Fic: Wind and Running Water, Chapter 12
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12.
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Morgana gaped at Arthur. Why should he be so weak except suddenly for when it came to her?
“You murdered Lavain,” he said.
“He deserved it. I saw him kill someone. The same woman twice, in fact.”
“You’ve committed the same crime as you condemn him for.”
She shrugged. “You slaughter hundreds in battle for the crime of disagreeing with you.”
“It’s not the same.”
“You killed Mordred.”
“Accidentally.”
Arthur used to be the one person who would always listen to Morgana and do as she said, but despite her physical connection to him she could not persuade him now; the spite was enough to overwhelm the delirious feeling of power and fill up the emptiness inside her until she boiled over with ire.
“I didn’t come to argue over our respective faults. You’re no better than I am, whatever you claim, yet you have the temerity to make me beg for forgiveness? I know you, Arthur; I see everything you do. I saw you disobey your father’s wishes in magic and marriage and for what? A useless conjuror and a wife who steals away with your best friend?”
She was reverting to her old taunts, but they were effective. Arthur’s expression was like a blow to her stomach. It pierced through her smothering blanket of insipid bliss and cut straight into her heart. It was not a pleasant feeling as such, but it was certainly a feeling.
“Merlin is not-”
“Compared to me he is nothing,” said Morgana, wringing more enjoyment out of this encounter than she had expected.
“He is-”
“The greatest warlock Albion has ever seen. He has nothing on my power. Nothing.”
He looked at her wearily. “I thought you had come to reconcile, not to insult.”
“Aren’t they much the same when it comes to us?”
He ignored her question. “If you are so astoundingly powerful, why do you spend your time in petty schemes to aggravate me when you could rid the land of drought and famine? Or is this another way to engineer my demise?”
She laughed, but in pity for him, not in humour. “You’re serious? This is all my fault? Find a woman and blame her for your inability-”
“Why not?”
She sighed. “Your people are turning against each other and admit it, Arthur, you’re less than powerless to stop them. It’s not your fault, it’s just the way things are, but blaming it on me won’t help anyone.”
“You could have helped. For all your boasting of your magic you haven’t lifted a finger to help the people, though they’re dying all around of starvation.”
“Maybe I am powerful enough now. But more have died of violence than starvation, haven’t they? You know that. And whatever magic I possess I can’t stop them fighting. I can’t stop them killing each other. And neither can you.” She paused to drink in the crushed look on his face he was failing to disguise. “The famine will be over within a week. Galahad is already returning with the Grail. Of course, that alone can’t restore peace. Believe me, Arthur, your demise needs no engineering on my part. You manage pretty well all by yourself.”
She gave Arthur one last look over and vanished back to her cottage.
*
“Stop it,” said Arthur as Merlin started to rap his fingers on the table yet again.
“Stop what?” said Merlin obliviously, still tapping anxiously on the polished oak.
Arthur reached over to grab his hand. “That.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He folded his arms in front of him instead.
Arthur blinked hard and rubbed his hand over his face.
“Gwen’ll be fine,” said Merlin unhelpfully.
Arthur was about to reply irritably when the physician entered. He stood up, knocking the chair over and ignoring it.
“How is she?” he asked, and with no instant response repeated “Tarquin? How is she?”
The physician smiled at him. “She’s in good health, my lord. The best of health.”
“She didn’t appear so this morning,” he replied testily.
“No, my lord, but I believe that her Highness’ symptoms are not indicative of illness.” He paused to twitch and scratch at his nose as if it could aid his thought. “I believe, my lord, I am in the honoured position of telling you - oh, I hope I’m not mistaken - that this very minute the line of Pendragon may be seeing the beginnings of its continuation.”
Arthur stood stock still as Merlin clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Arthur! What a gift! The Grail, the end of the drought, and now this! Do you suppose it’s the Grail’s influence? Oh, but what matter… Arthur?”
The King’s shocked expression did not change, but he did murmur a response. “Yes, a gift. I had almost given up hope for a son.”
“Well,” said Tarquin, “a son, yes, perhaps, or perhaps a daughter. But now we know your wife is, my lord, is bearing children, let us all hope for a son, now or later. Now or later, my lord.”
“Yes.” Arthur set the chair right again and sat, staring into space. “Yes, now or later.”
*
Lancelot had felt guilty when he was betraying Arthur, but it was nothing to the torment of Guinevere’s unhappiness; and she had been desperately unhappy at times, though she would only ascribe it to her own faults.
He had relieved her unhappiness and thought it the right thing to do, until he had learnt of her confinement. Then his carefully constructed justifications had become starkly ridiculous to him. More was in danger than his reputation, or Guinevere’s, or Arthur’s. With the affair and more especially with a child of doubtful lineage it was Camelot itself that was in a precarious position. So here he was at Astolat, watching Elaine smile shyly at him over a banquet in his own honour. His sense of duty had triumphed over his need to see Guinevere happy and he wondered if he should be proud of that.
