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Arthur.
She finally found him, standing alone in the armory. He didn’t see her in the doorway, didn’t hear her footsteps gently trodding on the stone floor. She leaned against the wall, peeking in like a child-- like when she was a girl, and she’d sneak away from her nursemaid to listen in on her father’s audiences. What do you think you are doing, girl? Who put the idea in your mind that you may listen in on matters that don’t concern you? She never forgot the sound of the woman’s shrill, stinging voice.
Someday , she wanted to argue, someday I will.
When she was a girl, she thought she would grow up to be a queen in her own rite.
What would you tell her, now?
Arthur.
He was good at hiding. Early on, she learned he always found solitude, whether it was from sneaking through hidden passageways and down dangerous, ancient staircases- every English castle seemed to be ancient- or putting on an old set of clothes and disappearing in crowds of commoners. Sometimes, she wanted to ask him to show her- show her just one, give her a glimpse of where he went. Let her follow him. He had fifteen years to learn and map out the castle. She barely had three. The rooms were still unfamiliar. Cold air still came in through the windows, the walls still echoed, her shadow still scared her in scant candlelight. And her chambers were still unwelcoming-- every night, she was surrounded by dark wood paneling and in a vast, empty bed-- like the Channel she’d crossed to be here.
To watch him.
To be with him.
Arthur.
He muttered something to himself, looking down, his chin tipped at his chest, fringes of light, layered brown hair falling at his cheekbones. He was silent for a moment, concentrated, and she realized what he was doing.
Oh, he’s trying to put on his armor.
He was fully dressed. A red, quilted jerkin stopped at his knee, the collar high on his neck. You didn’t have to ask who he was if you saw him. He looked like a King, in his family’s colors. Maybe, even in his old clothes, he always did. You were fooled, then. But there was- there was something about him. The way he carried himself. The way he walked as if he was on the edge of something great, and if he took one wrong step, it would crumble underneath his feet and fall into a million pieces, deep down to the earth’s core.
She’d hardly seen him in armor.
Never an occasion, never a moment for it. Thank God, Arthur’s wars were a thing of the past when she arrived. There were still whispers throughout the court of his early reign, the impossible goal of trying to reunite an entire island. She listened closely, kept a few of them in the back of her mind: rebellions and villains. The Black Knight, and something violent involving rebel kings. You should have asked him, she scolded herself, you should have learned.
Why would he tell her?
Her husband was a reluctant soldier.
“Blast,” Arthur whispered. His hand fell away from the first clasp, and before she could say anything, or think of what to say-
Clang.
Arthur threw the chest plate onto a table.
Move, Guinevere.
She watched as he ran a hand through his hair, inhaling a tired, deflated sigh.
Do something, Guinevere.
“Let me help,” she said.
She stepped into the armory.
He turned his head, hair still falling in front of familiar, gentle blue eyes. “Oh, Genny. It’s just you.”
Just you, he said.
Was it a burden, or an endearment?
She fought the urge to bend into a curtsy, “Good morning to you as well.”
“Yes,” he awkwardly agreed, rubbing his hand on his neck, “Good morning.”
The armory was on the ground floor of the castle, near the stairs leading to the kitchen and cellars. The stone walls were hidden behind precise, clean lines of swords and daggers, axes and halberds, clean metal gleaming from the light allowed through the small, high windows. Stands wearing layers of chainmail and plate armor stood guard, their gauntlets waiting for a challenge, helmets hiding imaginary faces. And shields were hung in high esteem, family crests painted onto them. She recognized a few of the knights’. Which weapon belonged to who? Did they all share them?
She wanted to hold out her hand and run her fingers across the hilts and links in the chainmail, as if she was in the gardens, searching for the right bloom.
The night they met, before she knew who he really was, she’d threatened him with a little knife. What sword would fit perfectly in her hand?
And where was Arthur’s sword and shield?
Excalibur, the magnificent. All other swords paled in comparison— it was impossible not to. The blade never needed sharpening, and always caught the sunlight, a daring, dreadful white blaze. She held back a gasp the first time he yielded the sword in front of her, pulling it out of its scabbard to show the adoring crowd outside their wedding. The sword- magical or not- scared her.
Sometimes , she thought wryly, I think he loves that sword more than me.
Seeing him here, surrounded by weapons, hints of violence, was unnerving.
She looked over his shoulder, “Where is Galahad?”
“I gave him the morning off,” Arthur replied. “The boy couldn’t focus-” he laughed, dryly, “what, with all the excitement going on in the castle today. And at the fair.”
Did he want this?
Did he know how badly she needed today to go well? God, to even happen? She couldn’t spend another day in her rooms with her ladies, embroidering and waiting for him to come and see her. The halls were lonely and vacant, and if there were people, they were empty and devoid of emotion- so stoic, the English. Their behavior was becoming harder to swallow. She was about to have the cure, she was about to have this. The Fair. The Maypole. Pieces of France, her girlhood, her happiness which was once so simple to achieve-
Instead, she said, “How kind of you, Arthur.”
As if kindness wasn’t like breathing to him.
“Yes, I thought so. In hindsight, a knight should never give his squire leisure time, especially on a day where he’s chosen to wear new armor.”
Oh, of course it was. She didn’t register the fact it wasn’t his standard: a layered, heavy gold chest plate, which must be stiff, and uncomfortable, but Arthur never complained. Most men would’ve had it scrapped. No. No, he would not. He wants to look like a king. Did Merlyn have the plate made for him? Couldn’t he part with it?
The new chest plate was red, a smooth, stitched leather, with stitches running along the sides. And the infernal clasps to bring the pieces together.
