The Ward 19/20
Title: The Ward 19/20
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 18
Gwen embarks into matrimony with the prince.
Author’s notes: Beta-ed by the awesome Guardian Izz.
“Gwen, stay still!”
Morgana gave her yet another look of warning from where she was seated beside the empty fireplace, a half-hemmed sheet resting in her pale hands. Resisting the urge to pull a face, the bride-to-be barely kept from squirming.
With the skirt of her gown no longer jumping from her movements, the seamstress went once more to the hem with her needle. “Almost finished, my lady,” she encouraged her as she pinned yet another bit of fabric.
'That was what she said nearly twenty minutes ago' Gwen thought, refraining from rolling her eyes.
Usually she was quite well behaved and patient during fittings, much more so than Morgana had been when they were being measured at the same time as children. Yet the fact that she was wearing her wedding dress of all gowns made her feel as if she had insects crawling up and down her limbs.
That was not to say that the gown was by any means horrid. On the contrary, she would have enjoyed wearing it for any other event. The ivory brocade was accented with gold thread, carefully stitched by the Camelot’s seamstresses. Blue silk, ordered from the Continent encircled the waist to form a girdle, while the same silk was roped about her elbows. Purity. She knew even before discussing with the head seamstress what type of gown she wanted that she would be expected to have some blue worked into the ensemble. The excess blue cloth formed a cape that rested nearly to the floor, stopping about two inches above her skirt hem.
She could only imagine how late the women had had to stay up to finish the bride's gown, considering the fact that the order of the foreign fabric was delayed. It had been nearly a week since the King's poisoning and the announcement of her wedding, which was to be held in seven days. Her birthday, which had passed three days ago, had been a hurried affair. Not that she minded; the king had been absent and sitting next to the man she had deceived hadn't exactly been the most entertaining experience she had had at a feast.
She shifted unconsciously and saw the seamstress bite her lip in concentration and frustration.
Guinevere knew that she would have to speak to Arthur on the matter of Freya. He had taken the scolding warranted from Uther over the prisoner's escape, yet he had revealed neither Merlin’s nor Gwen’s involvement. She had, after meeting up with him in the corridor, fully expected herself to be brought to her guardian to explain her actions. But instead, when she had timidly gone to visit the king the following morning, the monarch had not mentioned a word to her.
And neither did Arthur. When she passed him on the way to the stables later that day, he acted as if nothing had happened yet, after years of knowing him, she could see the disappointment still lingering in his eyes. The spark always lingering in his wondrous eyes whenever she was around - gone, and Guinevere felt the loss. She knew that she should go speak to him but she was, understandably, afraid of how he would receive her apology.
She didn't wish to apologize for saving an innocent life: she wished to apologize for going behind his back.
“Finished, my lady,” the woman announced, stepping back to observe the bride.
The lady withheld a sigh of relief as she stepped down from the stand that the seamstress had propped her upon. Wordlessly Batilda led her behind the dressing screen, helping her into her previous gown before returning the wedding dress to the seamstress. The woman curtsied before exiting, leaving the future Queen of Camelot with the visiting Queen of Gore.
Morgana shifted the finished sheet in her hands, taking in the stitches for a moment. Gwen watched her friend silently before coming to sit by her side. Morgana had arrived a day after her birthday celebration and had been practically glued to her friend's side. She had instantly picked up on the awkwardness between her brother and his intended, and, after much prodding, Gwen had explained the situation to her. As she had expected her friend believed that she had done the right thing.
Nevertheless, Gwen withheld a detail from her story: the relationship between Merlin and Freya.
Yet it was not the relationship between Morgana and Merlin that was constantly on her mind, filling her thoughts with anxiety.
She couldn't stand having Arthur upset with her. It was bothering her far too much than she had first anticipated. Yet every time she went to go speak to him she found an excuse not to. It was becoming far too frustrating.
A page knocked at the door and, after being admitted by Batilda, bowed before the two noblewomen.
“His Majesty is awake, my ladies,” he announced, bowing once more before leaving. Gwen smiled slightly at the news. She had requested earlier that morning to be notified when the king was awake. Although the toxins that had been hidden in his ale had been deemed gone, the after effects of the drink had left him rather weak. He often slept for hours at a time during the day as the slightest effort made him feel exhausted.
Pausing at the door to her chambers she turned to ask Morgana if she wished to accompany her, but was cut off mid-sentence: “I think I'll just stay and finish these,” the woman said, lifting another sheet. She then gave her friend a half-smile. “There will be plenty of time for me to speak to him later.”
Giving the queen a small smile the young woman nodded before ducking out of her chambers.
Once outside her grin slowly faded.
What was troubling Morgana?
She would have expected the former princess, who had been devoted to her father from an early age, to be stuck to the king's bedside. Yet besides Morgana's first tearful reunion with her father she had not ventured much to see the king. Without planning to the ward recalled the queen's icy tone when speaking of her father back in April. Maybe she was overreacting… Or maybe Morgana still blamed her father for the marriage to Gore?
Without thinking about it her feet carried her to the king's chamber, nodding at the pair of guards who admitted her into the series of rooms leading to his bedchamber.
Uther, propped up by a myriad of pillows, smiled as he caught sight of her.
“You have taken time out of your schedule to see me again?” he teased, some of the man she had first met ages ago shining through his weak exterior.
She crossed the room towards him, taking up the empty chair beside his bed. Without being asked the servant that had been folding the king's newly laundered clothing exited the room, giving the ward and king their privacy. She took one of his hands into her own, squeezing gently. “You know I always have time for you, Uncle,” she said, employing the term of affection she had used on occasion when referring to her guardian.
He lifted his free hand to gently pat their encased hands.
“Arthur tells me that you have been doing remarkably well in planning the wedding. I am sorry, my dear, about the short notice.”
She quickly shook her head, giving herself a distraction versus thinking about the knight.
“It is no fault of yours, my lord,” she explained. “And things are going smoothly; you need not worry.”
He nodded, shifting against the pillows.
“Good.”
Silence reigned for a moment between the two before Uther cleared his throat.
“I am glad that you came to visit, my dear, as there is something that I wish to discuss with you.”
Apprehension flared up inside of her yet she kept her expression clear.
“And what is that, my lord?”
He focused on their entwined hands for a moment as he collected his thoughts.
“You remember the late queen well, do you not?” he questioned, lifting his gaze to hers. She nodded wordlessly as a flicker of a smile darted across his face. “Queens do not just plan social events and provide heirs, Guinevere,” he started, a far off look invading his eyes as he remembered his beloved. “There is so much more that the position calls for. So much that goes on beyond the sight of the courtiers.”
