The Ward 10/21
Title: The Ward 10/21
Author:tudor_rose445
Rating: Pg-13
Characters/Pairings:Arthur, Guinevere, Morgana, Uther, Igraine, Merlin, Gaius, Arthur/Guinevere, Igraine/Uther, Morgana/Merlin?.
Spoilers: Seasons 1-3
Disclaimer: I own nothing. BBC owns "Merlin".
Summary: AU. The life of Guinevere, daughter to Sir Thomas of Camelot, has seemingly changed over night. After the death of her father and brother she is sent to the court of King Uther to become his ward. There she grows amongst the two royal children, Prince Arthur and Princess Morgana. Her time with the Pendragons will have a large influence on her life, and help to shape her into the queen of legend.
Chapter 9
A betrothal upsets the balance of the Pendragon family. Plus, a rival for Gwen's affections makes his first appearance.
Author’s notes: Beta-ed by the awesome Guardian Izz .
July was as warm as ever in Camelot that summer. Gwen found both herself and Morgana escaping to the nearby river that ran along the forest beyond the castle to dip their feet into the cool water.
Arthur would often accompany them when he had a chance to slip away from his duties. He would politely turn his back, often having to prod his manservant to do the same as the pair of ladies rolled down their stockings and removed their shoes to dip their feet. It was times such as these that Gwen envied the men of Camelot.
On extremely hot days she would see groups of knights returning from the forest, usually with soaking wet tunics covering their chests, laughing amongst themselves. She could never, ever do such a thing. To risk both her purity and reputation wasn't worth the moment of relief in the cool water.
After going to wade in the river with Morgana that afternoon Gwen returned to her own chambers to prepare for that night's supper. Batilda clucked over some imperfection that she had noticed on the lady's dress from her trip thought the bushes, but Gwen ignored the older woman's worry. She often teased her nurse good-naturedly that she worried more than a mother hen. Her attention strayed from her nurse's scolding, as it often had during her childhood, and rested on a gilt box beside her bed, resting on a small night table.
The box was circular in shape and smelted in silver. The gilded lid, catching the last rays that the sunset flung into the room, was embossed with a design of vines and leaves. Resting in side safe from any harm was the rosary that she prized. For her seventeenth birthday, which had passed nearly a month ago, Arthur had thoughtfully presented her with the rosary box. The box was fine and Guinevere had felt embarrassed to have accepted such a gift. She couldn’t remember a time when Morgana, his real sister, acquired a present such as this from her brother. But the prince seemed genuinely pleased that she liked it and she did not have the heart nor will to decline.
She switched her gaze to her nurse, who having noticed that her charge's mind was elsewhere had ended her tirade with a sigh. “Come here, lamb,” she beckoned the girl to the vanity table, a brush wielded in her hands. Gwen carefully took up her seat on the cushioned stool as the nurse lovingly drew the brush through her silken curls.
Shortly after her father's death the little lady would wake up in the middle of the night crying for Batilda, hoping against hope that the woman too hadn't left her. She was the closest thing to a parent she would ever get, especially after Igraine's death. Uther was something akin to a father to her, but he didn't have the bond from birth that she had with Batilda. And following his wife’s death her guardian grew disconnected with the outside world; even his own children thought him a stranger at times.
Batilda laced her into a fresh gown of green silk, edged in embroidery of gold colored thread. The embroidery was continued up the sleeves of the gown where the sleeves were laced. The seventeen year old pursued through her jewelry chest for a piece to wear that evening, settling on a hair adornment embossed with emeralds. Her nurse carefully slid it into her dark hair, allowing the girl to have a look in the polished mirror before her.
Gwen turned her head to and fro to get the full idea, lamenting that after her marriage she would no longer be able to wear her dark tresses cascading free down her back. Her hair now, free from any wimple or other headpiece, was a clear mark of her status as a maiden. As soon as she became a wife she would either have to cover her head or wear her hair up: it was an ancient tradition so as to prevent young women arousing unchaste thoughts within men other than their husbands.
Of course, queens were more often than not permitted to wear their hair as they chose to. But unless Uther was planning on marrying her off to the new King of Cornwall, Mark, then she would have to resign herself to the change in her hair style. And unfortunately she’s heard that the foreign king in question already picked a bride from the Irish Isles: Isolde the Fair was what they called her.
A small giggle burst from her lips at the very thought.
She, an orphan - a queen?
She would have thought becoming the wife of a baron was the highest rank she could attain through marriage. Becoming queen was just an unrealistic fantasy.
She brushed off Batilda's worrisome glance at her laughter, instead bestowing a filial kiss on the elder woman's cheek before wandering down the hall to the opposite wing of the castle where to Uther's rooms lay.
