Spring in Camelot

by Liss Webster

It's barely dawn when Gwen slips out of the town; the guards, their noses red from the chill morning air, have only just opened the heavy, weathered gates. They nod at her as she passes, and smile, and Gwen smiles back. She has a basket over one arm, and she trails the fingers of her other hand across the rough wood as she passes under the archway. It's a beautiful morning, she thinks, cold and clear and fresh, but it no longer feels like winter, which will be a relief to everyone.

Her destination is the stream a mile north of the castle, and she treads the well-worn path which only last week had still been frosty; now it's just muddy. She breathes in deeply and smiles, because it's one of those mornings that make you happy simply to be alive. A bird sings, and she spies a crocus, little golden points reaching to the weak sun. Gwen skips a little.

She loves the spring. Court becomes stifled during the winter. Everyone is jammed together in the dark, and there's no escape. Disagreements fester. Tempers shorten. Even the rooms smell stuffy and rank. With the ground like iron and the air bitter with cold, no-one ventures outside unless they must, not until winter breaks, not until days like today.

There's no-one else around, and Gwen relishes the freedom to dawdle, the chill air warming as the sun strengthens. She reaches the river, and starts to look for the herbs Gaius wants. It's not her job, of course, but Merlin has been off with Arthur for nearly a week, and she's happy to help with such a simple task.

Except, crouching in the reeds, nimble fingers parting the grasses first this way then that, Gwen knows full well she didn't offer for Gaius' sake. She wanted the time alone. She wanted the freedom to think without interruption, even when the interruption is merely conversation with Morgana, whom she loves.

Now, with the stream rushing merrily along, and the sun warming her skin even as the wind sends nippy fingers through her woollen shawl, and grass slippery and cool under her fingertips, Gwen allows herself to think.

And she thinks, I love Arthur. It's a mad thought, and she's spent months shying away from it, months in Morgana's chamber, sitting and sewing and talking, months in the Great Hall, sliding behind columns and watching Arthur as he ate and laughed and looked for her, but now, here, in the freshness of a new spring, Gwen knows that she loves Arthur Pendragon, though he's a prince and she's a servant, because when did love care for boundaries?

She loves how his hair is lit in the sun till it seems he is already wearing a crown. She loves the way his lip curls when he's rude to Merlin (and he shouldn't be so rude, but it seems to be how he and Merlin are with each other, so she will say nothing, and it gives her a little thrill to know that she could say something if she wanted, and he might listen to her). She loves that he will listen, and change his mind, and act on someone else's advice. She loves how much he loves Camelot, and his people. She loves him even for the respect he shows his father. She loves him more for disagreeing with him.

A noise in the distance stays her hand, and Gwen stands to watch as men ride towards Camelot, red and gold banners flying. It's Arthur returning, it must be, and warmth uncurls inside her as she thinks that she may see him, he might look up and catch her eye as he does. But clouds descend and the sun is extinguished, as the wind blows colder, and Gwen hugs her shawl more tightly around her.

Love might know no boundaries but there can be no union between prince and maid, and Gwen has worked at the court too long not to know that. There's no future for her and Arthur. He will marry a lady, the daughter of a distant ruler, and they will reign Camelot, golden and noble on Camelot's thrones. Maybe, Arthur might make her his mistress, but she thinks he wouldn't.

She stands and watches the riders as they approach the town, hooves audible in the still morning, so that she doesn't hear the horse behind her until there's a whickering behind her ear, and someone says, "Guinevere. You are out early."

"Sire." She curtseys. Arthur's horse sidesteps a little. "You aren't with the others." He raises an eyebrow, and she carries on. "I mean, not that you have to stay with them. You're the prince, you can go where you like. Even here. Um, why are you here?" Now he's just looking amused, and Gwen plunges on, even as she wishes she could just be quiet. "Well, it's your river – at least, it's your father's river – so, you can come here if you want. No-one's going to stop you. I just wondered… I mean, I'd think you'd want to get home and have a bath…" Her eyes widened. "Not that I'm saying…"

Arthur dismounts, and reaches out a gloved finger to stop her words. "Guinevere. Stop. Breathe."

"Mmwm," she says, and doesn't at all wish for a moment that he isn't wearing gloves.

"I saw you here," says Arthur simply, not moving his hand. "I thought I would come and say hello. See how things have been."

Gwen steps back (because he really shouldn't be touching her), and says, "Everything has been well, Sire, although Morgana and the lady Claire have had some disagreements these five days. And Cook has been in bed with some ailment so that the food has been a little… unusual, which has not pleased the King, and…"

"Guinevere," says Arthur, "I meant how things have been with you. What on earth do I care for Morgana's quarrels or my father's table?" He frowns. "Well. How bad is the food?"

"Cook is nearly well again," she replied diplomatically, and Arthur nods, dismissing the subject.

"Well? How are you?"

"Fine," says Gwen.

Arthur nods a little. "Excellent. Glad to hear it."

There's a moment's silence. Gwen stares at her slippers for a while, then speaks. "And you? You have been well."

"Oh, fine," says Arthur.

"Excellent."

"Yes."

They're not even looking at each other now; wordlessly, they've both turned to face Camelot, and they watch as the sun reappears, breaking over the warm grey of the castle walls, glistening over a thousand glass panes. A dim noise can be heard, a distant hubbub of the market opening, and the guard changing, and the hundreds of unnoticed comings and goings.

"It's so beautiful," says Gwen, and she realises a second later that Arthur is holding her hand.

"Yes," he says, "it is. And one day I'll be king." She tries to pull away then, her earlier doubts rushing back, flooding over the warmth she had felt, but Arthur holds tight. "I'll be king," he says again. "I'll not be held by my father's rules."

They say nothing more. She hurriedly gathers Gaius' herbs. Arthur offers his horse, which she declines. Arthur offers to take her up, which she also declines. Arthur glares at her for a moment, which she ignores.

They walk back to Camelot, Arthur leading his horse, Gwen's basket teetering on the saddle. They don't hold hands.

They don't need to.

THE END