He sighed softly, reluctantly pulling himself from his memories.
“Being king is not only a physical job in keeping the borders secure, but also an emotional task. Whether Arthur returns from a long fought battle or a heated council meeting, he will need someone to help ground him. As his wife it is expected of you, but as his queen it is required.”
He squeezed her hand, earnest emotion clear on his face.
“Don't let him do this alone.”
Stunned she didn't speak for a moment.
Never before had she had such an intimate talk with her guardian before over her marriage, and thoroughly hadn't expected him to speak of it in this way. The death of his queen kept her from thinking that he could still be sentimental about a wife's role in her husband’s life.
“I will try my best,” she answered, dropping his formal title to show how genuine she was.
She wouldn't let Arthur go through ruling alone. She had seen what that had done to Uther.
A knock at the door broke the moment between the two as a page stepped silently in.
“The prince is here to see you, Your Majesty,” the young man announced, bowing stiffly at the waist.
The king gave a silent nod and the page was followed a moment later by Arthur.
The blonde checked slightly at the threshold at seeing his betrothed sitting beside his father, but recovered his features a second later.
Gwen felt a tightening in her chest as she cast her eyes down to the coverlet. This rift between them had to be amended or she feared she would burst from guilt.
Uther took in the two for a brief second before shifting upon his voluminous mattress.
“I am sorry, my son, but perhaps we can speak later in the evening? I feel so tired...”
His son nodded, resting a hand against the post of his father's bed.
“If you wish, Father,” he said, casting a glance at Guinevere before leaving.
Gwen gave him a fretful look before schooling her features into a smile.
“I shall visit with you later, my lord,” she said, dropping his hand and kissing his temple. She exited the room, missing the look of amusement on the clearly awake king's face.
0o0o0
“Arthur!”
The man turned, seeing his betrothed trying to catch up to him. He reluctantly paused as she neared him.
Things had gotten awkward between them ever since Freya's escape. He had pretended like it hadn't happened on the surface, of course; he wasn't about to run to his father, betraying her trust. He hadn't even sacked Merlin, whom Uther could have easily have ordered executed for his treasonous act. Instead he simply swallowed the lie that the manservant had given him of his mother's illness and subsequent absence.
Why?
He didn't want to admit it, but he knew that the right thing had been done. Though how could he admit it? He simply couldn't go up to the council and announce that the serving girl had been innocent. He did not have the druids in custody, or whoever had propositioned Freya to bring the king his goblet. He only had had one scared young woman, who clearly didn't have it in herself to harm another being.
Yet she had magic.
That was cause in itself to be wary of.
He had been taught to show hatred for those with magic ever since his mother's death, and had come to associate the word with the painful memory of seeing the last glimpse of the queen's bloodless face before her tomb was closed. Yet Freya seemed the farthest thing from that terrible memory.
His chest tightened slightly as he watched Gwen tuck back a stray curl that had escaped from her plait, braided into an elegant knot. How he wished it had been his hand to touch her tresses.
“I was hoping to speak with you,” she murmured, lifting her brown eyes up to his blue.
He extended his arm to her, which she took without question, prompting the two to exit the corridor and walk carefully down the nearest stairwell. They paused once on the ground floor, before Arthur led her through the stone arch leading to the gardens. They steered clear of the east beds as the gardeners were working swiftly to prepare the grounds for the upcoming wedding. Instead the future couple settled themselves among a cluster of hedges nearest to the stonewalls of the citadel.
She hesitantly brought her hand from his arm, toying with the ring on her finger. The ring given by him.
“I wish to amend this rift that has come between us,” she started, finding the courage to meet his gaze.
He listened expectantly to her and, as he gave no reason for her to give up all hope, she continued.
“I truly did not wish to upset you with … my actions.” She didn't even wish to speak of the event, not knowing what prying ears were about. The staff was notorious for spreading gossip, as were the courtiers. “I just thought that what I had done was right, and really I should have spoken to you about it first, but that did not work so well the first time, and then you-”
“Guinevere.”
Her name, drawn out like that, halted her hurried speech.
The prince took a step toward her, tipping her chin up slightly so that their gazes met. “I know that it appeared as if I did not listen to you when you confronted me, but still that gave you no right to go gallivanting around like that.”
He could see the ire rising in her eyes and hastily spoke to cover over her annoyance.
“I wish you had more faith in me, truly. What you said to me.... it kept me from ordering that girl's execution without another thought.” He sighed, reluctantly slipping his fingertips away from her warm soft skin.
She rushed a step closer. “But I do have faith in you!!!”
The outburst surprised the two, sending her into a blush.
She averted her gaze in order to explain, so as not to feel intimidated by his gaze, especially with the heat spreading across her cheeks.
“What I mean is, you did not send Freya to her death simply because she had magic. That one act in itself shows that you have good judgement; that you wish to seek out the truth before decreeing your judgement.” Pausing she took a calming breath of the fresh air, trying not to let his proximity affected her; she had to learn to ignore it, otherwise it would prove t be a serious problem in their marriage. “I suppose… I hadn't realized that. If I had, perhaps I would have thought my actions through.”
Tentatively she raised her eyes to check his expression.
“You never fail to surprise me,” he admitted, taking her hand and threading it through his arm. He led her from the foliage, both feeling the tension of the past days melting away in each other’s presence.
0o0o0
The morning of her wedding came earlier than expected.
With a groan she stubbornly kept her eyes closed despite Beatrice's quiet pleas for her to awaken. It was only Batilda's well-experienced shake on the young woman's shoulder that forced the bride to greet the day.
Lady Beatrice of Calchvynydd, one of her chosen ladies-in-waiting, allowed relief to shine across her face as the bride stood up from her bed. Gwen realized, with a jolt, that the woman had actually been afraid to physically nudge her awake. She tried to hide her surprise at the married woman and instead dutifully marched behind her dressing partition where a large wooden bathtub was being filled.
The woman - a wife of one of the councilmen in her late twenties, had truly impressed her during the interview; she a motherly aura of sorts about her that had piqued Gwen's interest.
In addition to Beatrice, Gwen had picked Eleanor and Lady Catherine Gillert to attend her. Catherine was a month older than Guinevere and daughter to one of Uther's most trusted barons. Her sometimes brash attitude reminded Gwen much of Morgana. The foster sister, who had just been on her mind, entered Gwen's bedchamber looking remarkably awake.
Remarkable as, Gwen observed glumly, the sun had yet to rise.
