why? she wondered. Why had he hesitated? Why didn't his blade strike true? Her lip trembled. Her fists clinched. Gwen was grateful that he had not.
"My lady?" Sefa's hands stilled on the laces, concern threading through her voice.
"I'm fine," Gwen breathed, forcing steadiness into her voice despite her white-knuckled fists. She forced her fingers to relax, smoothing her skirts with deliberate care. In the mirror, she saw Jacinth move closer, bare feet silent as she approached. "Just... remembering."
Jacinth reached her side, hesitant, then placed a warm hand on her shoulder. The gesture was so like their days in Longstead – comfort freely given, untainted by ceremony – that Gwen had to blink back fresh tears.
"Thank you, Sefa," she whispered, her gaze fixed on her reflection.
"Your breakfast is served, my ladies," George announced with meticulous precision, each word carrying the same measured cadence that had first caught Arthur's attention – though her husband's amusement at such fastidious service had faded to quiet appreciation over the past month.
Gwen emerged from behind the screen, followed by Jacinth and Sefa. Every corner of their chambers pulsed with memory: the maps scattered across his desk, Excalibur's empty scabbard draped over his chair, his privacy screen concealing a closet of leather and linen and steel. Their chairs in front of the hearth. Each reminder hollowed the ache of his absence deeper into her heart.
She gaze swept over the long table, where steam rose from covered dishes like morning mist. Usually Arthur would already be there, studying reports while stealing bites between pages. Now his chair stood silent at the table's head, the floor beneath it undisturbed where his boots should have scuffed the floor in his habitual morning restlessness. Their morning meals together had been precious – a quiet refuge before the day's duties claimed them.
Taking Jacinth's hand, she guided her friend to the table, gestured to the chair opposite hers. "Please," she said softly to Jacinth, who settled awkwardly into the chair. Gwen smiled as she took her customary seat beside Arthur's. At least in her new nightgown, hair still tousled from sleep, her friend might find some peace in these quiet morning moments, even if she didn't understand protocol.
Food appeared before them as George moved with practiced grace – fresh bread warm enough to release wisps of steam, autumn pears whose sweetness caught in the air, meats arranged just so. Gwen merely stirred her bowl of porridge with a hint of honey and cinnamon, but her appetite was as distant as her missing husband.
"You know," she said softly, staring into her bowl, "Arthur hates porridge." Present tense, because she couldn't bear to use past. "When we were in Ealdor many years ago, Merlin's mother Hunith served it every morning – it was all they could offer with their limited means. Arthur would try to hide his distaste, pushing it around his bowl, pretending to eat it." She paused, the memory warming her despite everything. "I had to finish his portions to avoid offending our hostess. Later, I gave him quite the scolding about being grateful for what humble folk could share."
Jacinth leaned forward, her eyes as bright as her smile, her spoon hovering over her own bowl. "What did he say?"
"Nothing at first. He just looked at me, really looked at me. I was so frightened. It was the first time I'd ever truly scolded him." Gwen's fingers traced the rim of her bowl. "But he said that I was right and he was wrong. I realized then I was falling in love with him – not because he was a prince who could take criticism from a servant, but because I saw him trying to be better, to understand a world so different from his own."
In the growing silence with only the gentle clink of their spoons and whisper of servants around them, the memory slipped away like water through her fingers, leaving only the cooling porridge before her and thoughts splintering in all directions: Merlin and the knights soon to be combing King's Woods, Galahad's search for traitors, council members arguing like crows over carrion. Her brother Elyan's betrayal cut deep too, while new threats gathered like storm clouds on the horizon. So many tasks loomed before her, yet one question eclipsed all others: Arthur, my love... where are you?
A knock interrupted George's quiet clearing of the table. When he opened the door to reveal Fredrick, Jacinth's face lit up.
"Fredrick!" she exclaimed, half-rising before remembering herself. She sank back into her chair, flushing, but her smile remained bright beneath her hesitation. Gwen caught the slight stiffening of Fredrick's shoulders at Jacinth's enthusiasm – she'd seen that same tension in his bearing yesterday, each time her young friend's admiration became too apparent.
"Good morning, Gwen," he said warmly, though his gaze took in both women, and a weak smile touched his weathered features at Jacinth's greeting. He nodded to her. "Mistress Jacinth."
Gwen rose, setting aside one worry for a more immediate concern, her brow furrowing. "Fredrick, I distinctly remember ordering you to take two days' rest after your long journey." She crossed to him, concern threading through her voice. "You should be home, recovering your strength."
