The Wife 6/?
Title: The Wife 6/?
Author:tudor_rose445
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings:Arthur, Guinevere, Morgana, Uther, Merlin, Gaius, Arthur/Guinevere,
Spoilers: Seasons 1-3
Disclaimer: I own nothing. BBC owns "Merlin".
Summary: AU. As the wife of the prince Gwen knows that she is destined to one day rule beside him. Yet the road to the throne will not be simple. Talks of an heir looming above her, the growing worry over Morgana, Uther's ill health, and her confusion over her spouse will not help in the slightest. Yet her trials are nesecary to grow into her title as 'wife' to one of legend's most famous kings. The second entry in "The Once and Future" series.
Chapter 6:
Good news is followed by bad for the princess.
Author's Note:
This is, by far, my favorite chapter that I've written for this fic, which might seem a bit strange after you read it. But the last few sentences will make you understand, I hope. I've never written anything like it with such emotions and it was interesting to try it. I threw a lot at you in this one, and I'm actually expecting a bit of hate. But...? Maybe I should just let you decide for yourself.
Thanks!
“I arranged a meeting with the court silk merchant this afternoon and I put in an order for new embroidery thread.”
Gwen peeled back the blankets from the mattress before quickly slipping beneath them. With October looming only a few days ahead the nights had grown cooler. She slid her way across the blankets to her husband's side, taking in his warmth. She was growing less and less hesitant with touching him on her own time, despite still only initiating sex a handful of times. But that had become less frequent now that she was in her second month of pregnancy.
She had been shown to a midwife shortly after returning from Progress, after her father-in-law had announced the news. The woman had advised herself to keep from being physical with her husband for at least another month. The baby needed to take root, or that was what she had been told. She had been a little surprised that the woman had suggested keeping up a sexual relationship with her husband while she was pregnant, yet the woman had explained the benefits of it. As she had been told shortly before her wedding, a woman's womb was naturally cold, while a male's appendage was warm. Sexual relations provided her with the warmth that her husband's limb offered, which could only improve her health. If they were careful, and she refrained from having him lay across her stomach in her later months, the midwife advised that picking up such intimacy would be healthy.
Gwen shifted her thoughts to her child to combat the warmth that she was currently feeling in her cheeks at the intimate thoughts of her husband. Something akin to excitement and terror ran through her at the thought of her baby. She was anxious to see the small person currently forming in her womb. Would it look like Arthur? Or would it prove to be more Leodegrance in its features? She would love to have her son or daughter be gifted with her husband's eyes. She felt that she could spend hours looking into them without growing tired.
A son or daughter.
A son was hoped for, although she personally wouldn't be upset with a healthy daughter. Praise would be heaped upon her if she birthed a strong boy, that was clear. Yet if she gave birth to a girl, who showed no complications, she would be proven fertile. There would still be an urgency for a son, yet her daughter would prove that she could birth a healthy child, even if it was the wrong sex. There would be hidden laughs and mocking glances if she failed to birth a son, but she had rather not think of that.
She could still see the looks of approval she had gotten the night of the king's announcement over a court feast. The smiles had burned themselves into her mind along with the celebratory clapping. She had been so happy- so relieved- in that moment that she hadn't even bothered to look for the disappointed looks she knew at least one noble had been sporting that night. Why, there must be at least one noble family that had hoped that the prince would eventually put her away if she proved infertile. There was always a father, brother, or uncle waiting to push his female relation into Arthur's bed.
Yet, despite her initial worry that her longtime friend would refuse to touch her let alone sleep beside her knowing that she would swell with child, her husband had not given any of these women a second glance.
He drew her closer, allowing her to nestle into his side. Normally they spoke quietly to each other at night before drifting off, updating each other on what they had done while not in each others company. The routine had started shortly after her marriage, during her first cycle, when there was nothing that the two could do. It had evolved into something more than pleasantries to the point where she would be in the midst of relating a story to him while he was undressing her. But of course, the tale would be dropped as soon as his lips touched her skin. She had yet to finish speaking to him whenever he did that.
