(no subject)
Gwen was a little surprised to see Rebecca and Lizzie in her room when she returned there after putting Morgana to bed but she was more surprised to see three boxes in the corner of her room.
“Dresses,” Rebecca said. “At least I think so, Adam saw the seamstress’s boy bring the boxes up.”
“Open them then,” Lizzie urged.
“Bloody wait a minute,” Rebecca said, elbowing her friend. From her apron pocket she pulled a small bottle of mead. “For the birthday girl. Go on Gwen, take a swig.” Gwen didn’t really like mead but she appreciated the thought. Before, she’d never spent enough time in the castle to make friends and enemies like the rest of the staff. Most of the time she spent up here was spent with Morgana. It was different now, of course, a lot of things were different which is why she was, for the first time in her life, spending her birthday in the castle.
She took a swig and moved towards the packages. She’d expected something like this from Morgana, of course, but it was unlike her to be so over the top, or so thoughtless. One dress she could explain as the gift of an indulgent mistress, three was another matter. She wouldn’t give up her relationship with Morgana for anything, of course, but it did make things more difficult, especially now that the castle contained her whole life and her house in the town only held her past.
***
“Why aren’t you wearing it, Gwen? Didn’t you like it?” it’s one of the many things she loved about Morgana that the question wasn’t an accusation but an honest inquiry.
“Oh no, it’s not that, my Lady.” She went to stand behind the seated woman and began to brush out her hair.
“If it’s too soon, Gwen - you can tell me. By the end of my first year in Camelot Uther was at the end of his tether, trying to get me to put aside dresses that were several inches too short and beginning to fray and put on something more fitting to my station. The dresses my father gave me were falling apart before I finally stopped wearing them.”
“Oh no, it’s not that either. Not that I don’t miss him, of course I do .” She looked at Morgana’s reflection. “But you mustn’t think I’m unhappy-”
Morgana cut her off, saving her from having to explain further. “Then what is it?”
She was glad her blush didn’t show. It was so stupid. “It’s so much fancier than what I’m used to wearing, and it’s different, putting a dress on yourself, than it is dressing someone else.”
Morgana laughed, cool and warm at once, like the aqua vitae Gaius had made her drink for shock once.
“Come,” Morgana called over her shoulder, heading towards Gwen’s own chamber.
“Oh, my Lady, I’m really not sure you should be doing this,” Gwen said, even as she pushed the loose fabric of her over dress off her shoulders and stepped out of it.
“Nonsense, Gwen. You help me dress every day, why shouldn’t I help you in turn.” Gwen sighed and pulled off her blouse, lifting her arms to allow Morgana to drop the cool cotton of her new dress over her head. She squirmed a little, Morgana’s fingers were much colder than the fabric and they lingered on her back as they pulled the laces tighter. It didn’t stop her, though, from leaning back into the touch.
***
“They’re from the Lady Morgana,” Gwen said, opening the uppermost box.
“Oh no, they aren’t. At least not all of them. Look at the seal on the next box.” Lizzie sounded excited and both she and Rebecca rushed over to grab Morgana’s gift and move it out of the way before Gwen had time to see more than purple and embroidery. Oh, she thought, looking down at the seal on the box, I’m going to need to explain this.
***
Gwen tried, very hard, not to lie. Sometimes she thought she was the only person in the whole castle who could say that. So she couldn’t hide, even from herself, the reasons she waited to wear this dress until a time Morgana would be gone from the castle for most of the day. It’s not that she wouldn’t explain, if she was asked, but if she did, it would become something else, something about Morgana and not about her at all.
***
“His Highness has been arguing with the Lady Morgana, more than usual, recently,” she said, hoping the small indiscretion would divert questions. “She has been returning his gifts.” The embroidery frame had been more of a goad than a gift but he had given it to her and she had thrown it back at him. “He obviously thought that he should find another way to impress her with his generosity.” They were satisfied with the explanation and began to discuss what the Lady Morgana’s own dress would be like, on the day she married the heir to Camelot. Gwen focused on the gorgeous yellow silk and didn’t tell them she was beginning to think that that particular marriage would never take place. She saw the way the King looked at his ward sometimes and what she saw scared her.
***
“Guinevere,” Arthur called. She should have been more careful and picked a day when he was out of the castle as well as Morgana.
“Sire,” she said curtsying. Her arms were full Morgana’s clothes, fresh from the laundry.
“I trust your birthday was satisfactory,” he said. Well, at least now she knew he could recognise his dress, even if she wasn’t sure he’d organised it himself and not just delegated it to Merlin.
