“How could they do this! We were doing nothing wrong. It was an innocent celebration. A celebration!” Morgana paced up and down as she spoke, her skin glowing with white heat.

Guinevere said nothing, her eyes and ears barely discerning as her mind replayed, over and over, the screams and cries that had overtaken drums and music.

“I thought I had seen the depth of Uther’s depraved hatred, but I never thought he would send soldiers of Camelot to slaughter unarmed villagers. And the childr-“ Morgana’s voice choked on a sob and their eyes met, “Oh gods…Gwen, the children…” and suddenly it seemed the light of her anger was extinguished, leaving her ashen.

Gwen felt her own tears loosen at last, and with a low cry she flung herself into Morgana’s arms, their hair and tears mingling, locked within inescapable images of horror, and Morgana’s voice whispering over and over the children the children the children.

They both jumped as the door to Morgana’s chamber opened, but it was only Merlin, looking as distraught as they felt.

“Are you alright?” he strode up to them and seemed about to touch Morgana’s arm, then drew back as though remembering himself, “Lady Morgana, Lady Guinevere,”

But Guinevere was so relieved to see his slender, youthful face unharmed that she impulsively threw her arms about him. “My friends call me Gwen, Merlin. And after all we’ve seen together this night I hardly think titles are necessary.”

He smiled, “Thank you…. ” then turned to Morgana, “I’ve just come from Arthur. He knew nothing of tonight’s ambush. The order must have come from the King.”

“Uther wanting to make his presence known, no doubt,” Morgana spat out his name like a poison.

“Did anyone see you return?” Merlin asked urgently. They both shook their heads, and then Gwen proceeded to tell them about her mysterious rescuer.  As she spoke she recalled the dark cerulean gaze fixed on her dancing, and the strong circle of his arms that laid her with care and gentleness upon the sand.

Merlin waited for her to finish, then added, “Milday…Gwen…it was Prince Arthur who rescued you.”

“What? No. No! Then he knows who I am, where we were-“

Merlin interjected, “He won’t tell Uther, or King Peadar. He’s true to his word, I assure you.”

She remembered again the sapphire gaze of his eyes, how his fingers, belying their strength, softly brushed a wisp of hair from her face. It had seemed almost natural to rest her head on his broad shoulder and let his arms encircle her…

Pull yourself together Gwen! This is no time for foolish fancies.

She looked out the window, expecting to see blood smearing the moon’s face. But it shone like a lidless eye, cold and unblinking, and she shivered, suddenly wishing for the dawn, to awake and find all this a terrible nightmare.

As from a distance she heard Morgana and Merlin talking,

“What I don’t understand is who those other soldiers were.”

 “They weren’t all from Camelot, and they didn’t bear the crest of Peadar’s house. Who were they?”

Guinevere wondered too, and she remembered Morgana’s last letter she had unfolded with such trembling hope by the sea-dawn. A change in the air for both of us.

Hadn’t Eirinn changed already? She had seen its citizens cut down on the shores of their homeland, and she had been spared the same fate by the inexplicable actions of a man whose political allegiance she had every reason to fear.

Whatever illusions were hers before this night, they were no more.

****

The Midsummer Feast at King Peadar’s court was always a sight to behold, but with the added presence of Camelot’s royal party as well as various dignitaries and lords from Eirinn the feast that year promised to outdo all others. Servants had toiled for weeks to prepare the food and bedeck the Great Hall, and on the eve of the feast the pillars and tables were covered with twined fresh blossoms, and the air swam with the fragrance of violet, hawthorn, honeysuckle and lavender.

Gwen reflected bitterly that the court could rejoice in Midsummer when, only days ago, villagers enjoying the same revels were mercilessly attacked.  The castle guard had doubled, and she and Morgana had been forced to spend hours in their chambers weaving or embroidering like the other noblewomen, until Morgana swore she would personally seize every loom in Eirinn and set them ablaze in a bonfire that would be seen across the seas.

While Gwen longed to visit the villagers and aid them if she could in tending their dead and wounded, and longed still to breathe the sea air freely, there was at least a miniscule benefit to their cloistering: she had yet to see Prince Arthur. While she had caught fleeting glimpses of his tall, broad-shouldered frame at the ends of quickly avoided hallways, or his mail-clad figure riding out with a hunting party at dawn, she had deliberately avoided interacting with him.

She had always imagined Arthur as an extension of Uther, embodying the same hatred, and lusting for power. Certainly Morgana often referred to his arrogance and high-handedness, and Merlin had once used the amusing term ‘prat’ to describe the Prince. What would she say to him?  She owed him her life, and his discretion thus far had protected her from Peadar’s anger, and yet she could not stifle her own anger that his presence, and his father’s presence, was the reason for bloodshed in her homeland.

And yet.

And yet.

He had saved her life. And now he kept her secret. She was too embarrassed to even confide in Morgana, that these past few nights when she lay sleepless, trying to drown out the images of death, it was his face that rose to mind. Her body would shiver with the memory of that dark sapphire gaze, like a feather brushed from her mouth to the tips of her breasts and toes.

Almost, almost she wished for the simple tedium of her life only a few weeks ago, before she had seen people cut down in front of her, before Uther Pendragon’s war on the old ways became terrifyingly real. Before his son’s eyes were a ghost touch upon her dreams.

Torn, confused and newly uncertain of what her future held, Guinevere felt as though she would rather face the mighty dragon Kilgarrah, than meet Arthur Pendragon’s eyes before the courts of Eirinn and Camelot.