Merlin Fic: Suitable Recompense for Services Rendered (Uther/OFC, Gaius) 1/1
The King. The Courtesan. The Physician. Everyone is using someone.
.
Minor spoilers for Valiant. The players are Uther/OFC and Gaius set around five years before the series starts. It's not a romance. Warning for enforced termination. PG-13 for non-explicit sex and adult themes. 3,200 words.
SUITABLE RECOMPENSE FOR SERVICES RENDERED
The room is hot, airless and heavy with the scent of dried herbs forming apt, if unnoticed, contrast to the breeze-tossed blossom and sun-brightened courtyard. At first, Agnes had been reluctant to follow the physician when he waylaid her saying he needed to talk on a matter of importance. He is old. She is healthy. In what manner could their paths possibly cross?
Then he explains.
“You must understand, you are not the first and you will not be the last.” Gaius is earnest, a little embarrassed at the offer he has been sent to convey.
Agnes laughs, a mixture of shock and relief that he is not speaking for himself. As if she…as if… Ridiculous. She bites a lip to stop the mirth bubbling over, tilts her chin provocatively, and asks, “What are you, his procurer?”
Gaius meets her look, impossible to tell if he is approving or disapproving. “The king will not offer attentions where they are not welcome. You are free to say ‘no’ and we will not speak of this matter again.”
She breathes deep. It’s beginning to dawn on her that this is not some sort of ill-conceived jest. Uther, the king, who she has met only twice - once when she was presented on her arrival at court and later in conversation with the Lady Morgana - has noticed her in that way. Agnes closes her eyes and tries to bring his image to mind but can only manage a cloaked figure on the balcony and a collection of objects - golden crown, black gloves and a heavy chain resting against a leather tunic. His face is a blur.
“And if I agree?”
She thinks later of the things Gaius might have said and does not. She may not have listened but he did not try. Later, later, as the years pass, still it surprises her, her bitterness towards this old man who never pretended to be on her side.
Gaius explains further.
Agnes runs her fingers along the worn velvet of her gown and lets his words flow over her, listening without really taking them in. There have been other mistresses since Igraine and three children, all unborn. Does she understand that? She nods ‘yes’ but clearly looks puzzled. He continues. There must be no threat to Arthur. Agnes must be under no illusions as to what is expected should she get with child. Of course, that will not happen, Gaius has a draught which prevents quickening. This is not news. She knows, through whispers, that this tincture is much sought-after by the castle ladies.
The gown has faded from red to pink under its two previous owners and the underlying threads are clearly visible in patches. Respectable poverty is relentless. Agnes lives with her father’s half-brother who has five children of his own to establish and who is glad for one mouth less to feed in her absence. They have been kind and she is grateful. She is here to fill the family coffers. It’s no secret. There’s no dowry but Agnes has looks in plenty and is expected to make an advantageous match. She is used to admiration, has come to expect the admiring eyes and turned heads as her due.
“We are not discussing marriage,” says Gaius. “You need to be certain of this. Uther will not take a second wife.”
Agnes’ mind supplies a picture of herself with a crown on her brow and a matching throne set by the king’s side. And why should she not? To have come this far is wholly unexpected and everyone knows where the eye admires the heart may easily follow. The bards would not lie. She wishes Gaius would cease prattling.
At last he does, winding down into what is obviously a concluding sentence, “I think you will find that the king is more than generous.”
She wonders how many times he has given this speech before. Her restless fingers rip into the gown. It is this more than the final word that seals her choice.
“I accept.”
So it happens. Agnes is invited to a small private supper with the implicit understanding that she will come alone. The king rises when she enters the room and pulls out a chair for her to sit. They make stilted conversation over food richer than any Agnes seen before. There are strange fruits and a choice of rich pastries. Uther brushes her hand, almost accidental, she turns her fingers up so they rest in his. He raises her palm to his lips. His mouth is warm and a little dry.
She has no comparisons, but supposes Uther must be a good lover being both enthusiastic and thorough. He is the king, so of course, there can be no complaints. They settle into a pattern of meeting once or twice a week. His moods are variable. Agnes learns to read them even though he refuses to discuss their causes turning aside her questions with compliments. He asks after her days but rarely listens to the answers.
“Why me?” she wonders.