“I was thinking of embroidering a tapestry,” she continued, glancing up at him and trying to discern his features in the dimly lit room. The fire that had been burning brightly in their hearth earlier in the evening had steadily diminished until just the remnants of the great flame remained, leaving little light for them to see by.
“And of what?” he humored her, wrapping his finger around the unwoven tail of her braid.
“The Pendragon crest,” she answered, listening to his heartbeat as she explained.
“It will hang behind his cradle, for all to be reminded of who he will one day become.” She inclined her head to observe him through the darkness.
“I intend for it to be rather large, hoping that it will take up some time before he is born.”
He laughed, stroking her hair.
“But that will not tide you,” he predicted, tucking the coverlet so that it was more secure about her torso.
“You will stitch him a wardrobe for three children by the time he is born.”
She joined in his mirth, half-hitting his chest in a mockery of outrage.
“Shush,” she ordered, leaning her head against his chest once more. A jolt of excitement ran through her.
“My son will defend me against you.”
“My lady, the sight of our son in your arms will have me kneeling at your feet. You need not worry about me teasing you in the future.”
Feeling happiness burst in her chest she smiled in the dark, content to fall asleep.
But alas, a relaxing night was not to be for her.
With a jolt she awoke to a hurried knocking upon their chamber door. Arthur sat up quickly, nearly knocking her over in his haste. Making sure that he had not bowled over his wife he cursed lightly under his breath before heaving himself out of bed.
“Sire?!”
The sound of Merlin's voice caused her to lift the blankets nearly to her chin. If it had been one of her ladies her haste might have been unwarranted. But another man? No one else was to see her simply in her nightdress.
“What?”
Arthur's tone was harsh, but she didn't fault him for it; the way that the boy had been knocking was as if the castle was on fire.
She could see the urgency in the manservant's face by the light of the candle that he held. He looked as if he had just jumped out of bed and, estimating the time, he probably had.
“Did you realize what your ridiculousness could have done to my wife? Do you not remember her condition?”
The boy's face colored.
“Arthur...I'm sorry, really..”
“It is fine,” she interceded, prompting the two to look at her, as if remembering that she was still there.
Merlin cast his eyes away from her, thankfully remembering her state of dress.
“I'm fine,” she insisted, keeping eye contact with her husband until he turned away, secure in the fact that she and his child were not harmed from the surprise.
“Your father requests your presences, along with your wife's, in his presence chamber,” the young man explained.
“It's urgent.”
Arthur gave him a nod before sending him off to retrieve his coat. With the boy gone from the room, Gwen climbed off of the bed and slipped into her dressing gown, which she had left across her bride-gift bench earlier in the evening.
Slipping into the pair of goat-skin slippers that Batilda normally left out for her in the event that she needed to use the privy, she went to join Arthur at the door. By then he already had his brown coat about him, a serious look apparent in his eyes.
She, too, was rather nervous at what the king wished of them, especially at this time of night.
Stepping past the young man the two made their way through Arthur's dimly lit chambers, emerging into the torch-lit hall a moment later. She grabbed onto his hand as they strode down the corridor, giving it a small squeeze. He gave her a quick, grateful look before continuing to lead her to his father's chambers.
The guard posted at the door allowed them into the king's chambers without a word, which did little to allay her fears of what awaited them.
Uther was sitting before the newly-stoked fire, clad in his dressing gown, while an unkempt man sat before him upon a stool.
The first thing that struck Gwen was that the man was allowed to sit in the king's presence as, judging by his coarse and dirty clothes, he was no more than a peasant.
Yet as the man turned around to face them and met her eyes, her assessment faltered.
There was something about him...
“Guinevere?”
His voice was different than it had been, deepened with maturity. Yet his eyes, so like their father's, gave him away.
“Elyan!”
Forgetting propriety she launched herself at her brother.
She clutched him as tightly as she could, unable to believe that he was really alive and in the same room as her. To her glee he held her just as tightly.
Without having realized it tears began to stream from her eyes.
“What....how?” she questioned, finally breaking away from him enough to asses him.
He looked so different.
Puberty along with whatever hardships he had faced since she had last saw him had aged him. Yet somewhere, beneath the layers of dirt and weariness, the brother she remembered was still there.