It would be no hardship to marry Elaine. He had not embellished in describing her to Guinevere. He found himself attracted to Elaine and admired her in every respect, though had no urge to comfort or protect her. Lancelot planned to stay at the castle a few weeks before discussing the matter with her father; perhaps proximity would foster love. If not, he could consider it penance to please Elaine with his favour. He was as sure of her love for him as he was of his own for Guinevere.
*
The baby was three days old before Arthur decided it was time to see her. His disappointment in a daughter rather than a son shrunk almost to insignificance next to a more important and as of yet unresolved question. He was not entirely sure he wished to know yet, but there would be suspicions if he neglected to see the girl for much longer.
It was Tarquin who brought the tiny infant, swaddled in red silk. “Princess Edith, my lord, here she is. A most beautiful child, if I may say it, most beautiful.”
Arthur leant forward in his throne and took her. He looked into her pale, rosy-cheeked face, feeling a great measure of relief; not total relief, for that was prevented by the doubt that he had had, the doubt that her skin would be a deep tan and her hair thick and dark. She made small mewling noises but he said nothing to her.
“What of Guinevere?”
“Her Highness is resting yet, my lord, but I don’t believe there’s any reason for concern.”
Arthur kissed his daughter’s forehead and passed her back to Tarquin, who stroked her downy hair and tickled her cheek. “Most beautiful, my lord.”
“She is. Tell my wife I shall visit her tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.” Tarquin exited, cooing and speaking nonsense to the wriggling bundle of crimson in his arms.
When Arthur came to his wife the next evening, her maid answered the door and curtseyed. “My lord.”
“Is Guinevere asleep?”
“No, my lord.” She stood aside to let him pass, her head still bowed.
“Thank you, Lettice,” he said, smiling at Guinevere, who sat upon the edge of the bed. “You’re excused.”
She gave another curtsey. “Sire. My lady.”
Arthur sat by Guinevere and tried hard to think of something to say. He heard Letty shut the door behind her.
“All that bowing and curtseying and then to be ordered about,” he said. “I don’t know how the servants cope. How you coped.”
“Some people like the simplicity of being told what to do. And not to be noticed isn’t always bad. Sometimes I yearn for that.” She smiled at him. “But then you buy me a new riding-coat…”
Arthur smiled back at her. “If you like, I could order you about a bit more.” It was meant for a joke, but it fell flat. Morgana would have laughed, he thought, and he felt oddly for a second that he might cry. Morgana would have teased him back. Guinevere, not having responded to his words, simply reached across to hug him. Sometimes he thought she loved him far too well.
*
Letty entered the small room she shared with her twelve-year-old sister, who sat at a desk with a book she had liberated from the library, copying out sentences in clumsy handwriting. Mabel was always trying to educate herself; if a manservant could become an advisor and a maidservant Queen, she was sure she could be a keeper of records. But she greeted her sister with heavy expectancy of something more lively than endless dates and dry accounts.
“I hope you bring gossip,” she said.
“The King paid my mistress a visit,” said Letty in a bored tone, settling in a chair opposite her and unlacing her shoes.
“And?”
“I don’t know. I left before they even spoke.”
“No eavesdropping then?”
Letty gave her an appalled look. Mabel sucked ruminatively at her fingers.
“He hardly visited her during her confinement, did he?”
“No, not much. But you know he’s been away.”
“Now he’s seen the baby.”
“Yes.” Letty picked up her shoes and placed them neatly in a corner.
“And now he’s visiting her.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe it’s because when…” Mabel’s half-formed thought was truncated by Letty’s glare from across the room.
All the servants knew of Lancelot and Guinevere, or suspected, or the thought had crossed their mind, but to speak of the affair directly would be blasphemy against their beloved King, their King who was fair and brave and virtuous. “And handsome,” Mabel would have added with a high-pitched giggle had she been interviewed on the subject.
Even Letty laid her principal loyalties with Arthur. Guinevere was sweet and loving even in her betrayal, and her maidservant would stand by her through a scandal, but for so many years had Uther’s name been synonymous with tyranny and Arthur’s with hope that it was engrained indelibly in her mind - Arthur was their salvation.
Though there were troubles close to home and far afield, Arthur would remain faultless throughout, even as the kingdom tore itself apart beneath him.
*
Vivian wove her way between various parties on her way across the hall. Most were trying, subtly or otherwise, to catch the conversation of that central foursome: Lancelot, now a married man, though you would not have known it for the way he stared at the Queen; her Majesty, gaze fixed conscientiously on her husband; Lancelot’s bride, the Fair Elaine, living up to her title even through the sombre cast of her features; and the King himself, looking very much as if would rather be anywhere else in the world.
Though the group was obviously the focus of the room’s attention, Vivian found Merlin and tugged on his sleeve, leaning up to whisper to him: “This is a bit uncomfortable.”
When his brow creased - you weren’t meant to point these things out! - she whispered again, her breath catching against his earlobe.
“Uncomfortably hot, is what I mean. Fancy a stroll?”