“Beauty should not seek to question,” he replies. “It is enough that it exists.”
Agnes is lonely. Girls who she thought might become friends no longer return her greetings. She thinks perhaps they are jealous of the king’s favour. She is given a seat at the high table amongst the matrons and widows where the talk is double-edged and ribald and feigns a sophistication she rarely feels. Men approach her with requests for favours, their glance at once respectful and insolent. She is 20 and celebrates her birthday alone in her rooms with a necklace of fine rubies and her new maid, Alice, for company.
She knows now why he chose her. Igraine is a third party to their coupling. Agnes has never seen a portrait but Alice tells her the dead queen had long golden hair much like Agnes’ own. Sometimes, when it is too elaborately styled, Uther runs his fingers through the strands, pulling out pins until is flows loosely down her back. His eyes are unfocussed staring intently into the past. Once, she slapped his face hard, unwilling to be a living ghost for his fantasies. Uther slapped her back. It is the only time she has ever really seen his control slip. It scared her a little. But he can be attentive too. Agnes mentions in passing missing the sharp tang of bilberries that grow on the scrubland near her home. The next day there is a dish of them in her chambers. They are a little dry but when she shuts her eyes and chews she can imagine picking the berries, carding the course stems through her fingers.
Agnes supposes she is happy. She no longer imagines being queen. It is not that Uther cannot love, but he is closed off. He does not offer enough of himself for her to love him, or ask enough of her for her to be fooled into thinking herself anything other than a pleasing diversion.
One day she spies the Lady Morgana walking alone along the castle terrace and calls out. Morgana spins around, scarlet cloak billowing, and slips back into the interior leaving Agnes confused and a little annoyed.
“Have I offended Morgana?” she asks Uther over supper. It is late autumn. A dozen logs burn in the huge fireplace. Agnes reaches down and throws in another simply for the pleasure of being able to do so. “She seemed to go out of her way to avoid me earlier.”
Uther moves his chair further from the blaze. He reaches for his goblet and takes a sip of wine. “It’s good to see that she occasionally obeys instructions.”
Agnes makes her face a question, and when no answer is forthcoming, asks directly with none of the usual tact she employs, “Instructed for what reason?”
He starts a little at the tone. The answer is brusque. “Of all things, I have never thought you foolish, Agnes. You must know it is not seemly for Morgana to be seen with you.”
She stiffens, feels a buzzing in her ears as the pieces fall into place. “And the other unmarried ladies of court?”
“The same.” Uther is unperturbed, surprised only at her surprise. He runs a finger up her arm. The gesture is unusually gentle. “You cannot have expected otherwise.”
It hurts. And in the dull misery of the moment she’s not even sure if it is worse to know the extent of her stupidity or to realise that she is considered wanton.
“You have ruined me,” she says simply.
“You were hardly unwilling,” Uther responds, irritated now. He is not used his actions being questioned. He adds placatingly, “You must know that I will never let you want.”
“And when you get tired of me?”
“You shall not want.”
It’s not really an answer. She persists, “So you will buy me a husband? Or a place in a nunnery?” The words come out bitter.
“If that is what you want.” He tries gallantry, seeking to lighten her mood. “I don’t advise it though. You are far too pretty to be a nun.”
Agnes takes a sip of wine almost without thinking. She rolls it around in her mouth, savouring the full flavour that is nothing like the thin ales she grew up drinking. This, then is her future: some sort of pension; marriage to a penurious noble far away, too desperate for favour to consider who or what he is marrying; a widower looking for a young wife; a commuty of nuns. She shakes her head to dislodge the visions. Only six months ago any of these save the last would have seemed a triumph. She drinks again, the wine freeing her tongue. She wants to hurt and knows exactly how.
“And Arthur?”
Uther’s eyes flick up. “What about him?”
She’s noticed that. Uther rarely calls his son by name and when he does it’s almost with embarrassment. At first Agnes thought it was indifference but in fact it is the opposite. It is as if he is afraid of betraying too much. Arthur visits the king for an hour every day between lessons and training. At the end of these sessions neither look happy but Uther has made it clear that these times are never to be interrupted.
“Will I sully him, also, if I get too close?”
He’s guarded now. “I cannot see an occasion where that should happen.”