He gently took her face into his hands, looking her over just as frantically as she was to him.
She drank him in as she committed to memory his features, afraid that he would simply fade away and that she would find that she had been dreaming the entire confrontation.
A man stood in the place of the young brother that had rode form Cameliard's that fateful morning with her father.
As she assessed him she took in the curve of his chin, so like her own, along with the smile and nose that they shared from the Lady Anice.
It wasn't possible that he was still alive.
A soft touch upon her shoulder reminded her that there were others in the room.
Quickly she looked up to see that Arthur had placed his hand upon her, a cloth handkerchief in his hand.
She murmured her thanks before dabbing at her face with the cloth before moving onto the tear tracks on her brother's face. She ignored his protest and only stood once she had finished.
“Elyan,” she began, thrilling in being able to say his name again without the morose memories that the word usually brought up, “I see that you have already been introduced to the king.”
She straightened, clearing her throat.
“May I introduce you to my husband, Prince Arthur, heir to Camelot.”
Elyan moved to bow yet the prince brushed off his formality. Instead he embraced him, clearly surprising the newly arrived noble.
But when Arthur stepped back, she found her brother smiling.
“Kin do not need to carry on with such formality,” he explained, gesturing his brother-in-law to his seat. A quick glance at the king's squire sent the boy running for another chair. Arthur gently steered his wife into it before placing both hands upon her shoulders.
“I still can't... You were dead,” she insisted, glancing to the king and then to her brother to affirm her story. It still felt like she was dreaming.
Uther shifted forward in his chair, resting his chin upon his hand as he watched the two.
“Your brother has told me the remarkable story of his survival, dear; let him tell you.”
Reaching across to grab her sibling's hand, she waited for him to begin.
“There isn't a day that goes by in which I do not relive that battle,” he spoke, squeezing his sister’s hands. “I can still see them, running out of the woods. We had been told that a renegade band had come over the border, but the men wore Cenred's arms.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“The blood.... I had seen skirmishes, but nothing like this. They gutted my father's men as if they were simply pigs at slaughter time. He fought them off as best as he could but there were far too many.”
He seemed to reluctantly open his eyes once more, focusing them in on his sister, who was hanging on his every word.
“I will spare you anymore of what I saw that day, my dear Gwen. I do not wish for you to have nightmares of what I have seen.
I tried to fight off the attackers as best as I could, but a boy of twelve could do little in the face of trained men. It came to a point where the men corralled the survivors into one group in order to execute us as one. I can't describe what I had felt then. Relief, almost? I was so tired, my leg had been slashed open, my father dead....Death would have been a relief. Yet the captain of the guard stopped the band before they had a chance to behead the first of Father's men. Apparently there had been a fire in Cenred's slaves' quarters the previous week, and it was decided that those captured would substitute for the dead workers.
I was almost mad that I had been denied death, yet through the passing weeks I began to grow thankful for having another chance at life. I was stationed in the citadel's forge, where I was charged due to my age to help stoke the great fires for the smiths. These men, the majority at least, were serfs of Cenred and were slightly above my position. Most flaunted it, but the occasional smith had some pity upon me. One of them....”
He shook his head.
“The poor man is dead, but he had taken the time to apprentice me to his craft. I was taught how to first forge metal into household objects until, in secret, he taught me how to create swords. He was often in such demand from the royal court that he was behind on armory orders. It was in this way that he would be able to catch up, while teaching me in the process. No one had to know that I was truly doing the work.
The smith turned into something of a father to me. I was content to live this new life, so different than what I had planned for myself, under his tutelage.
It was about....four days ago.
When he died.
The captain of the guard- the same that had spared us from a quick death years before- had dropped by unexpectedly to inquire upon a sword he had commissioned. He was outraged as seeing myself, a slave and former knight-hopeful, constructing a weapon. In that moment I did not fear for myself as much as I did for the smith. The two had heated words before the captain unsheathed his sword. I stood frozen, watching the two, as the smith backed up and knocked over the candle that had been near his desk. In that moment, that the smith turned to see the far wall of his forge begin to burn, the captain stabbed him.
I think, perhaps that because I saw him as my father, it was almost like relieving my biological father's death. Except that this time I wasn't a frightened boy.