“Fetch the Princess’ bath salts,” she ordered with ease to the nearest lady - Eleanor - who quickly acquiesced to the woman's demand.
“I’m not Princess, yet”, Guinevere grumbled into her crossed arms with a serious frown.
Without ceremony Batilda shooed the remaining women beyond the partition, leaving only Morgana in attendance.
Morgana ignored her friend’s mood as she inquired: “Did you sleep at all?” reaching for a ribbon to tie back her friend's curls.
“Enough,” Guinevere replied, surmising that she had managed a wink or two sometime over the course of the night. Her thoughts, her paranoia had kept her awake for far too long. She kept tossing and turning in her virginal bed, never forgetting that this was her last night as a maiden before Arthur introduced her to womanhood. It didn't help that she had to be prepped for her wedding at an unreasonable hour.
Between the two women Gwen was rubbed nearly raw in record time. Wrapped in a clean sheet she was given a meagre meal of bread and cheese. She chewed silently, watching as chambermaids baled the oil- and flower-scented water from the tub.
The day that had always seemed so far off had finally come.
Fear gripped her stomach so tightly that she forced herself to take bites of bread. The next chance she would have to eat would be at the wedding banquet later that evening. Best to take advantage of the food that she could stomach now instead of being weak from hunger later.
Once the last maid had vanished with her bucket of water, Gwen was rushed into an ivory lace-chemise. She busied herself with gazing at the rising sun as Batilda and Morgana divided her hair to brush, while her ladies adorned her face with a mix of cosmetics. Her hair, unadorned to showcase her virginal status, had been conditioned in a mixture of spices and herbs the previous day.
She was allowed a quick glimpse into the polished mirror above her vanity to see the transformation that had occurred.
Her hair, resting just above her waist, shone in the early morning light. Her normal, everyday cosmetics had been given a boost by the inclusion of rouge. Faintly she realized that her cheeks had taken an ashen quality to them due to her nerves, and that the bridal anxiety had been covered by paint. Clever of them it was.
As she was helped with dressing she allowed her eyes to flit over to her friend. Morgana, always rather fair-skinned, had seemed paler than she had ever seen her; in fact not so much pale, as green. She had taken note of it the first day of her friend’s arrival, but the woman's decisive behaviour had kept her from questioning whether she was indeed ill.
Now wasn't the time to ask her about it, though, as she was laced into her corset.
Pain shot through her abdomen as lady Beatrice pulled tight on her lacings, tighter than ever - Gwen often complained to Batilda about this, but something in Beatrice’s determined look of admiration at her now tiny waist, kept Guinevere from complaining this time. The lady’s extremely conservative views may be somewhat too strict, but such view was extremely useful now that she was about to walk down the isle in front of the entire Camelot. Guinevere wanted to avoid scorn and make the two Pendragon men waiting by the isle to be proud of her. So she kept her mouth shut, and adjusted her breathing to slow facile shallow breaths to keep from fainting.
After she was squeezed into the appropriate shape she was helped to step into the gown. The silk slid comfortingly over her skin, almost as if in an attempt to soothe her. It did little however as she still felt her morning meal flipping in her stomach.
“You look beautiful my lady,” Beatrice commented, twitching the blue cape to a better position. The woman reflected in the mirror did not seem to be her, yet Guinevere did not comment upon it.
Batilda led in her steward, Jeffrey. Having been absorbed in her thoughts she hadn't even heard him knock.
“A gift milady,” he announced, bowing before lifting up the wooden box in his hands for her viewing.
Nodding to Catherine, the steward relinquished the box before bowing himself out of the room. The bride tried not to feel awkward at such treatment. She had been shown great respect as the ward of King Uther, yet this next step of deference was still unknown.
The well-polished wood felt as sleek as the silk she wore once pressed into her hands.
With her ladies gathered about her she flipped open the lid, taking in the ornate necklace inside. Her fingertips gently glided over the silver chain, the five diamonds clinging to it, and the raindrop shaped pearl at its centre.
Morgana leaned a bit closer to her in order to observe it, a wistful smile alighting her features for a moment.
“That was my mother's,” she commented, her eyes remaining glued to the silver piece. “Father tucked much of it away. He must have dug it out specially for you; there is a note.”
Handing off the delicate necklace and matching earrings to Batilda, Gwen unfolded the bit of parchment that had been tucked inside the box.
§ This piece was a favourite of my mother's, and was a gift from my father upon their betrothal. I had thought first to give it to you then, but I thought perhaps it would be more meaningful the morning of our wedding. It would honour not only myself, but also my mother’s memory greatly, if you would wear it today.
- Arthur §
Blushing, she tucked the scrap into her palm before going over to her jewellery chest.
“It is from Arthur,” she managed to say, sneaking the paper into the chest so as to avoid prying eyes.
She tried to ignore the delighted giggle that Eleanor had made at such a revelation and instead swept back her curls from her neck.
“If you would, please,” she asked her nurse, feeling the cool clasp of the metal upon her neck a moment later.
The weight of the ornament across her collarbone felt reassuring, as if it's previous owner was standing beside her.
“I.... I think I am ready,” she said, glancing at her assorted company.
She could do this.
Drifting to the window stationed to overlook the courtyard she looked down upon the hustle and bustle below.
She could do this.
At least she hoped.
0o0o0
Numbly she allowed herself to be escorted into the horse drawn litter waiting in the courtyard. She ducked slightly to avoid knocking off the crown of white lilies and amaranths atop her curls, baby’s breath woven into her smoothed curls.
Batilda, in her best frock, climbed up after Morgana had situated herself beside Gwen. With a jolt the litter began to move, winding its way through the town to the large stone church there. For the knights and the lower barons the chapel in the citadel would have been used. Yet for a royal marriage the large structure resting in the town was the only option. As the actual wedding ceremony took place at the door to the church instead of inside it, the expanse of street about the building would provide room for spectators to see the future king take a bride.
Before she knew it they were coming to a halt a few yards beyond the path that had been cleared to the church doors. Had the ride been that fast? She willed her limbs to move yet found that she could not.
“Here.”
Morgana, having kept a close eye on her friend the entire ride, gave the young woman a gentle tug on the arm. The touch seemed to have thrown some sense into Gwen as she found it in herself to move her legs in order to be helped out.
Grabbing onto the extended hand of the page waiting beyond the litter so as not to trip on the heavy silk and muslin of her gown, Gwen allowed herself a glimpse of the gathered crowd. A sea of nobles greeted her eyes as she scanned the well-dressed group. The king, smiling, took her hand from the page. Uther seemed almost back to normal yet there was tell-tale tiredness about his eye that told her differently.