She presses, “But, if it did? Say, I met Arthur in the library or on his way to the training ground? Have you told him to turn away or am I expected to do the running?” She drinks again and runs her tongue across her lower lip. “He’s a pretty child. Already he draws eyes, I should very much like to know him better.”
Uther smiles, as if humouring her in a jest, but the effect is chilling. “The prince is young and you are beautiful. I would rather not fight my son for your favours.”
She stands up, suddenly furious as much with herself as with him. “I am not a whore to spread my favours around.”
His is angry now, in turn. “No. The king demands exclusivity.”
Agnes makes to move but he catches her with a gloved hand. She pulls at his breeches so sharply the laces snap. They make love with a passion rare to them as if each trying to prove something to the other. He mutters endearments but it is not her name on his lips when he comes. After, he does not linger. Agnes is glad.
Later a servant brings round a bracelet of heavy gold links. She wears it with pleasure. It is a beautiful piece and there is no reason not to. They continue as before. Agnes starts to think of an ‘after’ and all that this will mean.
The married ladies provide company. Nobles find excuses to ask her questions or put in little requests, the latter often accompanied by some small trinket. Agnes sells the gifts and hoards the money. Sometimes she passes the requests on. More often she does not. She finds power provides it own kind of satisfaction. She is 21.
Then it happens.
One month. Two months. It is a shock as she has been so careful. Of course, there was that night when the boar was badly roasted and the whole of the court afflicted with sickness. Anges tells herself not to panic. Three months. She should see Gaius and ask his advice. Not that there is a choice. There has never been any question of what she would have to do. Still she hesitates.
Uther makes love to her. His hand splays across her belly, holding her firmly, fingers damp with sweat. He is her king and she has sworn an oath as to her conduct should this situation occur. It matters not. She makes a decision.
An emergency, Agnes explains. Her aunt is unwell. Of course she must go immediately and help care for her cousins. Uther gives his consent. Gaius visits her rooms as she packs. He’s prepared a soothing drink to ensure she sleeps soundly before the journey - a little something warm and sweet that will slip down easily, he say. She’s wiser now in the ways of court and wonders how much private information her maid has passed on. She thanks Gaius, takes a sip and pours the remainder into the chamber pot when he leaves. Then she makes herself sick.
Agnes sends a message to Alice saying she is feeling unwell and is not to be disturbed before morning. Certain of being left alone, she takes a knife and cuts her arm deep as she can bear smearing the blood on the bedsheets. She hopes there will be enough blood to be convincing. She has done what she can. She binds the wound, gathers her jewels and money and prepares to flee.
Taking the horse is obvious but the journey is too far to go on foot. Agnes takes the back roads and hopes for the best. In fact, she is only two hours into her journey before she finds herself surrounded by riders. Gaius is there. Uther is not. At this moment she is not sure which of them she hates more.
They escort her back to Camelot. Her old quarters except now there is lock on the outside of the door. The sheets have been changed, she notes, the linen fresh and smelling of lavender. Gaius cleans and rebinds the cut on her arm smearing on salve so it won’t go bad.
“It will not hurt,” says Gaius as the evening sun slants through the high windows. They have spent the day in silence. “Just drink the potion and you will be free to go, forever, if you wish.”
“No.”
He continues as if she has not spoken, “Agnes, you must understand, you will drink the potion. The time to say no is two years past. Now you must make good on the promises made then.”
“No.” She is reduced to monosyllabic defiance.
“There is no point is putting the moment off. It only makes it more difficult.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he says kindly, but implacable.
Her hands are folded across her stomach. Her arm throbs under its wrapping. Tears of frustration roll down her face. “Why? Do you hate me that much?”
“It has never been about you.” Gaius busies himself measuring and pouring. “My loyalty is to the king. And to his son who will be king. Now, will you drink?”
He comes close. She fights. Gaius is old and does not put any effort in. After a while she realises that he wants the blows. She has a sudden vision of scratching and scratching, tearing at his face until the features are obliterated and there is nothing left but a pulpy mess. Outside the door the guards call out alerted by their scuffles. Agnes drops her hand. It is hopeless and she will not give him that satisfaction.
“I’m sorry,” Gaius says at last. There is blood running down his cheek from where her nails have dug in. Forgive me hangs in the air unsaid. The potion has been spilt but already he is preparing a new batch.