Without thinking about it I nearly gutted the man and took off with the bloodied sword in my hand into the night. The fire had started a commotion but, by slipping out the back, I was able to avoid being spotted.
I saddled the smith's old steed and before I knew it I was flying into the woods with Cenred's prison at my back.”
Gwen, having found that she had gripped the handkerchief rather tightly, massaged some feeling back into her hands after his tale.
“Did you return to Cameliard before coming here?” she asked, finding herself still reeling at what he had told her.
He nodded.
“Briefly, to inquire after you. I had never heard of Cenred's men taking over the estate, so I assumed that you were safe.”
A brief smile broke across his face.
“And what joy I felt when I was told that not only was my sister alive, but married to the Prince of Camelot.”
He reached over to squeeze her hand.
“You must realize how proud Mother and Father would have been.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak lest she cry.
“Then I rode straight to here, where his most Gracious Majesty allowed me to tell my tale.”
The king stood from his chair, prompting the siblings to stand as well.
“It is a miracle and one that shall not be forgotten. But the hour is growing late, and I must advise you all to return to bed.”
He nodded to his page who opened the door to the corridor for them.
“A room will be prepared for you, Lord Leodegrance,” Uther explained, which caused a slight chill to run down Gwen's back at hearing her father's title used.
She clutched onto her brother's hand, unwilling to allow him to leave her again.
“He'll be there in the morning, Gwen,” Arthur insisted, speaking quietly to her as he took up her other hand.
With a reassuring look from her brother, she followed her husband in the opposite direction.
Into the early hours of the morning she remained awake, trying to process what had happened. Even her husband's snoring, which she had often teased him about, was not enough to distract her.
Yet two things she was certain of: her brother was alive, and she couldn't remember ever being more happy.
0o0o0o
The crisp, autumn air had brought a bit of life into her cheeks as she trudged through the garden. Her newly knighted brother walked beside her with her hand tucked into his arm. It had only been three days since his arrival and she had spent nearly every minute of it with him.
There had been so much to talk about that the two hardly knew where to begin. She didn't want to trouble him with speaking of what he had faced, nor did he volunteer to after that first night, so most of the chatter rested upon her. She told him of her time growing up in Camelot, her marriage, and what was most recent in her life. Their talk then moved onto their shared childhood with their father.
The king himself had knighted Elyan the previous day in front of the entire court to signify the importance of the princess' brother. By then he had been washed down, clothed to befit his station, and given his father's arms to wear upon his tunic.
There was the problem with his estate, however.
As Gwen had been thought to be the only living heir, it had gone to her which had then gone to the king through her marriage. If, perhaps, it had been an humble estate the king might have gifted it back to him. Yet Cameliard was something of worth, and wasn't an estate one flung around at whim. It was with this in mind that Uther provided Elyan with a stipend for his knighthood, along with the position he held as a lord. Uther had spoken to her brother, which Elyan had alerted her, of finding a noble with no heirs to declare Elyan as the next receiver. She knew that not many noble families would have done such a thing for just any man, but the future queen's brother was something entirely different.
She had recommended Lord Edgar, who's estate they normally stopped at during Progress, as he was without children. Edgar had graciously accepted Elyan as his heir, provided that he care for the Lady Edgar if she outlived him.
Content in knowing that her brother's future was secure, she allowed herself to think once more of her child.
He would have an uncle to watch over him and help instruct him, along with his father.
After a particularly cold gust of wind Elyan looked down upon his sister, pausing in their third circuit about the garden.
“Perhaps I should return you to your ladies,” he suggested, watching as she pulled a face.
Arthur had banned her from riding, so walking was the only physical exertion that she was allowed.
Yet it was growing rather chilly and she didn't wish to grow too cold lest she somehow damage her baby.
They returned to the citadel, talking the entire way until she was handed off to Batilda in her presence chamber.
The older woman was chattering on about the sheets for the royal when Gwen was distracted by a sudden back cramp. She had experienced one or two while out walking, but had thought it had just been from her pace. Gripping onto the back of a nearby chair she bent harshly at the waist as a pain like none she had ever felt shot through her stomach. Next she felt something warm running down the inside of her leg. Instantly a warm blush spread across her face and neck. What was that? It couldn't be urine, could it? Thinking that she would feel such a leak she nonchalantly drew back her skirts.