"With respect, my lady." He shifted his weight, that familiar stubborn set returning to his jaw. "A few hours' sleep is rest enough."
"Is that so?" Gwen's voice carried equal measures of affection and exasperation. "What are the standing orders for extended missions?" She was quite familiar with those orders since having a prince for consort and a knighted brother.
"Well," Fredrick hedged, running a hand over his chin, contemplating his response as Sefa subtly maneuvered Jacinth behind the changing screen. "Standing orders grant rest, but I've seen Arthur—"
"Arthur's a poor example, and you know it," she admonished, guiding him toward the hearth where flames danced in their morning ritual. "I could never get him to rest enough after missions, but you're not him and you've been gone nearly two weeks." Behind them, she heard Jacinth's muffled protest about being perfectly capable of combing her own hair, followed by Sefa's patient murmur about adding a few braids. "Take respite. I insist."
As they settled near the fire, Gwen caught Fredrick's furtive glance toward the screen, where whispered conversation and muffled giggles drifted across the space. His discomfort brought a fleeting smile to her lips, but she knew it was time to address what they'd both been avoiding.
"She admires you," she whispered, finding brief refuge in this moment of normalcy.
Fredrick's shoulders stiffened. "Gwen," he muttered, clearly mortified, "she's barely more than a child."
"Who spent five days regaling Gwaine with tales of your heroic rescue, I'm sure," Gwen replied softly.
"She won't listen to reason," Fredrick hissed under his breath, color creeping up his neck – a sight that made Gwen forget her troubles for a moment. The usually composed soldier looked positively flustered. "I've tried telling her a dozen times during our journey that Sir Galahad was the true hero that day. He's the one who used his magic to defeat Helios' men, cleared the path for our escape. I merely—"
"Merely opened her cage and carried her to freedom?" Gwen finished softly, Fredrick burying his face in a palm with a muffled groan of exasperation.
"That's exactly what I mean!" His whisper turned almost desperate. Behind them, Jacinth's voice rose about not being able to breath. "She's built this... this fantasy around that one moment. Won't hear a word about Galahad's part in it all. Every time I tried to explain during our journey, she'd just smile and say 'but you were the one who came for me.'" He ran a hand through his graying hair, looking more discomposed than Gwen had ever seen him. "For heaven's sake, Gwen, the girl compares me to knights in the bards' tales!"
A giggle escaped Gwen despite herself, her amusement matching that of watching Jacinth's attempts yesterday to recall proper protocol. "And that's so terrible?" she couldn't help asking, though she knew she shouldn't tease him.
"I'm old enough to be her father! More than!" The words came out in a strangled whisper. "Please, you must say something to her. Help her understand that I'm not the one for her. She'll listen to you."
Gwen studied his pleading expression, touched by his obvious distress. This man who'd faced countless battles, stood watch through the long hours, protected her in the dark days and rescued hundreds of captives, was completely undone by a young girl's innocent adoration. But what could she say to Jacinth that wouldn't wound her friend's tender heart?
"I'll see what I can do," Gwen said, leaning closer with a smile she couldn't quite hide, her voice gentle with understanding, "But Fred, sometimes the heart sees what it wishes to see. You were her knight that day – gallant, brave, her deliverer from darkness. Though..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Perhaps time and Camelot will reveal other possibilities. Other heroes within these very halls."
Fredrick sagged with relief, but before he could respond, a small commotion arose from behind the screen. "There!" Sefa announced triumphantly. "Now you look every bit a lady of the court."
Jacinth emerged resplendent from behind the screen, her copper hair swept up in a few delicate braids that softened her features. The deep green of her gown brought out flecks of gold in her eyes as she hesitantly smoothed the silk skirts. Her timid smile bloomed as her gaze found Fredrick, who immediately straightened, his face carefully composed once more. The change was so abrupt that Gwen had to press her fingers to her lips to keep from laughing.
"These shoes," Jacinth murmured, wobbling slightly. Gwen rose from her seat, and Fredrick followed suit with quiet grace as she crossed to her friend. Taking Jacinth's hands in hers, she guided her with careful steps around the room. "The heels… must I—wear them?" Jacinth made it halfway across the chamber before stopping to adjust the unfamiliar bodice, tugging at the laces. "This gown… tight…"
"You'll grow accustomed to them," Gwen assured her with a sympathetic smile as Sefa moved to help adjust the gown's laces. She remembered her own early days when her wardrobe truly changed, the strange weight of fine fabrics and stiff corsets.
