“Apologies, milady. But I cannot let you pass.”

Gwen looked up at the guards, one of Camelot and the other of Eirinn, their crossed lances and unreadable faces, “Surely you can make an exception?” she softened her voice to a feminine plea, “The Lady Morgana is unwell, and the physician has recommended fresh air.”

He glanced at Morgana, whose pallor was only highlighted by the shadows under her eyes. The men exchanged looks, then the taller one gestured at the basket Gwen held, “Could I see what you carry, milady?”

Her hands tightened involuntarily around the handle; she had secreted an assemblage of medicinal supplies beneath the bread and cheese.

“This is ridiculous!” Morgana interjected, “We are royal wards, not prisoners.”

The guard bowed but did not retract, “I am sorry, milady Morgana. But our orders come from their royal Highnesses King Uther and King Peadar. No one is to pass without an escort until we can determine the lower towns are free of…undesirables.”

“Those ‘undesirables’ are citizens of Eirinn,” Guinevere looked them in the eyes, her petite stature unbowed, “As am I.”

They shuffled their feet, discomfited.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arthur’s voice sounded behind them.

“Sire!” their demeanour humbled instantly. “We were merely letting Lady Guinevere know that - ,”

Arthur dismounted his horse, “Whatever knowledge you’re presuming to share, it can wait. I am escorting Lady Guinevere and Lady Morgana for the afternoon.”

Gwen and Morgana both gaped, then quickly schooled their features as the newly chastened guards now rushed to humble themselves, “Forgive us, milord. We did not know -, “

“I’m quite sure the things you don’t know would fill up the entire afternoon,” Arthur snapped, every inch the prince.   “Make yourself useful and go fetch my servant. Tell him he should bring the horses out here in five minutes if he values his job.”

“Right away, milord,” and the Camelotian soldier hurried off.

Gwen kept a steady gaze on her feet, feeling her face and ears burn.  If Arthur noticed her discomfort he said nothing, making easy small talk with Morgana as they waited.

Gwen stole a glance at him: in the early afternoon sunlight he was brilliantly handsome, a brown coat offsetting his broad shoulders, a contrast to the white shirt that, though loosely held in place with his sword-belt, nevertheless whispered the muscular lines of his torso. Her cheeks burned hotter, and she quickly averted her gaze before he noticed.

Finally Merlin was seen hurrying up with the horses in tow, but Guinevere noticed with dismay that only one of the horses was equipped with a sidesaddle. She had worn a simple linen gown with no stockings, due to the warm summer air; practical for walking, but highly inappropriate for riding astride.

“Where have you been Merlin? Scouring the plains for wild horses to tame?” Merlin rolled his eyes at Arthur, and Gwen could discern mutterings about prattish princes. He looked over at her apologetically, “The side-saddles are being mended, and the stable-master only had one to spare for the day. He hadn’t expected any ladies of the court to request them.”

Gwen was about to suggest that perhaps they could all walk, as she and Morgana originally intended, when Arthur announced that she could ride with him. “That is, if she would deign to share saddle space with me,” he turned to her, a challenge in his blue eyes. Of course. He had been aware of her embarrassment the whole time, and now he was taking full advantage of it. Suddenly she was infuriated. Infuriated that he could see through her so easily. Infuriated that despite everything her heart fluttered like a canary whenever he was near.

She merely nodded, not trusting herself to speak as he helped her mount. Arthur tried not to ogle the sight of her shapely calf as she hoisted herself up; the feel of her waist beneath the thin gown was distracting enough.

The sunlight was softly clear, and the sea-air refreshing, as they set off away from the shadow of the castle. Even Morgana seemed momentarily cheered as the fresh breeze stirred her hair. Balancing the basket on her lap while perched sideways was awkward at best, and Gwen had no choice but to lean into Arthur’s shoulder for steadiness. The warm, masculine scent of him was strangely comforting, like fresh soap and leather and grass.  She was mortified to find herself wondering what soap he used.  By all the spirits of Avalon, this was becoming impossible!

“Are you comfortable, Guinevere?” it was the first time he had used her name. Gwen had always liked her name, but on Arthur’s lips it became a shivery sensual caress.

“Yes, thank you.”  Why did she sound like a breathless novice?

Enough. She needed to clear the air between them. But just as she was poised to speak they slowed to a stop, and she realized that something was wrong. Morgana was leaned over the side of her horse, retching miserably as Merlin held the reins, his face naked with concern.

Gwen winced at the heaving, agonized sounds coming from her friend. She straightened slowly, pale skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I'm...I'm sorry," she whispered, "I was feeling better this morning....Must have been that meat I had last week."

"I'll ride back with you," Merlin offered, "You two go ahead."

"Thank you, Merlin" Arthur nodded, "See that the physician is called."

Gwen could have sworn she caught a shadow of fear across Morgana's face, but her eyes were veiled. She tried to smile comfortingly at her as she rode off with Merlin, but couldn't stifle her concern. Her thoughts brooded on Morgana as they rode on. There was something gnawing at her friend, something secret and dark she disclosed to no one.

As though reading her thoughts, Arthur spoke "She'll be alright. Although I do wish Gaius were here. His tonics always set me right."