“You look beautiful, my dear,” he whispered to her, threading her hand through his arm. Nearly numb with nerves she could barely feel the soft material of his tunic sleeve as he led her through the path cleared by the nobles.
With shaking knees she allowed her guardian to lead her up the stone stairs to the church where Arthur stood, decked out in his chain mail and scarlet cloak. His coronet, showing to all that he was the Crown Prince, caught her attention in the morning light. She, too, would have something similar after this ceremony.
The boy she had grown up with squeezed her hand once Uther had passed her over. Taking her place at his left she held tightly onto his hand as if the limb itself was keeping her upright.
“'In faith we walk, in faith we love, and in faith we will live forevermore'...”
She found herself zoning out over the bishop's words. Even in Latin she was able to understand them thanks to the substantial education given to her by the late queen.
Thankfully Arthur was always the one to speak first as the male, prompting her to simply follow his lead. She repeated the practiced words without effort, faintly realizing that they spoke of faithfulness, subservience, the promise of heirs, and dedication to the people of Camelot. It was only the meaningful kiss upon her lips by the young man- her husband- before her that alerted her to the completion of the ceremony.
Applause rang out from the gathered crowd that left her with a roaring in her ears.
She vaguely realized that she had to smile and, in her haze, managed to bring a grin to her lips. The bishop, followed by Uther, led the party into the church where mass was to be celebrated.
“Gwen?”
The whispered word caught her attention in the sea of conundrum around them.
Glancing up at him by her side, she took in the clearly joyful expression of her husband. She had seen this reaction to their relationship before, on their betrothal.
Had he actually wanted this marriage? How could he? Even he for some reason was curious and interested in intercourse with her, didn’t he mind the arranged part of this union? Did he not have a will to choose his own mate, without the consideration of what is more profitable for the lands of Albion…
He didn't wait for her to reply and, she guessed, must have sensed her anxiety by the death grip she currently had on his arm. It truly must have been tight as he was currently wearing his mail and tunic, yet he had felt her grip atop his clothing.
His free hand came to rest upon her trembling one, covering it with his warmth.
Knowing that she wasn't alone despite being in the gaggle of courtiers, she lifted her head a bit higher and allowed him to lead her through the church.
0o0o0
People.
Everywhere.
Her head seemed to be spinning as she took in the numerous courtiers and visiting nobles that were strolling about the banquet hall. Were they really all here to see her and the man sitting beside her?
She kept a smile plastered to her face as noble after noble approached the dais to congratulate the pair. The faces soon turned into a blur, as did the compliments after the first few. She, normally so good with matching faces with names, was faltering when remembering who had just spoken with them.
She supposed she hadn't realized how scared she was for this to actually happen.
Yet the solid grip of the man beside her on her hand kept her grounded. Kept her from stumbling into panic.
More than once during the evening she almost caught herself reaching up a hand to check that her new coronet was truly upon her brow, despite feeling its weight. Uther had granted her the symbol of her new status before she had been led into the hall. It was considerably heavier than she had expected. Would her crown as queen be heavier? Literally and figuratively?
After what seemed like an endless line of well-wishers she was grateful when the musicians stroke up a tune.
With perhaps one of her few genuine smiles of the day Guinevere tugged upon Arthur's sleeve beneath the table.
He observed her over the rim of his wine goblet, knowing right away the silent question that she asked.
“If it pleases you, my lady,” he teased, setting down his goblet and standing. Reaching for her hand he led her to the cleared floor where some of the guests were taking the newly wed couple's lead.
The musicians chose a lively song, prompting the dancers to form two lines and follow the rather simple pattern of circling about the other line. It was a fast dance and a perfect way to get out her pent up energy and nerves of the day. Before she knew it she found herself laughing, clutching onto Arthur's hand as he led her through the next turn.
The beat changed, turning into farandole. A few of the younger barons grabbed hands with a handful of maidens making an arch. The dancers, joined by their hands, weaved in and out before making circles about the floor. Her heart caught in her throat as she hurried about the floor, laughing till she could barely breathe.
Dancing had managed to loosen her up it seemed, and she found it easier to speak to the guests as she made her rounds. It certainly helped her stomach, which had been too tight earlier to attempt eating any of the grand dishes that had been paraded about. Now she tried a bit of the puddings presented, savouring the sweet tastes upon her tongue.
It was during her third round about the hall to speak to guests that she found Morgana, standing far back in the hall nursing a goblet. The woman seemed extremely fatigued and, if Gwen had guessed correctly, slightly ill. Instantly she reached over to place a hand on her friend's arm.
“Are you alright?” she asked, having no fear that her words would be overheard in the crowded hall. Her friend glanced up at her before taking a quick sweep of the hall. Without words she led the bride from the group of nobles to an empty corridor, leaving Arthur’s line of sight for the first time this evening.
Not looking at her, Morgana stared down into her own goblet.
“I am with child.”
The princess faltered, unsure of how to respond.
Should she congratulate her friend? It was, after all, a woman's duty to bear children.
Or should she offer condolences for what the Urien had done to her?
Instead, she took a few steps forward, embracing her sister silently. Sharing her burden of being a woman in the world of men.
0o0o0
As the night drew on Gwen found her earlier relaxed state of mind turning into anxiety once more. She knew the reason, yet refused to dwell upon it. After all, the party would end at some point. And once the conundrum of courtiers disappeared, all that would be left would be her, Arthur and the awaiting marriage bed.
She shouldn't have been surprised as the hours dragged close to midnight when certain members of the nobility began to grow restless.
“Bedding!”
It only took one cry from a certain son of a certain baron for the word to be echoed among a few more inebriated guests. Men and women sprung to their feet as if they were about to ride out for a hunt; and she was the prey; and Arthur was the hunter in the lead.
Gwen looked up from her lap, where she had hidden her tear-pricking reaction to the word, to observe the guests. Women courtiers, who she knew whispered gossip behind her back, judging her and deeming her an unworthy Queen, could now openly demand a display of her humiliation. She has heard that in some cases the bride was stripped bare, not even by her new husband, but by the female guests and then was pushed and held down on the bed while the groom climbed on top…
She blinked, feeling sick with dread at the thought of this public violation. How was this legal when rape was not? The only difference was that as a bride, she would have to endure the remainder of her life with the man who violated her.
Then again, she knew Arthur was not a cruel man. Of course, he probably didn’t exactly look forward to such a mating, he was not a deviant. It was unfair of her to judge him thus…
It would be over quick, wouldn't it? Quick, meaningless, and then hopefully he wouldn't bother her for some time.