0o0o0
“If Alined thinks that such an offense will go unnoticed he is sorely mistaken,” the king remarked, frowning over his goblet. His son nodded wordlessly, keeping one ear on his father and the other straining to listen to the ladies’ conversation. He gave his father a serious look of contemplation to mask his distraction before holding out his goblet for a refill.
Merlin, clearly catching onto his master's lack of interest in current political affairs this evening, hid a smile before moving forward to refill the silver cup with wine.
He stepped back to the wall standing in place along with the other two servants, quietly observing the group. It was plain obvious to anyone that Arthur was enamored of Lady Guinevere. He had picked up on it his first week in Camelot, although it had been rather dangerous for him then to even mention it around the irate prince. But still the young wizard continued to prod at Arthur, slipping remarks about the color of Guinevere’s gown, or sometimes the way her hair was fashioned that day. Arthur had come to accept these remarks for the most part, although on occasions he still gave his manservant a slap upside the head. Merlin figured, at this rate, that he would have a concussion by the time they married. How was he almost sure of the upcoming nuptials? Easy - the prince always got what he wanted.
He stepped forward to fill the king’s goblet, knowing better than to expect Uther to bother signaling him for more of the vintage.
Uther, for his part, was more intelligent than young Merlin thought. He could clearly see through his son's attempt at being attentive. Had the boy forgotten that he had observed him often at his lessons, where he was clearly not retaining any knowledge from his tutors but instead daydreaming of the training fields beyond his chamber windows?
Yet he didn't call his son out on his behavior, as he knew quite well what, or rather who, the source of his son's distraction was. He had taken note of the extravagance of the birthday gift that Arthur had presented his ward with, although he had not publicly commented on it.
No. He knew how it was to be at such a spurring age, rebellious and full with vigor. If Arthur truly wished to believe that he was being subtle and secretive about his attraction to the lady then Uther would let him. What would be the harm? His son might enjoy his dalliances but to cause a scandal with a highly respected member of the court - his father’s ward no less, was something he knew Arthur wouldn't dare to do.
And, by the look of the situation, the lady in question had no idea that the prince's romantic attentions had fallen upon her.
His gaze drifted from his adopted daughter to his second born child, causing a jolt to run through him. He would have to tell her; she would have to know why an envoy from Gore had arrived earlier in the week.
At the end of the meal he dismissed his ward and son, requesting that Morgana stayed behind. She gave him a hesitant smile and he could practically hear her mind running through any of her actions that might warrant an upbraiding. He sighed, nodding to the guard to close the chamber door.
0o0o0
Arthur purposely shortened his stride in order to fall in next to Guinevere. She glanced up, having seen him out of the corner of her eye, and gave him one of her small smiles. Lately, he had noticed that she hadn't been acting quite the same around him. She seemed...timid. Surely she wasn’t feeling uncomfortable by his attentions? None of the other noblewomen he had courted had complained on the past.
“How faired your training today?” she inquired, and he instantly recognized her attempts at small talk. Guinevere was quite good at searching for topics to chatter about with visiting nobles, whether it be concerning the visiting nobles' new lands or families. She had a mind for detail, and often he had listened to her recall the name of this knight's wife, or the son of this baroness. She reminded him of a butterfly during courtly events, fluttering from one group of guests to the next.
He inclined his head slightly, trying to formulate a response that would put the new knights in a favorable light.
“There were only eight injuries today,” he said, causing his childhood playmate to giggle.
“Well, I suppose that is an improvement from the near twenty of last week,” she added, finding this new batch of knight-hopefuls to be rather amusing. How Arthur of all people had the patience to instruct them baffled her. Yet she would sometimes steal a few moments away from her embroidery or her catechism lessons with Morgana to take a glance out the window and observe the drills. For all of Arthur's brutish ways, he actually was very concerned about his knights. She would have liked to tell him that, but she feared that with his unusual behavior around her as of lately he might mistake her meaning.
What could he possibly be hoping to accomplish with his attentions?
He certainly couldn't fancy her. She had grown up with him, argued with him, ran races with him. They were childhood friends, and the thought of anything beyond was ludicrous.
The pair turned sharply at the sound of hurried footsteps.
A red faced Morgana nearly collided with them as she hurried along at a rather un-lady like pace toward her chambers.
“Morgana?” she called after the princess, but was given no reply. Panic flew into her heart as she turned to bid Arthur a hurried goodbye to follow her friend. However, his hand on her wrist kept her from moving.
“You should just give her a moment alone,” the prince instructed, his gaze meeting hers as they stood alone in the corridor.
Silence.
He cleared his throat, reluctantly dropping her wrist. He moved to rest the same hand on his sword hilt, something of a nervous habit, but his hand fell to his side as there was no sword belt wrapped around his waist.