“I care not for your sorrow,” she replies, “Go to the priests if you desire absolution.”
It’s over quickly. Gaius is on hand to staunch the bleeding. She shrinks from his touch but lets him do what he must. She heals slowly, picking at the choice morsels brought twice daily on a silver tray. There are bilberries. She throws the dish against the wall, then regrets the gesture and picks each one up carefully. She doesn’t eat them just watches as they shrivel in the dish.
She has a new maid now, a young girl from the lower town who blushes and trips over her words when she is addressed. Agnes does not ask what has happened to Alice.
Uther has received an offer for her hand. The house of Valiant is old and distinguished. Agnes knows instinctively that she will not conceive again but that does not matter as the Duke already has a grown son from his first marriage. She declines. It is the first time Uther has met her directly since she asked to leave Camelot. They talk politely like strangers. He comes again offering more money for her dowry. Again Agnes refuses. She realises she has become something of an embarrassment. Uther does not feel guilty because he not that kind of man, but he would be pleased if she went away out of sight and mind. She intends to but is not going to make it easy. In their time together she has at least learned to read Uther to know how far he can be pushed. She holds out for still more money and when it is offered she finally agrees.
Agnes sees Valiant for the first time at their wedding. He is younger than Uther but appears older. He looks kind and Agnes tries to believe that this will be enough. Valiant’s son is older than she is.
“Welcome mother,” he says. There is nothing filial in his moody gaze.
The wedding feast is held in the great hall. Uther drinks their health and wishes them many sons and beautiful daughters. Arthur and Morgana are in attendance on either side of the king. Morgana embraces her warmly and this time it is Agnes who quickly turns away. She is wearing a silk dress and a necklace of gold and pearls. The newlyweds and their party leave court immediately the meal is over. Home is a long ride north.
Agnes shivers and Valiant drapes his cloak over her shoulders. She thinks of what it is like to lose a child. To have a child ripped away from you is a pain that never goes away. It is feeling that Agnes nurtures where all other feeling is gone. It gives reason to her existence. She pulls Valiant’s cloak closer around her. These days she is always cold. But that is no matter. Revenge is not a matter to be plotted in heat. She has time.
.
Minor spoilers for Valiant. The players are Uther/OFC and Gaius set around five years before the series starts. It's not a romance. Warning for enforced termination. PG-13 for non-explicit sex and adult themes. 3,200 words.
SUITABLE RECOMPENSE FOR SERVICES RENDERED
The room is hot, airless and heavy with the scent of dried herbs forming apt, if unnoticed, contrast to the breeze-tossed blossom and sun-brightened courtyard. At first, Agnes had been reluctant to follow the physician when he waylaid her saying he needed to talk on a matter of importance. He is old. She is healthy. In what manner could their paths possibly cross?
Then he explains.
“You must understand, you are not the first and you will not be the last.” Gaius is earnest, a little embarrassed at the offer he has been sent to convey.
Agnes laughs, a mixture of shock and relief that he is not speaking for himself. As if she…as if… Ridiculous. She bites a lip to stop the mirth bubbling over, tilts her chin provocatively, and asks, “What are you, his procurer?”
Gaius meets her look, impossible to tell if he is approving or disapproving. “The king will not offer attentions where they are not welcome. You are free to say ‘no’ and we will not speak of this matter again.”
She breathes deep. It’s beginning to dawn on her that this is not some sort of ill-conceived jest. Uther, the king, who she has met only twice - once when she was presented on her arrival at court and later in conversation with the Lady Morgana - has noticed her in that way. Agnes closes her eyes and tries to bring his image to mind but can only manage a cloaked figure on the balcony and a collection of objects - golden crown, black gloves and a heavy chain resting against a leather tunic. His face is a blur.
“And if I agree?”
She thinks later of the things Gaius might have said and does not. She may not have listened but he did not try. Later, later, as the years pass, still it surprises her, her bitterness towards this old man who never pretended to be on her side.
Gaius explains further.
Agnes runs her fingers along the worn velvet of her gown and lets his words flow over her, listening without really taking them in. There have been other mistresses since Igraine and three children, all unborn. Does she understand that? She nods ‘yes’ but clearly looks puzzled. He continues. There must be no threat to Arthur. Agnes must be under no illusions as to what is expected should she get with child. Of course, that will not happen, Gaius has a draught which prevents quickening. This is not news. She knows, through whispers, that this tincture is much sought-after by the castle ladies.