A knock sounded at the door. Gwen continued helping Jacinth find her balance while George crossed the chamber. When he returned, his approach drew her attention. "My lady," he said, bowing. "A letter for you."
The parchment was of fine quality, smooth beneath her fingers, yet bound with only a simple tie and no seal – an odd combination that stood out among the usual formal missives. She pulled the tie free.
Sister—
The single word knocked the air from her lungs. The parchment crumpled in her grip as the world tilted, only Sefa's steady hand at her elbow keeping her upright. Sister – how could one word carry such weight? Such threat? Such hope?
"What is it, Gwen?" Fredrick's voice cut through her shock, all previous discomfort seeming forgotten as he shifted seamlessly back into his role as protector. "News of Arthur?"
She met his concerned gaze, aware of Jacinth standing next to her, the girl's earlier happiness fading as the atmosphere changed. Sefa had stilled as well, her hand dropping to her side.
"No," Gwen managed finally, her pulse drumming in her ears. "No, but I—" She drew a steadying breath. "I need a moment alone. Please, all of you, wait outside."
Only when the door sealed her from their worried faces did she unfold the message. The elegant strokes of her brother's hand seemed at odds with their fractured relationship, each careful letter a reminder of choices made and trust broken.
Sister, I know things between us are strained, but I need to see you. There are matters we must discuss, away from prying eyes. Meet me at the place where we used to play as children, two days hence. At dusk. Please, sister, come alone.
The abandoned watchtower. Memory stirred like autumn leaves – she and Elyan, still new to Camelot, scrambling through crumbling corridors with other craftsmen's children and she trying to keep her younger brother in sight. Despite the warnings of their parents, they'd perch on the parapet to watch merchants and travelers pass below, listening to the other children, wistful of the lives they'd left behind at Meadow Manor, and dreaming of new adventures to come in the great city. From its highest point, the world had seemed endless, full of promise. Now that same tower beckoned with darker purpose.
She read the message once more, each word taking on new shadows. Elyan's urgency, his insistence on secrecy – they twisted in her mind like serpents. Her fingers traced the graceful lines of the letters as memories of his recent coldness, his anger, mingled with whispers of unrest in the city's depths.
Elyan wanted to meet alone, yet her trust in him wavered. Through the heavy door, she could hear the low murmur of Fredrick's voice, probably reassuring Jacinth and Sefa. Her faithful protector was mere steps away – she knew she would need to share this with him and the knights soon. And yet, did she want to break her brother's trust before they could even begin to repair it?
Gwen pressed her palm against the cool stone wall, seeking anchor as the morning's burdens multiplied. Arthur torn from her side, Camelot's foundation trembling beneath her feet, and now her own brother emerging from silence with words that promised both hope and danger. She just needed time...
Yet queens could not afford the luxury of doubt. Each crisis demanded grace, each challenge required wisdom – and now more than ever, Camelot needed its queen steady and sure. She folded the letter with precise movements, each crease as sharp as the choices before her. The parchment disappeared beneath her bodice, close to her heart where its secrets could stay hidden until she decided their worth. Drawing herself up, she let the mantle of sovereignty settle over her like armor, piece by piece, until Queen Guinevere emerged ready to face whatever the day might bring.
Opening the door, she found exactly what she'd expected: Fredrick standing alert, one hand resting on his sword hilt; Jacinth pressed close to Sefa, worry creasing both their brows; George hovering discretely in the background, ready to attend any need.
"Sefa," Gwen said, pleased at how steady her voice sounded, "why don't you show Jacinth to the southeastern garden. She'll find the herbs there familiar, I think." She managed a small smile for her friend. "Perhaps you can help the gardeners with their organization – they never quite get it right."
The transparent attempt to make Jacinth feel useful worked – her friend's face brightened slightly. As Sefa led her away, Gwen turned to George. "Bring Arthur's schedule to my office. I'll need to see which matters require immediate attention."
George bowed. "Right away."
"And George, summon my seamstress," she added, her fingers brushing the hidden letter. "I'll need riding attire ready within two days." Just in case.
Alone with Fredrick, he closed the door to the royal chambers as she paused. "Gwen, what is it?" he asked, a tender touch on her arm.
Gwen met his concerned gaze, drawing strength from his steady presence. "In time," she smiled. She started down the stairwell, her steps measured and sure despite the weight of decisions pressing upon her. A queen's choices were never simple, especially when they involved matters of the heart. But she had learned to wear both crown and conscience with equal grace. She would find a way to bridge the gap between sister and sovereign, between trust and protection. Arthur would expect nothing less of her.