“Yes, Sire.” She kept her eyes on the floor, as was proper and didn’t rise from the curtsy. A corridor in the palace was not the same as a clearing in Ealdor and she, at least, remembered that. She waited until he was past to straighten up.
“Gwen.” She turned towards the sound of his voice. “I’m-” She thought, for one horrified moment he was going to say he was sorry, for her father and his father and the whole thing and she knew she’d cry if he did. Maybe he realised that, because after a pause he started again.
“I’m glad the dress fits.” It wasn’t the greatest conversational gambit but she’d seen the way he could get things terribly wrong when he tried to talk to people as a man and not a Prince. “It’s very becoming.”
He looked at her, waiting for an answer and waiting for something else as well. She realised he was nervous and had to suppress a smile. He was too used to talking to Morgana and he’d never been able to work out which compliments were acceptable to her and which were not. Gwen wondered what Arthur’s future wife would make of having a husband whose responses to women were so clearly shaped by his formidable not-quite-sister. She chided herself for her own foolishness. The King was too cunning to allow another strong-willed lady of Camelot. Arthur’s wife would be a proper noble woman. She would smile at Morgana and take her advice and bide her time until she could ensue a far off marriage for the King’s ward.
“Thank you, Sire. It’s a lovely dress.”
“You wear yellow. I, ah, I mean I noticed you wear yellow.” Arthur really was rubbish at talking to women. Maybe she should say something to Morgana. She was fairly sure the other woman had never meant to break him permanently. “I noticed once that you wear yellow. I haven’t been watching or anything.”
“I do. Wear yellow, I mean. Yellow and red.” She was no better that Arthur when it came to babbling but at least she had the excuse of being a servant rather than the most eligible man in Camelot. Of course Arthur had had the sense to choose yellow and not send her an expensive gown in his own colour. He smiled at her, a proper smile rather than a court one and the eye contact had already gone on too long by the time she realised she should break it. “I should probably get on, Sire. With your permission, of course.”
“Good day, Guinevere.” Arthur bowed, slightly, like he would have done for a lady and Gwen turned on her heels and fled. She slowed and could feel herself smile. It was a very becoming dress.
***
The other girls sighed over Arthur’s dress but there was one package left and their delight in seeing something that had come from the Prince’s own hands wasn’t enough to stop their curiosity for long.
“Oh,” Rebecca’s sigh was half wonder, half fear. The seal on the final package was the King’s own. Gwen undid the wrapping with a steady hand and shook out the dress contained within. Aware of the other women in the room, she looked at the dress and even managed a tight smile before she wrapped it back up and passed the mead bottle back to Lizzie. Later, when she was alone she tossed the King’s dress into the corner and hung the other two next to her own, plainer dresses. Before she blew out her candle that night she retrieved the black velvet from the floor.
***
The King clearly wished to limit the damage this would do to his relationship with his son so Gwen was allowed out of her cell and back to the room she’d thought of as hers to dress before being brought before the Court. Despite Merlin’s attempts at comfort, she knew she would be charged with bewitching the King’s son. For the past year Camelot had been the site of an uneasy truce. Arthur and Morgana had not openly defied the King and in return, he had not forced their hand. In truth, they should have realised something was wrong when Morgana had been sent to visit the court of Uriens as part of the ongoing negotiations for her marriage but all of them; Arthur, Morgana, Merlin, even Gwen herself, had grown too used to the ceasefire to see the danger.
They had seen it, a fortnight later, with Morgana safely out of the way in Wales, when at least half of the knights most loyal to Arthur had been sent to relieve the border forts. By then it had been too late. She hadn’t seen Arthur since her arrest, and Merlin still tried to keep from her those things that he thought would hurt her. Still the guards talked. Morgana, it seemed, was being held at Uriens’ court, no less a prisoner than Gwen despite the outward show that she was there as an honoured guest and Uriens future wife. Arthur was confined to a windowless suite in the castle, guarded by the King’s own sworn men.
As she searched through her wardrobe, she remembered a story her father used to tell, about a princess with three acorns, each containing a dress more beautiful than the last. She was no princess, but as she pulled the King’s gift over her head and patted the black velvet into place the memory of the story gave her strength. She’d never been sure why the King had sent the gown - remorse, apology or simply a gesture to his ward’s faithful servant from a man who’d know loss of his own. She’d never worn it and she wondered whether he would even recognise it now. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that whatever compassionate thought had prompted him to send it would save her, but if this was to be the day of her death, it was time to face Uther clothed in truth.