"Gaius?"

"Our court physician. Yours is commendable, of course. But Gaius has treated us since we were children, he knows exactly what makes us ill or well," Arthur paused, "In some ways, many ways, he has been almost a father to us."

Gwen pondered this for a while, thinking of her own father, struck down by plague when she was twelve. Her memories of him were like a precious manuscript on the shelves of her heart, worn with regular thumbing. She couldn't imagine having no recollection of her parents, and her heart constricted with pity for Morgana. They rode on the rest of the way in silence.

The village were quiet: hardly any children ran up and down the streets, and there was no sing-song of merchants calling out their wares. The mood was unusual for summer, Gwen noted sadly. They stopped by the edge of an abandoned shack, and Gwen scanned the street for familiar faces.  She was surprised to find Arthur tethering the horse. "You...you need not come with me. That is...if you'd rather not, I understand."
He looked in her eyes, "I would like to."

****

Fear was rank in the air. Many people hesitated to open their doors, and Gwen had to assure them she came with help, not harm, in tow. Arthur could tell she was troubled; obviously that night had forever changed her easy friendship with these people. For the first time he realized how by rescuing her, ensuring she was unscathed, a wedge now lay between her and the people whose children and families received no mercy. He couldn't help admire the quiet and humble dignity with which she attended to them. Her gentle voice and soothing manner fell like rare sunbeams on their shadowed and grieving faces.  A few times she held a bereaved mother in her arms as she wept, whispering words of comfort.

The last house they visited was a bare-bones cottage, scrupulously clean, with a few sprigs of fresh lavender at the window. Frann, a widow, welcomed them in, offering them cups of simple stew as they sat down. Her son Colum lay in bed, half his face wrapped in stained cloth. His cheek was slit from ear to mouth, Fran explained, and his jaw broken. She managed to feed him small amounts of soup everyday, but he needed a surgeon's hand, and she had nothing to treat possible infection or fever.
As Gwen began unpacking the last of the medicine, Frann glanced quietly at Arthur before asking, "Who's your companion, Gwen?"
Gwen paused for a moment, her eyes catching his, "Arthur. Arthur of Camelot"
"Camelot...?" Frann grew paler.
"It's alright, Frann," Gwen touched her shoulder reassuringly, "He's a friend."
"I promise you, I mean no harm to you, or your son," Arthur said gently.
Frann nodded slowly, still pale. They stayed a while longer, waiting until Colum woke up to help change his bandages. Arthur watched Gwen rinse out the soiled, bloody cloths without flinching, her touch gentle as she sopped the oozing blood from his hideous wound. He felt hulking and useless in that simple kitchen, humbled by the sight of her tender ministrations. He wondered how many households in Camelot had watched loved ones die, unable to ask for help, the shadow of the stake leaching hope and joy from their lives.

But most of all, he thought of Frann's stricken eyes at the mention of Camelot, and wondered when his beloved home became a name of fear, and dread.

***

Their ride back was pensive, summer rainclouds creeping soft across the sky as they neared the castle, mellowing the sunlight to palest silver. Arthur thought how natural her head felt against his shoulder, how sweet the faint wildflower scent of her hair.  He couldn’t deny the desire she aroused, even as she challenged his pride.

The rainshower came and went before they reached the castle courtyard. He helped her dismount, and she murmured thanks with downcast eyes. He recalled again the night they met, the beautiful and sensuous freedom of her laughter, her dancing, and wondered if he would ever see her so uninhibited again, freed of the courtly customs they were both restrained by. The thought clouded his imagination with desire and despair.

Gwen lingered by his horse, "I...I owe you an apology," she began haltingly then rushed on, "The other night, what I said to you. I had no right -, "

"It's-,"

"It was wrong of me to insult your father. I shouldn't have -,"

“I really-“

“I know that you are honourable, and your father-,”

"Guinevere." There it was again, her name drawn out languorous on his tongue. It stopped her breath, made her skin hum with wordless longing.

“Yes...?” by all the gods, she was beautiful. The rainy light soft on her face, her dark hair diamonded with traces of moisture. Did she know how she affected him?

“If I’m to be king one day, I must decide for myself how to rule. I respect the traditions of my father, but I..,” he paused, thoughtful, “I think there’s more to kingship than blindly following the past.”

A slow smile dawned on her face, and Arthur noted it was a sight he would like to feel responsible for more often.  “Thank you, truly. For your help today…. It means more to me than I can say,” her voice was soft as the rain. Arthur lightly touched a long curl that had loosened itself from her simple chignon, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek, tracing its line with a feather touch, and Gwen forgot to breathe. His fingertips stopped tantalizingly close to her mouth, and his blue eyes were dark with desires she shivered to imagine.

 “My father thinks you’re a witch…,” he said softly, eyes on her mouth.

Her pounding heart stole the breath from her voice, “And you…what do you think I am?”

He smiled slightly, his thumb resting on her chin, and his beauty struck Gwen once more.

“Arthur! Gwen!”

They jumped apart at the sound of Merlin’s voice. Arthur looked ready to strangle his manservant, but his expression quickly changed to concern.

“It’s Morgana.”