She led him over to the gardens, where they walked along the perimeter of one of the larger quadrangles. A three-branched candlestick floated to their left, by Merlin’s shoulder.
“I could have gone for an orb. But candlelight’s prettier, don’t you think?”
“Oh, much,” said Vivian, letting her hand brush against his.
“I do admire beauty,” he said awkwardly. His pace had slackened, and Vivian noticed that up ahead there was a curved marble bench below a fountain - not just any fountain, but one where the water spurted from the tip of a frozen Cupid’s arrow, aimed downwards in the direction of the bench. She walked faster and turned the corner tightly to give it a wide berth.
“Is something the matter?” asked Merlin.
“Oh, no. I was just wondering… you have been keeping Excalibur safe, haven’t you?”
He blinked at the non-sequitur. “Well, mostly Arthur has it, and he does get a bit touchy when people mess with his things. If someone tried to take Excalibur they’d probably find themselves on the wrong end of it pretty sharpish.” He grinned at his own joke.
“But he doesn’t have it all the time? He didn’t have it just now.”
“No, not always.”
“Is it kept in the armoury, then?”
Merlin was slowing down again. He touched his hand to her arm. “Why so many questions? We’re keeping it safe, I promise you. Now… let’s just enjoy the evening. Look at the stars.”
Vivian gave a brief glance skywards. “It’s a bit cloudy.”
Merlin chuckled. “Ah, well.”
*
Unable to sleep, Guinevere left her husband’s side and tiptoed out into the corridor. She went to the window but saw only darkness outside.
She had met Lady Elaine for the first time today and she was, as Lancelot and many others had had told her, extraordinarily beautiful: very slender, with delicate features and hair shining like burnished copper. If only she would smile. But Arthur said she had not been the same since the death of her brother four years ago. Four years since Morgana had become an official enemy of Camelot - could it really be so long ago?
Guinevere shuddered inwardly and tried to think of other things. Whenever she thought of Morgana there was a heavy, sick feeling in her gut.
She and Arthur were talking again - not that they had not been talking before, as such, but she had been sure he was avoiding her. He had far more important things to worry about, she knew, but she had sometimes felt he was not even trying to make time for her. Now he made time, but whenever they were together it all felt forced, as though she were holding him back from something else he should or would rather be doing.
How ironic, she thought, that it was the moment Lancelot had left that her relationship with Arthur had begun to fall apart.
“When I can’t sleep, I like to read.”
Guinevere startled a little at Merlin’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” he said and came to stand with her by the window. “I was heading for the library, if you wanted to come.”
“No thanks, I’m too tired.” It was not that Guinevere was unable to read, but it required effort on her part and she had never found any enjoyment in it.
“Where were you earlier?” she asked. “After dinner, I mean.” Merlin’s presence at the table had made everything considerably less awkward, but afterwards he had disappeared and she had been left with Lancelot making eyes at her and Arthur and Elaine competing to be the most sullen.
“I went for a walk with Vivian,” said Merlin. He looked to her as if for comment, but Guinevere was not in a mood for teasing and especially not for being teased. She nodded and then yawned loudly.
Merlin yawned as well. “Oh, you’ve got me at it too,” he said cheerfully. He patted her shoulder affectionately. “G’night, Gwen.”
“Night, Merlin,” she murmured as he bounded off down the corridor, wondered vaguely how he did it so silently, and then retired to bed once more.
*
Merlin brought Vivian to the next council meeting.
“I have seen that there is more pain and suffering by Morgana’s hand,” said Vivian.
“What do you mean?” asked Arthur. “Be specific.”
“It’s hard to be specific when my dreams are so vague, sire, but they suggest that she will be ruthless in enacting what she believes to be justice, whether it’s charity or murder.”
“I could have told you that,” said Bedevere.
“Quiet!” Arthur insisted. “Let her speak.”
Vivian shrugged. “She has nothing to lose, my lord, neither her life nor her reputation. Not that I’ve ever had the pleasure, but her actions strike me as those of someone who doesn’t care what people think of her as long as they think something.”
“They certainly think something,” said Tor. “They’re terrified.”
“We can’t say it hasn’t been useful to us, though,” said Merlin. “Terrified people are ones who stay indoors rather than impale their neighbour with a pitchfork over something that happened years ago.”
There were mutterings around the table. “A pitchfork?” Arthur mouthed and Merlin gave a nod and a mock shudder.
Vivian spoke again, impatient. “I’m not sure she’s invincible, my lord.”
Every head in the room whipped round to stare and with a full, rapt audience she continued. “The sword Excalibur. It’s effective against many magical creatures.”
The attention shifted to Arthur. “She’s not a ‘magical creature’,” he said. “I don’t know why you imply it.”
Vivian affected surprise. “My lord, she’s not fully human.”
It seemed for a moment that no one would breathe until Arthur responded, but he took his time and soon there were shuffling feet and uncomfortable glances.
“Whatever the case may be,” he said finally, “there is no way we could overpower her for any useful length of time.”
“Or,” said Merlin quietly, “or for any time at all, really.”
*
To Chapter 13