Right.
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 18
Gwen embarks into matrimony with the prince.
Author’s notes: Beta-ed by the awesome Guardian Izz.
“Gwen, stay still!”
Morgana gave her yet another look of warning from where she was seated beside the empty fireplace, a half-hemmed sheet resting in her pale hands. Resisting the urge to pull a face, the bride-to-be barely kept from squirming.
With the skirt of her gown no longer jumping from her movements, the seamstress went once more to the hem with her needle. “Almost finished, my lady,” she encouraged her as she pinned yet another bit of fabric.
'That was what she said nearly twenty minutes ago' Gwen thought, refraining from rolling her eyes.
Usually she was quite well behaved and patient during fittings, much more so than Morgana had been when they were being measured at the same time as children. Yet the fact that she was wearing her wedding dress of all gowns made her feel as if she had insects crawling up and down her limbs.
That was not to say that the gown was by any means horrid. On the contrary, she would have enjoyed wearing it for any other event. The ivory brocade was accented with gold thread, carefully stitched by the Camelot’s seamstresses. Blue silk, ordered from the Continent encircled the waist to form a girdle, while the same silk was roped about her elbows. Purity. She knew even before discussing with the head seamstress what type of gown she wanted that she would be expected to have some blue worked into the ensemble. The excess blue cloth formed a cape that rested nearly to the floor, stopping about two inches above her skirt hem.
She could only imagine how late the women had had to stay up to finish the bride's gown, considering the fact that the order of the foreign fabric was delayed. It had been nearly a week since the King's poisoning and the announcement of her wedding, which was to be held in seven days. Her birthday, which had passed three days ago, had been a hurried affair. Not that she minded; the king had been absent and sitting next to the man she had deceived hadn't exactly been the most entertaining experience she had had at a feast.
She shifted unconsciously and saw the seamstress bite her lip in concentration and frustration.
Guinevere knew that she would have to speak to Arthur on the matter of Freya. He had taken the scolding warranted from Uther over the prisoner's escape, yet he had revealed neither Merlin’s nor Gwen’s involvement. She had, after meeting up with him in the corridor, fully expected herself to be brought to her guardian to explain her actions. But instead, when she had timidly gone to visit the king the following morning, the monarch had not mentioned a word to her.
And neither did Arthur. When she passed him on the way to the stables later that day, he acted as if nothing had happened yet, after years of knowing him, she could see the disappointment still lingering in his eyes. The spark always lingering in his wondrous eyes whenever she was around - gone, and Guinevere felt the loss. She knew that she should go speak to him but she was, understandably, afraid of how he would receive her apology.
She didn't wish to apologize for saving an innocent life: she wished to apologize for going behind his back.
“Finished, my lady,” the woman announced, stepping back to observe the bride.
The lady withheld a sigh of relief as she stepped down from the stand that the seamstress had propped her upon. Wordlessly Batilda led her behind the dressing screen, helping her into her previous gown before returning the wedding dress to the seamstress. The woman curtsied before exiting, leaving the future Queen of Camelot with the visiting Queen of Gore.
Morgana shifted the finished sheet in her hands, taking in the stitches for a moment. Gwen watched her friend silently before coming to sit by her side. Morgana had arrived a day after her birthday celebration and had been practically glued to her friend's side. She had instantly picked up on the awkwardness between her brother and his intended, and, after much prodding, Gwen had explained the situation to her. As she had expected her friend believed that she had done the right thing.
Nevertheless, Gwen withheld a detail from her story: the relationship between Merlin and Freya.
Yet it was not the relationship between Morgana and Merlin that was constantly on her mind, filling her thoughts with anxiety.
She couldn't stand having Arthur upset with her. It was bothering her far too much than she had first anticipated. Yet every time she went to go speak to him she found an excuse not to. It was becoming far too frustrating.
A page knocked at the door and, after being admitted by Batilda, bowed before the two noblewomen.
“His Majesty is awake, my ladies,” he announced, bowing once more before leaving. Gwen smiled slightly at the news. She had requested earlier that morning to be notified when the king was awake. Although the toxins that had been hidden in his ale had been deemed gone, the after effects of the drink had left him rather weak. He often slept for hours at a time during the day as the slightest effort made him feel exhausted.
Pausing at the door to her chambers she turned to ask Morgana if she wished to accompany her, but was cut off mid-sentence: “I think I'll just stay and finish these,” the woman said, lifting another sheet. She then gave her friend a half-smile. “There will be plenty of time for me to speak to him later.”
Giving the queen a small smile the young woman nodded before ducking out of her chambers.
Once outside her grin slowly faded.
What was troubling Morgana?
She would have expected the former princess, who had been devoted to her father from an early age, to be stuck to the king's bedside. Yet besides Morgana's first tearful reunion with her father she had not ventured much to see the king. Without planning to the ward recalled the queen's icy tone when speaking of her father back in April. Maybe she was overreacting… Or maybe Morgana still blamed her father for the marriage to Gore?
Without thinking about it her feet carried her to the king's chamber, nodding at the pair of guards who admitted her into the series of rooms leading to his bedchamber.
Uther, propped up by a myriad of pillows, smiled as he caught sight of her.
“You have taken time out of your schedule to see me again?” he teased, some of the man she had first met ages ago shining through his weak exterior.
She crossed the room towards him, taking up the empty chair beside his bed. Without being asked the servant that had been folding the king's newly laundered clothing exited the room, giving the ward and king their privacy. She took one of his hands into her own, squeezing gently. “You know I always have time for you, Uncle,” she said, employing the term of affection she had used on occasion when referring to her guardian.
He lifted his free hand to gently pat their encased hands.
“Arthur tells me that you have been doing remarkably well in planning the wedding. I am sorry, my dear, about the short notice.”
She quickly shook her head, giving herself a distraction versus thinking about the knight.
“It is no fault of yours, my lord,” she explained. “And things are going smoothly; you need not worry.”
He nodded, shifting against the pillows.
“Good.”
Silence reigned for a moment between the two before Uther cleared his throat.
“I am glad that you came to visit, my dear, as there is something that I wish to discuss with you.”
Apprehension flared up inside of her yet she kept her expression clear.
“And what is that, my lord?”
He focused on their entwined hands for a moment as he collected his thoughts.
“You remember the late queen well, do you not?” he questioned, lifting his gaze to hers. She nodded wordlessly as a flicker of a smile darted across his face. “Queens do not just plan social events and provide heirs, Guinevere,” he started, a far off look invading his eyes as he remembered his beloved. “There is so much more that the position calls for. So much that goes on beyond the sight of the courtiers.”