The gown has faded from red to pink under its two previous owners and the underlying threads are clearly visible in patches. Respectable poverty is relentless. Agnes lives with her father’s half-brother who has five children of his own to establish and who is glad for one mouth less to feed in her absence. They have been kind and she is grateful. She is here to fill the family coffers. It’s no secret. There’s no dowry but Agnes has looks in plenty and is expected to make an advantageous match. She is used to admiration, has come to expect the admiring eyes and turned heads as her due.
“We are not discussing marriage,” says Gaius. “You need to be certain of this. Uther will not take a second wife.”
Agnes’ mind supplies a picture of herself with a crown on her brow and a matching throne set by the king’s side. And why should she not? To have come this far is wholly unexpected and everyone knows where the eye admires the heart may easily follow. The bards would not lie. She wishes Gaius would cease prattling.
At last he does, winding down into what is obviously a concluding sentence, “I think you will find that the king is more than generous.”
She wonders how many times he has given this speech before. Her restless fingers rip into the gown. It is this more than the final word that seals her choice.
“I accept.”
So it happens. Agnes is invited to a small private supper with the implicit understanding that she will come alone. The king rises when she enters the room and pulls out a chair for her to sit. They make stilted conversation over food richer than any Agnes seen before. There are strange fruits and a choice of rich pastries. Uther brushes her hand, almost accidental, she turns her fingers up so they rest in his. He raises her palm to his lips. His mouth is warm and a little dry.
She has no comparisons, but supposes Uther must be a good lover being both enthusiastic and thorough. He is the king, so of course, there can be no complaints. They settle into a pattern of meeting once or twice a week. His moods are variable. Agnes learns to read them even though he refuses to discuss their causes turning aside her questions with compliments. He asks after her days but rarely listens to the answers.
“Why me?” she wonders.
“Beauty should not seek to question,” he replies. “It is enough that it exists.”
Agnes is lonely. Girls who she thought might become friends no longer return her greetings. She thinks perhaps they are jealous of the king’s favour. She is given a seat at the high table amongst the matrons and widows where the talk is double-edged and ribald and feigns a sophistication she rarely feels. Men approach her with requests for favours, their glance at once respectful and insolent. She is 20 and celebrates her birthday alone in her rooms with a necklace of fine rubies and her new maid, Alice, for company.
She knows now why he chose her. Igraine is a third party to their coupling. Agnes has never seen a portrait but Alice tells her the dead queen had long golden hair much like Agnes’ own. Sometimes, when it is too elaborately styled, Uther runs his fingers through the strands, pulling out pins until is flows loosely down her back. His eyes are unfocussed staring intently into the past. Once, she slapped his face hard, unwilling to be a living ghost for his fantasies. Uther slapped her back. It is the only time she has ever really seen his control slip. It scared her a little. But he can be attentive too. Agnes mentions in passing missing the sharp tang of bilberries that grow on the scrubland near her home. The next day there is a dish of them in her chambers. They are a little dry but when she shuts her eyes and chews she can imagine picking the berries, carding the course stems through her fingers.
Agnes supposes she is happy. She no longer imagines being queen. It is not that Uther cannot love, but he is closed off. He does not offer enough of himself for her to love him, or ask enough of her for her to be fooled into thinking herself anything other than a pleasing diversion.
One day she spies the Lady Morgana walking alone along the castle terrace and calls out. Morgana spins around, scarlet cloak billowing, and slips back into the interior leaving Agnes confused and a little annoyed.
“Have I offended Morgana?” she asks Uther over supper. It is late autumn. A dozen logs burn in the huge fireplace. Agnes reaches down and throws in another simply for the pleasure of being able to do so. “She seemed to go out of her way to avoid me earlier.”
Uther moves his chair further from the blaze. He reaches for his goblet and takes a sip of wine. “It’s good to see that she occasionally obeys instructions.”
Agnes makes her face a question, and when no answer is forthcoming, asks directly with none of the usual tact she employs, “Instructed for what reason?”