Her heart froze.
Blood was currently sliding down her leg, staining her alabaster stockings with its trail. Her mouth opened, a scream frozen on her lips.
No, no!
Batilda turned, having not gotten a response for her former charge, and paled.
“My lady!”
Instantly the former nurse had her arms around the princess, steering her toward a nearby chaise. Elsewhere in the room her three other ladies clustered about her. Gwen's eyes would not, could not, move from the deep red trail. Faintly she heard Batilda call to Catherine to run to the physician. Another cramp seized her, causing her to cry out. She clutched at her sides, feeling tears cloud her view.
Her chest heaved as she sobbed, the floodgates of her eyes opening.
“No!” she wailed, continuing her mantra as the blood continued to trickle.
Gaius, to his credit, hurried as fast as his old limbs could carry him to the princess' aid. Yet by the time he arrived it was over: Gwen was being rocked by Batilda as she stared at the blood trail.
0o0o0
Servants milled in and out of her room, some filling the large bathing tub in her dressing chambers while others removed her ruined clothing. Numbly she reclined in her night robe, only moving when prompted to. Even though she had seen the maids fill her bath with steaming water, she did not feel the warmth of the liquid as Batilda helped her to bathe. The woman had exiled the ladies-in-waiting from the princess' bath which they had not protested, surprised at the situation as Gwen was. She had dried her tears not long after Gaius had arrived but, at the sight of liquid tinting red after she stepped inside it, she began to sob once more.
Lucky is what she had been, according to the physician. Lucky that the babe was not fully formed and that all that had left her womb had been blood. Some women had no choice but to birth half formed, dead babies farther into their pregnancies. Lucky? She didn't see herself that way even after his attempt at soothing her.
Clean and dressed in a warm nightdress she was tucked into bed, much like the child she had once been, by a soothing Batilda. Faintly she heard speaking around her. Arthur and Elyan's names were thrown around often, with the occasional mention of the king. Panic seized her heart as she rolled onto her side, away from the door.
How was she going to face everyone? The court must know of her shame by now.
The servants had long exited by now leaving only Batilda, the princess, and Gaius. The physician was speaking in hushed tones to her former nurse, and Gwen did not bother to try to decipher what they were speaking of. She knew: her child was gone.
Gaius left, yet the door did not shut behind him.
“Sire, the princess...”
“Leave.”
Gwen's eyes widened at the sound of her husband's voice. It wasn't the same tone that she had become used to when they whispered together at night. It was the voice of a prince, speaking to an inferior.
The chamber door closed behind her maid, leaving the couple alone.
Guinevere felt her heart beat a furious pattern against her breast as she waited for Arthur to speak. Already tears began to form at the corner of her eyes as she waited for him to berate her. But how could she defend herself? She didn't even know what she had done wrong to cause the miscarriage.
The mattress depressed under his weight as he took up a spot by her feet. She refused to look at him, and instead focused on a crack in the stone wall. Silence passed between them for what seemed like ages until she finally spoke.
“If you are going to scold me, just please do it now,” she requested, her tone wavering with pent up tears.
His hand carefully peeled back the layers of blankets covering her shaking frame before latching gently onto her shoulder. He moved her into a sitting position despite her protests. What he did next left her shocked: he held her. She wrapped her arms around his muscular frame, sobbing openly then for the life that had been lost.
“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, taking in his comforting scent as she drenched his tunic with her tears.
His head rested on her curls as she cried, feeling all of the pent up stress of her entire short pregnancy bubble upward.
Her scalp was feeling increasingly damp, prompting her to glance up.
Silent tears streamed from her husband's eyes as he held her, rubbing her back with his spare hand.
She looked up in wonder, prompting him to raise his head fully. Through her own blurry vision she reached up a shaking hand to wipe the tracks from his cheeks. She had only seen him shed tears once, and that had been shortly after Igraine's death. He buried his head into her neck as the two clung to each other, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
It was then that she realized her husband truly loved her.