He sighed softly, reluctantly pulling himself from his memories.
“Being king is not only a physical job in keeping the borders secure, but also an emotional task. Whether Arthur returns from a long fought battle or a heated council meeting, he will need someone to help ground him. As his wife it is expected of you, but as his queen it is required.”
He squeezed her hand, earnest emotion clear on his face.
“Don't let him do this alone.”
Stunned she didn't speak for a moment.
Never before had she had such an intimate talk with her guardian before over her marriage, and thoroughly hadn't expected him to speak of it in this way. The death of his queen kept her from thinking that he could still be sentimental about a wife's role in her husband’s life.
“I will try my best,” she answered, dropping his formal title to show how genuine she was.
She wouldn't let Arthur go through ruling alone. She had seen what that had done to Uther.
A knock at the door broke the moment between the two as a page stepped silently in.
“The prince is here to see you, Your Majesty,” the young man announced, bowing stiffly at the waist.
The king gave a silent nod and the page was followed a moment later by Arthur.
The blonde checked slightly at the threshold at seeing his betrothed sitting beside his father, but recovered his features a second later.
Gwen felt a tightening in her chest as she cast her eyes down to the coverlet. This rift between them had to be amended or she feared she would burst from guilt.
Uther took in the two for a brief second before shifting upon his voluminous mattress.
“I am sorry, my son, but perhaps we can speak later in the evening? I feel so tired...”
His son nodded, resting a hand against the post of his father's bed.
“If you wish, Father,” he said, casting a glance at Guinevere before leaving.
Gwen gave him a fretful look before schooling her features into a smile.
“I shall visit with you later, my lord,” she said, dropping his hand and kissing his temple. She exited the room, missing the look of amusement on the clearly awake king's face.
0o0o0
“Arthur!”
The man turned, seeing his betrothed trying to catch up to him. He reluctantly paused as she neared him.
Things had gotten awkward between them ever since Freya's escape. He had pretended like it hadn't happened on the surface, of course; he wasn't about to run to his father, betraying her trust. He hadn't even sacked Merlin, whom Uther could have easily have ordered executed for his treasonous act. Instead he simply swallowed the lie that the manservant had given him of his mother's illness and subsequent absence.
Why?
He didn't want to admit it, but he knew that the right thing had been done. Though how could he admit it? He simply couldn't go up to the council and announce that the serving girl had been innocent. He did not have the druids in custody, or whoever had propositioned Freya to bring the king his goblet. He only had had one scared young woman, who clearly didn't have it in herself to harm another being.
Yet she had magic.
That was cause in itself to be wary of.
He had been taught to show hatred for those with magic ever since his mother's death, and had come to associate the word with the painful memory of seeing the last glimpse of the queen's bloodless face before her tomb was closed. Yet Freya seemed the farthest thing from that terrible memory.
His chest tightened slightly as he watched Gwen tuck back a stray curl that had escaped from her plait, braided into an elegant knot. How he wished it had been his hand to touch her tresses.
“I was hoping to speak with you,” she murmured, lifting her brown eyes up to his blue.
He extended his arm to her, which she took without question, prompting the two to exit the corridor and walk carefully down the nearest stairwell. They paused once on the ground floor, before Arthur led her through the stone arch leading to the gardens. They steered clear of the east beds as the gardeners were working swiftly to prepare the grounds for the upcoming wedding. Instead the future couple settled themselves among a cluster of hedges nearest to the stonewalls of the citadel.
She hesitantly brought her hand from his arm, toying with the ring on her finger. The ring given by him.
“I wish to amend this rift that has come between us,” she started, finding the courage to meet his gaze.
He listened expectantly to her and, as he gave no reason for her to give up all hope, she continued.
“I truly did not wish to upset you with … my actions.” She didn't even wish to speak of the event, not knowing what prying ears were about. The staff was notorious for spreading gossip, as were the courtiers. “I just thought that what I had done was right, and really I should have spoken to you about it first, but that did not work so well the first time, and then you-”
“Guinevere.”
Her name, drawn out like that, halted her hurried speech.
The prince took a step toward her, tipping her chin up slightly so that their gazes met. “I know that it appeared as if I did not listen to you when you confronted me, but still that gave you no right to go gallivanting around like that.”
He could see the ire rising in her eyes and hastily spoke to cover over her annoyance.
“I wish you had more faith in me, truly. What you said to me.... it kept me from ordering that girl's execution without another thought.” He sighed, reluctantly slipping his fingertips away from her warm soft skin.
She rushed a step closer. “But I do have faith in you!!!”
The outburst surprised the two, sending her into a blush.
She averted her gaze in order to explain, so as not to feel intimidated by his gaze, especially with the heat spreading across her cheeks.
“What I mean is, you did not send Freya to her death simply because she had magic. That one act in itself shows that you have good judgement; that you wish to seek out the truth before decreeing your judgement.” Pausing she took a calming breath of the fresh air, trying not to let his proximity affected her; she had to learn to ignore it, otherwise it would prove t be a serious problem in their marriage. “I suppose… I hadn't realized that. If I had, perhaps I would have thought my actions through.”
Tentatively she raised her eyes to check his expression.
“You never fail to surprise me,” he admitted, taking her hand and threading it through his arm. He led her from the foliage, both feeling the tension of the past days melting away in each other’s presence.
0o0o0
The morning of her wedding came earlier than expected.
With a groan she stubbornly kept her eyes closed despite Beatrice's quiet pleas for her to awaken. It was only Batilda's well-experienced shake on the young woman's shoulder that forced the bride to greet the day.
Lady Beatrice of Calchvynydd, one of her chosen ladies-in-waiting, allowed relief to shine across her face as the bride stood up from her bed. Gwen realized, with a jolt, that the woman had actually been afraid to physically nudge her awake. She tried to hide her surprise at the married woman and instead dutifully marched behind her dressing partition where a large wooden bathtub was being filled.
The woman - a wife of one of the councilmen in her late twenties, had truly impressed her during the interview; she a motherly aura of sorts about her that had piqued Gwen's interest.
In addition to Beatrice, Gwen had picked Eleanor and Lady Catherine Gillert to attend her. Catherine was a month older than Guinevere and daughter to one of Uther's most trusted barons. Her sometimes brash attitude reminded Gwen much of Morgana. The foster sister, who had just been on her mind, entered Gwen's bedchamber looking remarkably awake.
Remarkable as, Gwen observed glumly, the sun had yet to rise.
“Fetch the Princess’ bath salts,” she ordered with ease to the nearest lady - Eleanor - who quickly acquiesced to the woman's demand.