He starts a little at the tone. The answer is brusque. “Of all things, I have never thought you foolish, Agnes. You must know it is not seemly for Morgana to be seen with you.”
She stiffens, feels a buzzing in her ears as the pieces fall into place. “And the other unmarried ladies of court?”
“The same.” Uther is unperturbed, surprised only at her surprise. He runs a finger up her arm. The gesture is unusually gentle. “You cannot have expected otherwise.”
It hurts. And in the dull misery of the moment she’s not even sure if it is worse to know the extent of her stupidity or to realise that she is considered wanton.
“You have ruined me,” she says simply.
“You were hardly unwilling,” Uther responds, irritated now. He is not used his actions being questioned. He adds placatingly, “You must know that I will never let you want.”
“And when you get tired of me?”
“You shall not want.”
It’s not really an answer. She persists, “So you will buy me a husband? Or a place in a nunnery?” The words come out bitter.
“If that is what you want.” He tries gallantry, seeking to lighten her mood. “I don’t advise it though. You are far too pretty to be a nun.”
Agnes takes a sip of wine almost without thinking. She rolls it around in her mouth, savouring the full flavour that is nothing like the thin ales she grew up drinking. This, then is her future: some sort of pension; marriage to a penurious noble far away, too desperate for favour to consider who or what he is marrying; a widower looking for a young wife; a commuty of nuns. She shakes her head to dislodge the visions. Only six months ago any of these save the last would have seemed a triumph. She drinks again, the wine freeing her tongue. She wants to hurt and knows exactly how.
“And Arthur?”
Uther’s eyes flick up. “What about him?”
She’s noticed that. Uther rarely calls his son by name and when he does it’s almost with embarrassment. At first Agnes thought it was indifference but in fact it is the opposite. It is as if he is afraid of betraying too much. Arthur visits the king for an hour every day between lessons and training. At the end of these sessions neither look happy but Uther has made it clear that these times are never to be interrupted.
“Will I sully him, also, if I get too close?”
He’s guarded now. “I cannot see an occasion where that should happen.”
She presses, “But, if it did? Say, I met Arthur in the library or on his way to the training ground? Have you told him to turn away or am I expected to do the running?” She drinks again and runs her tongue across her lower lip. “He’s a pretty child. Already he draws eyes, I should very much like to know him better.”
Uther smiles, as if humouring her in a jest, but the effect is chilling. “The prince is young and you are beautiful. I would rather not fight my son for your favours.”
She stands up, suddenly furious as much with herself as with him. “I am not a whore to spread my favours around.”
His is angry now, in turn. “No. The king demands exclusivity.”
Agnes makes to move but he catches her with a gloved hand. She pulls at his breeches so sharply the laces snap. They make love with a passion rare to them as if each trying to prove something to the other. He mutters endearments but it is not her name on his lips when he comes. After, he does not linger. Agnes is glad.
Later a servant brings round a bracelet of heavy gold links. She wears it with pleasure. It is a beautiful piece and there is no reason not to. They continue as before. Agnes starts to think of an ‘after’ and all that this will mean.
The married ladies provide company. Nobles find excuses to ask her questions or put in little requests, the latter often accompanied by some small trinket. Agnes sells the gifts and hoards the money. Sometimes she passes the requests on. More often she does not. She finds power provides it own kind of satisfaction. She is 21.
Then it happens.
One month. Two months. It is a shock as she has been so careful. Of course, there was that night when the boar was badly roasted and the whole of the court afflicted with sickness. Anges tells herself not to panic. Three months. She should see Gaius and ask his advice. Not that there is a choice. There has never been any question of what she would have to do. Still she hesitates.
Uther makes love to her. His hand splays across her belly, holding her firmly, fingers damp with sweat. He is her king and she has sworn an oath as to her conduct should this situation occur. It matters not. She makes a decision.
An emergency, Agnes explains. Her aunt is unwell. Of course she must go immediately and help care for her cousins. Uther gives his consent. Gaius visits her rooms as she packs. He’s prepared a soothing drink to ensure she sleeps soundly before the journey - a little something warm and sweet that will slip down easily, he say. She’s wiser now in the ways of court and wonders how much private information her maid has passed on. She thanks Gaius, takes a sip and pours the remainder into the chamber pot when he leaves. Then she makes herself sick.