“Father alerted me earlier today that he had finalized Morgana's betrothal,” he said quietly, turning his eyes to the other end of the corridor that Morgana had gone tearing through.
Guinevere felt her chest tighten.
“To whom?” she asked, worry clearly displayed upon her features. Poor Morgana... she had been so sure that Arthur would be the first to be married. She had thought that both she and her friend would at least have a few more years together in Camelot.
“King Ursien of Gore,” he answered, quietly observing the young lady’s reaction. “She'll be a queen... I don't know what she is so upset about.”
A slight frown played upon Gwen's features.
“It could be the fact that she is leaving her family,” she said with a sarcastic air, a bit of her annoyance slipping into her tone. “You have had more lessons in geography than either myself or Morgana, and yet even I know how far Gore is from here.”
She left him quickly, not caring to see the prince's expression as she raced off to aid her friend.
She slowed her pace once she reached Morgana's chamber door, trying to collect herself before bringing a small fist to the wood.
“Morgana?” she called, hearing muffled voices inside. Thinking simply that Morgana was seeking comfort with her nurse she opened the door before slipping inside.
Two dark heads, bent together, looked up nearly in unison as she entered.
Arthur's manservant, Merlin, was seated beside Morgana before her empty fireplace, their hands entwined. She felt heat rush to her face as the two quickly broke apart. She stood there, dumbstruck, as the boy quickly murmured a 'goodbye' and bowed to the pair, the tips of his ears turning red. It wasn't until the chamber door closed with a 'thud' behind him that she found herself capable of moving her limbs.
She neared her long time friend, watching as the girl wiped away tear trails from her damp face.
“Morgana?” she started, unsure of what to address first.
The girl's marriage?
The relationship she had with Arthur's manservant?
Or the fact that she hadn't confided in her about it?
Morgana sighed heavily before rising from her chair. She crossed the chamber to the small ewer resting on the table of her receiving rooms, pouring herself a portion.
“I know that to marry is one of the most important duties in this world for a woman,” she began, her voice sounding small. She slowly turned back to her longtime friend, her pale hand clutching the goblet tightly. “It's been hammered into me since I've been old enough to talk. I've been expecting it. There was a point where I couldn't wait for it. I just...” She paused, forcing herself to take a swig from the goblet in order to keep her tears back. “Things have changed.”
Morgana took up her chair once more, staring into the remnants of that morning's fire.
“To be in love...” She cut herself off, a dry laugh escaping her throat. “It's something that I never dreamed would happen to me. My parents were lucky that their marriage turned into a love match.” Her blurry eyes flickered up to Gwen's blank expression. “As were yours. But not all of us are so lucky.”
She exhaled with a shudder and Gwen saw once again the little girl that had watched with tear filled eyes as Queen Igraine had been lowered into the chapel floor. “Gwen...I can't do it. I can't go to Gore, become queen, go to Ursien's bed.” She rose quickly, startling the young girl as she gripped her forearms. “I can't. Not when my heart remains in Camelot.”
Wordlessly Guinevere embraced her friend, brushing back her hair as the girl she considered her sister cried into her shoulder.
It was around a half an hour later that the two were seated before the fire in silence once more, Gwen in Merlin's vacant seat. Morgana had dismissed her nurse and forbade any other servants from entering. She had scared a poor little page nearly to tears with her cold expression.
Finally Gwen voiced the question that had been on her mind since catching the pair in such an intimate moment.
“How did this come about?” she inquired, barely above a whisper so as to not disturb the silence of the room.
Morgana refrained from glancing up at her, and instead kept her focus on the ashes piled in the fireplace.
“It had been when you and Arthur had gone to Cameliard,” she began, her hands tightening slightly on the arms of her chair. “Gareth, my valet, had been sick so Merlin filled in for him. You weren't around, Arthur wasn't around... I needed to talk to someone.” A ghost of a smile slid across her face. “He really is a charming young man; Arthur doesn't give him enough credit. He understands me; I understand him.”
Yet her moment of amusement vanished as she continued.
“But I must disclose something else to you to fully understand my situation: I've been having dreams. Strange dreams.” The princess shook her head. “I see, events, people... Then it could be the next day, or perhaps the next week, and the dream is suddenly made into a reality.” She finally met Gwen's gaze, watching as her friend's face began to take on a serious expression. “I was crying out in my dreams and he helped me Gwen. He didn't yell, didn't accuse me of being a traitor to the kingdom because of my abilities. He understood.” Morgana's lips turned into something of an ironic smile.
“How do you think I knew of the other path after we left Vivian's wedding?” she asked, watching as
Gwen's eyes widened in understanding. Quickly, however, the young ward began to shake her head. “Surely, it was just a coincidence,” Guinevere began, inching closer in her seat toward her friend. “You truly must have overheard it from another guest.”