“I’m not Princess, yet”, Guinevere grumbled into her crossed arms with a serious frown.
Without ceremony Batilda shooed the remaining women beyond the partition, leaving only Morgana in attendance.
Morgana ignored her friend’s mood as she inquired: “Did you sleep at all?” reaching for a ribbon to tie back her friend's curls.
“Enough,” Guinevere replied, surmising that she had managed a wink or two sometime over the course of the night. Her thoughts, her paranoia had kept her awake for far too long. She kept tossing and turning in her virginal bed, never forgetting that this was her last night as a maiden before Arthur introduced her to womanhood. It didn't help that she had to be prepped for her wedding at an unreasonable hour.
Between the two women Gwen was rubbed nearly raw in record time. Wrapped in a clean sheet she was given a meagre meal of bread and cheese. She chewed silently, watching as chambermaids baled the oil- and flower-scented water from the tub.
The day that had always seemed so far off had finally come.
Fear gripped her stomach so tightly that she forced herself to take bites of bread. The next chance she would have to eat would be at the wedding banquet later that evening. Best to take advantage of the food that she could stomach now instead of being weak from hunger later.
Once the last maid had vanished with her bucket of water, Gwen was rushed into an ivory lace-chemise. She busied herself with gazing at the rising sun as Batilda and Morgana divided her hair to brush, while her ladies adorned her face with a mix of cosmetics. Her hair, unadorned to showcase her virginal status, had been conditioned in a mixture of spices and herbs the previous day.
She was allowed a quick glimpse into the polished mirror above her vanity to see the transformation that had occurred.
Her hair, resting just above her waist, shone in the early morning light. Her normal, everyday cosmetics had been given a boost by the inclusion of rouge. Faintly she realized that her cheeks had taken an ashen quality to them due to her nerves, and that the bridal anxiety had been covered by paint. Clever of them it was.
As she was helped with dressing she allowed her eyes to flit over to her friend. Morgana, always rather fair-skinned, had seemed paler than she had ever seen her; in fact not so much pale, as green. She had taken note of it the first day of her friend’s arrival, but the woman's decisive behaviour had kept her from questioning whether she was indeed ill.
Now wasn't the time to ask her about it, though, as she was laced into her corset.
Pain shot through her abdomen as lady Beatrice pulled tight on her lacings, tighter than ever - Gwen often complained to Batilda about this, but something in Beatrice’s determined look of admiration at her now tiny waist, kept Guinevere from complaining this time. The lady’s extremely conservative views may be somewhat too strict, but such view was extremely useful now that she was about to walk down the isle in front of the entire Camelot. Guinevere wanted to avoid scorn and make the two Pendragon men waiting by the isle to be proud of her. So she kept her mouth shut, and adjusted her breathing to slow facile shallow breaths to keep from fainting.
After she was squeezed into the appropriate shape she was helped to step into the gown. The silk slid comfortingly over her skin, almost as if in an attempt to soothe her. It did little however as she still felt her morning meal flipping in her stomach.
“You look beautiful my lady,” Beatrice commented, twitching the blue cape to a better position. The woman reflected in the mirror did not seem to be her, yet Guinevere did not comment upon it.
Batilda led in her steward, Jeffrey. Having been absorbed in her thoughts she hadn't even heard him knock.
“A gift milady,” he announced, bowing before lifting up the wooden box in his hands for her viewing.
Nodding to Catherine, the steward relinquished the box before bowing himself out of the room. The bride tried not to feel awkward at such treatment. She had been shown great respect as the ward of King Uther, yet this next step of deference was still unknown.
The well-polished wood felt as sleek as the silk she wore once pressed into her hands.
With her ladies gathered about her she flipped open the lid, taking in the ornate necklace inside. Her fingertips gently glided over the silver chain, the five diamonds clinging to it, and the raindrop shaped pearl at its centre.
Morgana leaned a bit closer to her in order to observe it, a wistful smile alighting her features for a moment.
“That was my mother's,” she commented, her eyes remaining glued to the silver piece. “Father tucked much of it away. He must have dug it out specially for you; there is a note.”
Handing off the delicate necklace and matching earrings to Batilda, Gwen unfolded the bit of parchment that had been tucked inside the box.
§ This piece was a favourite of my mother's, and was a gift from my father upon their betrothal. I had thought first to give it to you then, but I thought perhaps it would be more meaningful the morning of our wedding. It would honour not only myself, but also my mother’s memory greatly, if you would wear it today.
- Arthur §
Blushing, she tucked the scrap into her palm before going over to her jewellery chest.
“It is from Arthur,” she managed to say, sneaking the paper into the chest so as to avoid prying eyes.
She tried to ignore the delighted giggle that Eleanor had made at such a revelation and instead swept back her curls from her neck.
“If you would, please,” she asked her nurse, feeling the cool clasp of the metal upon her neck a moment later.
The weight of the ornament across her collarbone felt reassuring, as if it's previous owner was standing beside her.
“I.... I think I am ready,” she said, glancing at her assorted company.
She could do this.
Drifting to the window stationed to overlook the courtyard she looked down upon the hustle and bustle below.
She could do this.
At least she hoped.
0o0o0
Numbly she allowed herself to be escorted into the horse drawn litter waiting in the courtyard. She ducked slightly to avoid knocking off the crown of white lilies and amaranths atop her curls, baby’s breath woven into her smoothed curls.
Batilda, in her best frock, climbed up after Morgana had situated herself beside Gwen. With a jolt the litter began to move, winding its way through the town to the large stone church there. For the knights and the lower barons the chapel in the citadel would have been used. Yet for a royal marriage the large structure resting in the town was the only option. As the actual wedding ceremony took place at the door to the church instead of inside it, the expanse of street about the building would provide room for spectators to see the future king take a bride.
Before she knew it they were coming to a halt a few yards beyond the path that had been cleared to the church doors. Had the ride been that fast? She willed her limbs to move yet found that she could not.
“Here.”
Morgana, having kept a close eye on her friend the entire ride, gave the young woman a gentle tug on the arm. The touch seemed to have thrown some sense into Gwen as she found it in herself to move her legs in order to be helped out.
Grabbing onto the extended hand of the page waiting beyond the litter so as not to trip on the heavy silk and muslin of her gown, Gwen allowed herself a glimpse of the gathered crowd. A sea of nobles greeted her eyes as she scanned the well-dressed group. The king, smiling, took her hand from the page. Uther seemed almost back to normal yet there was tell-tale tiredness about his eye that told her differently.