Agnes sends a message to Alice saying she is feeling unwell and is not to be disturbed before morning. Certain of being left alone, she takes a knife and cuts her arm deep as she can bear smearing the blood on the bedsheets. She hopes there will be enough blood to be convincing. She has done what she can. She binds the wound, gathers her jewels and money and prepares to flee.
Taking the horse is obvious but the journey is too far to go on foot. Agnes takes the back roads and hopes for the best. In fact, she is only two hours into her journey before she finds herself surrounded by riders. Gaius is there. Uther is not. At this moment she is not sure which of them she hates more.
They escort her back to Camelot. Her old quarters except now there is lock on the outside of the door. The sheets have been changed, she notes, the linen fresh and smelling of lavender. Gaius cleans and rebinds the cut on her arm smearing on salve so it won’t go bad.
“It will not hurt,” says Gaius as the evening sun slants through the high windows. They have spent the day in silence. “Just drink the potion and you will be free to go, forever, if you wish.”
“No.”
He continues as if she has not spoken, “Agnes, you must understand, you will drink the potion. The time to say no is two years past. Now you must make good on the promises made then.”
“No.” She is reduced to monosyllabic defiance.
“There is no point is putting the moment off. It only makes it more difficult.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he says kindly, but implacable.
Her hands are folded across her stomach. Her arm throbs under its wrapping. Tears of frustration roll down her face. “Why? Do you hate me that much?”
“It has never been about you.” Gaius busies himself measuring and pouring. “My loyalty is to the king. And to his son who will be king. Now, will you drink?”
He comes close. She fights. Gaius is old and does not put any effort in. After a while she realises that he wants the blows. She has a sudden vision of scratching and scratching, tearing at his face until the features are obliterated and there is nothing left but a pulpy mess. Outside the door the guards call out alerted by their scuffles. Agnes drops her hand. It is hopeless and she will not give him that satisfaction.
“I’m sorry,” Gaius says at last. There is blood running down his cheek from where her nails have dug in. Forgive me hangs in the air unsaid. The potion has been spilt but already he is preparing a new batch.
“I care not for your sorrow,” she replies, “Go to the priests if you desire absolution.”
It’s over quickly. Gaius is on hand to staunch the bleeding. She shrinks from his touch but lets him do what he must. She heals slowly, picking at the choice morsels brought twice daily on a silver tray. There are bilberries. She throws the dish against the wall, then regrets the gesture and picks each one up carefully. She doesn’t eat them just watches as they shrivel in the dish.
She has a new maid now, a young girl from the lower town who blushes and trips over her words when she is addressed. Agnes does not ask what has happened to Alice.
Uther has received an offer for her hand. The house of Valiant is old and distinguished. Agnes knows instinctively that she will not conceive again but that does not matter as the Duke already has a grown son from his first marriage. She declines. It is the first time Uther has met her directly since she asked to leave Camelot. They talk politely like strangers. He comes again offering more money for her dowry. Again Agnes refuses. She realises she has become something of an embarrassment. Uther does not feel guilty because he not that kind of man, but he would be pleased if she went away out of sight and mind. She intends to but is not going to make it easy. In their time together she has at least learned to read Uther to know how far he can be pushed. She holds out for still more money and when it is offered she finally agrees.
Agnes sees Valiant for the first time at their wedding. He is younger than Uther but appears older. He looks kind and Agnes tries to believe that this will be enough. Valiant’s son is older than she is.
“Welcome mother,” he says. There is nothing filial in his moody gaze.
The wedding feast is held in the great hall. Uther drinks their health and wishes them many sons and beautiful daughters. Arthur and Morgana are in attendance on either side of the king. Morgana embraces her warmly and this time it is Agnes who quickly turns away. She is wearing a silk dress and a necklace of gold and pearls. The newlyweds and their party leave court immediately the meal is over. Home is a long ride north.
Agnes shivers and Valiant drapes his cloak over her shoulders. She thinks of what it is like to lose a child. To have a child ripped away from you is a pain that never goes away. It is feeling that Agnes nurtures where all other feeling is gone. It gives reason to her existence. She pulls Valiant’s cloak closer around her. These days she is always cold. But that is no matter. Revenge is not a matter to be plotted in heat. She has time.