The mead was flowing as the night wore on, and the musicians turned out jig after jig until many of them were compelled to throw off their hats, roll up their sleeves and loosen their collars. Even Uther Pendragon was laughing uproariously, gesturing for his goblet to be filled over and over.

Guinevere caught Arthur’s eyes across the table, and his slow smile made her blush. ‘Twas a good thing Morgana was absent after all, she mused. Her friend would have taken fiendish delight in teasing her.

Lord Melwas, not blind to the exchange between Arthur and Guinevere, now stood up and clapped his hands to gain the musicians’ attentions.

“Let us have a summer waltz!” he demanded, and a hum of approval went about the room. He walked up to Guinevere,  “Milady, would you join me in leading?”

Arthur could see her tense slightly, a faint stiffness in her shoulders as she declined quietly but graciously.

“Oh but I insist, milady,” Melwas lowered his voice, “You do poorly at concealing your love of dance.” Gwen’s eyes shot up to his face, shock and realization dawning in them.

“Go on, Guinevere,” Peadar urged loudly, face mead-flushed, “Let’s show our guests how we Eirish celebrate.”  All eyes were on her once again, and she could not refuse without breaking courtly politeness.

“Very well,” and she reluctantly put her hand in Melwas and let him lead her to the floor, trying to maintain a calm countenance as his other arm circled her waist and pulled her hip against his.

“You look enchanting tonight, my dear,” he whispered wetly as they awaited the music, “Is it all for him then?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she kept her gaze straight ahead as the music began and the dance moved forward.

Though nothing could compare to the pure bliss of spinning barefoot to drumbeats, summer waltzes were actually Guinevere’s favourite courtly dances; usually a multi-partner dance that began with slow stateliness and progressed into a series of lifts and turns, it came closest to the dancing she truly enjoyed.

But Melwas’ words rang in her mind, over and over until she felt sick, and her body stiffened each time his groping hands lifted and turned her. It was his men that had joined Camelot’s soldiers. Of course. He must have had me followed. It’s all my fault…if I had not joined them those people would still be safe.

“Come, Guinevere,” Melwas turned her again, holding her body flush against the length of his, far closer than the dance required, “You are far too sombre tonight. Smile for me.”

“I cannot command my smiles, anymore than you can milord.”

He pulled her to him again, and this time his voice was low and deadly, “Smile for me, or I’ll have the rest of your peasant rabble burned alive.”

She gasped, and he slowly released her into the continuing motions of the dance. Guinevere took two turns, then another, bracing herself for Melwas’ iron grip on her wrists and waist. Instead the hand that grasped her wrist was gentle, and the arm around her waist strong yet familiar. She looked up into Arthur’s eyes. When had he joined in? He lifted her easily, setting her down without missing a single beat.
”Sire,” was all she could manage, suddenly breathless.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Melwas, but now Arthur was turning her, and the leashed strength she could sense in his arm led her with ease around the floor. He lifted her again, the solid heat of his body seeming to burn through her clothes.

“I owe you my life,” she blurted when he set her down to join their palms and continue into the seamless motions of the dance.

“Was Lord Melwas’ dancing that odious then?”

The teasing glint in his eyes made him seem even more handsome, and as he lifted her one last time she marvelled at the ease with which his arms held her, the way her own body seemed to mould effortlessly to the strong lines of his. Suddenly the room swam with images of their first meeting, vivid and dream-like, beautiful and violent, until she could smell the blood and see the torchlight and feel the way his eyes had pierced her in all the secret places of her body.  Gwen felt light-headed. She wanted to flee the room before she shattered into a million fragments.

She wanted Arthur Pendragon’s hands on her bare skin.

Arthur released her small frame, his eyes scanning her beautiful face, searching for something he could not name. He placed a soft kiss upon her hand, feeling a shiver go through her, and his body tightened with a sudden longing to pull her against him.

Gwen managed a small bow, “Thank you, milord. If…you would excuse me,” and without waiting for a response she hurried out, head spinning, the skin of her hand aflame where his lips had been.

She needed air.

Arthur would have followed her, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Melwas.

”She is spoken for, Pendragon.”
Arthur cocked an eyebrow, “I beg your pardon?”

Melwas’ cold slow smile did not reach his eyes, “And I grant it.  But if you continue to pursue her I shall not do so a second time.”

Arthur ‘s eyes were suddenly glitter-bright as ice, “Are you threatening me?”

Melwas retreated, “Not at all, milord. I am merely protective of what’s mine, as any man would be. Surely you understand”

“Quite.  And if I’m ever found ransacking your house or running off with your livestock, I assume you’ll be prepared to put your sword where your mouth is,” Arthur stepped close as he spoke, meeting the other’s man’s eyes squarely, “Until then, Melwas, I am not inclined to abide idle threats. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a long pause, until Melwas finally affected a stiff bow, “Indeed milord. Very clear.”

Guinevere savoured the cool night air on her heated skin, dragging in the ocean-scent to her lungs.  Her pounding heart slowed at last.

 A cloud covered the waning moon in sudden darkness, and her head jerked at the sounds of footsteps.  She edged cautiously down the hallway, thinking perhaps to find one of Melwas’ spies.

”Who is it?”

She caught vague sight of a cloaked outline, slipping between the shadows. The moon unveiled itself, and in the pale beams she glimpsed a woman’s face, hard and beautiful as a new-forged blade, framed in bright hair. Her eyes flashed gold.  A cold wave of fear washed over her, but before Guinevere could speak, darkness overtook the moon again, and she cried aloud at the sound of a voice behind her.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you,” it was Arthur.

She blinked, scanning the hallway for the woman, but there was only the misty darkness.

“Are you alight?” he placed a hand on her arm, marvelling at how easily his fingers could encircle the slender limb.

“Did you see her?  There was a woman.  I thought...” Gwen shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She could have sworn the woman’s eyes shone gold with magic.

“I could ask the patrol to scan the courtyard…”

“No. No it’s nothing….I must have imagined it,” she realised Arthur held her arm, that he stood close enough for her to count the shades of blue in his eyes. Then his words registered, and a plan formed in her mind.

“I know I owe you much already, milord...would you think me remiss if I ask another favour?”

“Another horrible dance partner you wish to avoid?” he teased.

She smiled and Arthur wondered if it was the mead buzzed in his head, making it difficult to think, “I was hoping milord….I was hoping you would help me deliver some aid to the villagers that were attacked. Some supplies for tending their wounded…they have nowhere to turn to. Peadar has forbidden the court physician from attending them.”

She pressed on, “The guards will not stop you from leaving. If you…”

“I fear that would be too great a risk, for you and me both. It’s better if…,” she drew back, her face shadowed, and Arthur instantly regretted his words.

“It would be better if we have the servants deliver them. Perhaps Merlin…,”

“You would allow your servants to risk what you would not?” she asked quietly.

“I--,”

But Gwen felt suddenly foolish and vulnerable, ashamed of the way she had let him affect her. She should have known better.

“I see you are indeed the son of Uther Pendragon,” she said softly, then swept past him.

Arthur remained in the dark, staring after her retreating figure. The moon blinked away the eyelids of cloud once, twice, three times. And still her words remained.

The son of Uther Pendragon.