“You look beautiful, my dear,” he whispered to her, threading her hand through his arm. Nearly numb with nerves she could barely feel the soft material of his tunic sleeve as he led her through the path cleared by the nobles.
With shaking knees she allowed her guardian to lead her up the stone stairs to the church where Arthur stood, decked out in his chain mail and scarlet cloak. His coronet, showing to all that he was the Crown Prince, caught her attention in the morning light. She, too, would have something similar after this ceremony.
The boy she had grown up with squeezed her hand once Uther had passed her over. Taking her place at his left she held tightly onto his hand as if the limb itself was keeping her upright.
“'In faith we walk, in faith we love, and in faith we will live forevermore'...”
She found herself zoning out over the bishop's words. Even in Latin she was able to understand them thanks to the substantial education given to her by the late queen.
Thankfully Arthur was always the one to speak first as the male, prompting her to simply follow his lead. She repeated the practiced words without effort, faintly realizing that they spoke of faithfulness, subservience, the promise of heirs, and dedication to the people of Camelot. It was only the meaningful kiss upon her lips by the young man- her husband- before her that alerted her to the completion of the ceremony.
Applause rang out from the gathered crowd that left her with a roaring in her ears.
She vaguely realized that she had to smile and, in her haze, managed to bring a grin to her lips. The bishop, followed by Uther, led the party into the church where mass was to be celebrated.
“Gwen?”
The whispered word caught her attention in the sea of conundrum around them.
Glancing up at him by her side, she took in the clearly joyful expression of her husband. She had seen this reaction to their relationship before, on their betrothal.
Had he actually wanted this marriage? How could he? Even he for some reason was curious and interested in intercourse with her, didn’t he mind the arranged part of this union? Did he not have a will to choose his own mate, without the consideration of what is more profitable for the lands of Albion…
He didn't wait for her to reply and, she guessed, must have sensed her anxiety by the death grip she currently had on his arm. It truly must have been tight as he was currently wearing his mail and tunic, yet he had felt her grip atop his clothing.
His free hand came to rest upon her trembling one, covering it with his warmth.
Knowing that she wasn't alone despite being in the gaggle of courtiers, she lifted her head a bit higher and allowed him to lead her through the church.
0o0o0
People.
Everywhere.
Her head seemed to be spinning as she took in the numerous courtiers and visiting nobles that were strolling about the banquet hall. Were they really all here to see her and the man sitting beside her?
She kept a smile plastered to her face as noble after noble approached the dais to congratulate the pair. The faces soon turned into a blur, as did the compliments after the first few. She, normally so good with matching faces with names, was faltering when remembering who had just spoken with them.
She supposed she hadn't realized how scared she was for this to actually happen.
Yet the solid grip of the man beside her on her hand kept her grounded. Kept her from stumbling into panic.
More than once during the evening she almost caught herself reaching up a hand to check that her new coronet was truly upon her brow, despite feeling its weight. Uther had granted her the symbol of her new status before she had been led into the hall. It was considerably heavier than she had expected. Would her crown as queen be heavier? Literally and figuratively?
After what seemed like an endless line of well-wishers she was grateful when the musicians stroke up a tune.
With perhaps one of her few genuine smiles of the day Guinevere tugged upon Arthur's sleeve beneath the table.
He observed her over the rim of his wine goblet, knowing right away the silent question that she asked.
“If it pleases you, my lady,” he teased, setting down his goblet and standing. Reaching for her hand he led her to the cleared floor where some of the guests were taking the newly wed couple's lead.
The musicians chose a lively song, prompting the dancers to form two lines and follow the rather simple pattern of circling about the other line. It was a fast dance and a perfect way to get out her pent up energy and nerves of the day. Before she knew it she found herself laughing, clutching onto Arthur's hand as he led her through the next turn.
The beat changed, turning into farandole. A few of the younger barons grabbed hands with a handful of maidens making an arch. The dancers, joined by their hands, weaved in and out before making circles about the floor. Her heart caught in her throat as she hurried about the floor, laughing till she could barely breathe.
Dancing had managed to loosen her up it seemed, and she found it easier to speak to the guests as she made her rounds. It certainly helped her stomach, which had been too tight earlier to attempt eating any of the grand dishes that had been paraded about. Now she tried a bit of the puddings presented, savouring the sweet tastes upon her tongue.
It was during her third round about the hall to speak to guests that she found Morgana, standing far back in the hall nursing a goblet. The woman seemed extremely fatigued and, if Gwen had guessed correctly, slightly ill. Instantly she reached over to place a hand on her friend's arm.
“Are you alright?” she asked, having no fear that her words would be overheard in the crowded hall. Her friend glanced up at her before taking a quick sweep of the hall. Without words she led the bride from the group of nobles to an empty corridor, leaving Arthur’s line of sight for the first time this evening.
Not looking at her, Morgana stared down into her own goblet.
“I am with child.”
The princess faltered, unsure of how to respond.
Should she congratulate her friend? It was, after all, a woman's duty to bear children.
Or should she offer condolences for what the Urien had done to her?
Instead, she took a few steps forward, embracing her sister silently. Sharing her burden of being a woman in the world of men.
0o0o0
As the night drew on Gwen found her earlier relaxed state of mind turning into anxiety once more. She knew the reason, yet refused to dwell upon it. After all, the party would end at some point. And once the conundrum of courtiers disappeared, all that would be left would be her, Arthur and the awaiting marriage bed.
She shouldn't have been surprised as the hours dragged close to midnight when certain members of the nobility began to grow restless.
“Bedding!”
It only took one cry from a certain son of a certain baron for the word to be echoed among a few more inebriated guests. Men and women sprung to their feet as if they were about to ride out for a hunt; and she was the prey; and Arthur was the hunter in the lead.
Gwen looked up from her lap, where she had hidden her tear-pricking reaction to the word, to observe the guests. Women courtiers, who she knew whispered gossip behind her back, judging her and deeming her an unworthy Queen, could now openly demand a display of her humiliation. She has heard that in some cases the bride was stripped bare, not even by her new husband, but by the female guests and then was pushed and held down on the bed while the groom climbed on top…
She blinked, feeling sick with dread at the thought of this public violation. How was this legal when rape was not? The only difference was that as a bride, she would have to endure the remainder of her life with the man who violated her.
Then again, she knew Arthur was not a cruel man. Of course, he probably didn’t exactly look forward to such a mating, he was not a deviant. It was unfair of her to judge him thus…
It would be over quick, wouldn't it? Quick, meaningless, and then hopefully he wouldn't bother her for some time.
Right.