Morgana shook her head, her voice growing rather adamant. “I first thought the same thing when they started. I must have been having them for about six months now.” She paused, sipping from her goblet to wet her parched throat. “You don't understand what it is like to have to hide who you are. And if Father had ever found out...” She burst into tears, causing Gwen to wrap her arms around her once more.
“I began to wonder,” she went on, gulping down air between sobs, “that perhaps Father hated magic to such an extent that he would put his own daughter to death.”
The princess sobbed into her friend's shoulder, both afraid to contemplate the answer to Morgana's fears.
0o0o0
In celebration of the princess' betrothal, Uther had announced a tournament to be held for nearly a week. Days after the announcement knights and other nobles began pouring in from the outlying territories to win fame, gold and glory from the event.
Meanwhile, Guinevere spent as much time as possible with her 'sister' now, and often shirked her lessons and other duties to simply sit with her. The two often opened Morgana's chamber windows to observe the knights practicing below while they chattered. Their conversations truly had no point to them. One day it would be about the color of Lady Helen's scarf and the next about some memory of their childhood. It only mattered that they were together, memorizing each other's voices and expressions, knowing that they would be parted for who knew how long. Morgana was Gwen's closest friend in this world, and she could honestly not picture her life without the fellowship of the princess.
The day prior to the tournament Guinevere found herself developing a cough. She tried her best to hide it but, after years of picking up the girl's tricks, Batilda had caught her muffling one into a handkerchief.
The following morning only brought on a heavier cough along with a feeling of vertigo whenever she attempted to stand. She argued quite heavily with her nurse once the woman banned her from watching the event until she was silenced by Gaius' strict words. Finally, Uther intervened, instantly listening to his loyal physician’s advise and ordered his ward to retire to her rooms for care. Reluctantly the lady kept to her bed while she knew the rest of the court was reveling in the tournament and following feasts.
It was during the second day of the tournament that Gaius updated her on the proceedings after he had bled her.
“The princess made quite a statement yesterday,” he began, wiping away the trails of blood that the leeches had left behind. Gwen finally turned her face to look at Gaius, having trained her eyes on the ceiling so as not to see the strange creatures.
“I wouldn't expect any less from her,” she commented, feeling pride well up inside of her at the thought of her friend's resistance.
Gaius chuckled as he tucked the jar of leeches back into his leather bag.
“She wore all black, as if she was in a state of mourning,” he regaled before shouldering the bag. “Uther was quite upset at her choice but to comment on it would have been to acknowledge why she had chosen such a color.” He shook his head. “King Ursien will not know what to expect.”
0o0o0
“They will be starting soon,” Gwen reminded her nurse, nearly bouncing on her stool like a child as she waited impatiently for the woman to finish her hair. Her movements caused the velvet skirt of her gown to form little waves. The fabric had been a gift of the king for her birthday and the dress had only now been finished. The lavender skirt opened up to fresh, white silk beneath it. Her bodice consisted of more white silk while the bust area was outfitted in the lavender velvet. The white sleeves trailed down her sides, as was the current fashion, and were trimmed with lavender embroidery. It was, by far, one of her favorites. She could almost feel the Batilda’s eye roll as she finished smoothing down the young lady’s curls.
“They aren't going to vanish in an instant lamb,” she chastised her before tapping the young woman's shoulder to signal that she had finished.
Gwen quickly stood up making her way to the door.
The woman trotted after her, worry in her tone.
“And refrain from dancing too much! Ye've just recovered and I won't see you falling sick again!”
Gwen flashed her nurse a smile in acknowledgment before walking as quickly as she could down the corridor. After nearly a week of being shut up in her rooms she was starving for human interaction. Batilda wouldn't be attending, so the older woman wouldn't know exactly how many dances she had participated in. She smiled mischievously before turning a corner, nearly colliding with a man in an orange tunic.
She stopped short, throwing her hand out to the wall to steady herself lest she fall on her backside. The man quickly reached out to steady her as he began to apologize.
“Milady, please forgive me,” he began, letting go of her quickly as soon as she had been righted.
Gwen looked up in embarrassment, meeting a pair of kind eyes. The man was clearly a noble by the crest displayed on his knights’ tunic, yet she couldn't recall ever seeing him before.
She smiled warmly, nodding her head slightly. “No, no. The fault was mine. I was merely running late and I-”
She paused, seeing that his eyes were still trained on hers.
A blush graced her cheeks as she carefully curtsied.
“I am the Lady Guinevere, ward to the king,” she introduced herself, watching as the brown haired young man gently smiled.
He bowed at the waist before taking up her extended hand to place a kiss on her knuckles.
“And I Sir Lancelot.”