“Are you telling me that His Majesty has decided to have a new set made just for today?” She pursed her lips, “Rather frivolous, is it not?”
“Am I not allowed to have nice things?” Arthur didn’t miss a beat, his head tilted. “Many kings are spendthrifts.”
She stopped surveying the room, “I was joking, Arthur.”
“Oh,” he said sheepishly, “for a moment, I forgot about your sharp wit.”
She still didn’t know how to respond to his compliments. She shrugged. “No sharper than any of these swords, I’m sure.”
“Do not soften the blow, please.”
He distanced himself from her, leaning against the table, his hands gripped at the sides.
“I’m sorry,” she cautiously took a step closer- please, she prayed to whoever was listening, please, let the day go well. Please, let something happen between us, and please, let it be for the better. “I did not mean to startle or upset you.”
She had the opportunity to take a stab with her “sharp wit.” I am supposed to be the one with unpredictable moods, she’d remark, and she imagined him smile, and deflate a little, lean in slightly, and do-
Do what?
“You think you do?” He said, fleetingly, meeting her eyes and searching for something.
“I-”
“God, forgive me. I suppose I am-” he paused, closing his eyes as if he could summon Galahad- which, if he tried hard enough, he probably could. The young squire hung on his every word. “I am frustrated, and feel very foolish,” he gestured at the massive array of weapons, “standing here in my own war room, with no idea how to put on my own armor.”
The tension trapped in the air between them simmered down. “Which is why I’m here,” she pointed out. “Let me help you.”
He was taken aback, his brow raised. “You know how to help a man with his armor?”
“Yes,” she stood straighter, mustering a hint of authority in her voice.
“I did not know they trained princesses as squires in France.”
“Squires are scarce.”
“They seem to be,” he agreed.
“In truth, I am the daughter of a King. I have seen him sent off to war.”
War with Europe.
War with you.
“And the- and the knights in tournaments, of course.” She added. “A lady does notice these things.”
“Yes,” he mused, “you would.”
She changed the subject, coming to stand in front of the table without saying a word. She ran her fingers along the leather. He was watching her, and she felt his eyes on her back, like a pair of strong hands, touching her shoulders. What would happen, if she turned around? They were alone. No one knew where they were, and they didn’t have to- king and queen. Meant to be alone together.
Do you see yourselves? Your head turned downward, his chin on your shoulder? His hands, raising towards your waist-
She did see, if she closed her eyes. And god, she wanted all of it, all of what he was expected to do to her, all of what she hadn’t asked him to- the Fair was not the cure to her nerves, the aching deep in her chest. He was-
“The armorer did an excellent job.”
“I pay him well enough,” Arthur’s deep voice dragged her out of dreams.
She nodded.
“You don’t- you don’t have to help me.” He stopped her, raising his hand, “I can just summon Galahad, and you can return to your ladies. We will see each each other at the fair-”
“Stop it.”
He actually listened, this time.
The chest plate was glass in her hands.
He stood with his arms held out at his sides, his focus trained on one of the high windows. She stood behind him, and watched the chest plate fall on his shoulders as if she wasn’t there-- as if she were still standing in the doorway, up against the wall, watching as Galahad served his knight. They never watched each other dress in the morning.
His chambers were down the hallway.
“Stay still,” she whispered.
Arthur’s entire body was stiff and rigid, waiting for a blow, a strike. From what? Did he think she would do anything to him? Knock him down and run away? Abandon him? When he was relaxed, he moved like a country boy running through the countryside, his limbs agile and graceful, in a strange way she didn’t understand. Her father was never so carefree. Kings stood straight. Kings raised their chins. Kings didn’t exhibit emotions.
But today, she needed the young lad not in peasant clothes, but armor.
She carefully placed a hand on the small of his back, her fingers reaching forward to find the first side clasp. There we go. She tugged the leather tab through the gold. Repeated the motion.
“Am I doing a poor job of it?” She asked, moving to stand at his left.
Did he relax? She swore he did. “No,” he murmured.
The two other side clasps took only a second, yet she said, “I hope we’re not delaying the festivities.”
“They do not start without us.”
And you think I’d forgotten?
Guinevere rubbed her hands on the skirts, imaginary, unladylike, and made up for it by throwing her hair over her shoulder-- she told her ladies to wear their hair down and uncovered for the occasion. A simple joy, and a blessed break from monotony.
You had a new dress made for today, too.
She stood in front of her husband.
A soft smile.
A soft smile, and silence.
God, she was going to scream.
“Just a touch closer,” she spoke, refraining the ache in her throat, the muscles tight like holy chords.
His boots echoed on the stone floor. “You don’t have to-” he said, again-
She grabbed the bottom clasp. “Too late.”
She’d seen her father’s squire suit him up, but she didn’t tell Arthur about the fact she didn’t remember the exact process or ritual. Her memories of France were muddied-- every night in her dreams, she tried to pull them out, clean the water and see her past’s reflection. Her mother’s laugh. Her father’s eyes. What her rooms in the chateau looked like. But all she remembered were pieces and facts- she had done this, and she could say she had.
Anything else was just…
Let go, Guinevere.
She blinked-- her hands were hovering over Arthur’s chest, about to finish closing the last two. He’d said something- dreaded small talk, simple nothings, or corrections. She had misremembered. The day had started off wrong, and there was no chance to change the ending, to ruin the pattern.
“Here,” he mumbled, his eyes cast downward. He didn’t look at her. “I can manage, now-”
“It’s all right. It’s no trouble-”
You’re his wife, aren’t you?
In name only, she hurt herself.
“Damnation.”
What was-
Oh.
Oh, god, his hands were shaking.
He was standing in front of her, and his hands were shaking, desperately trying to close the clasp, and his hair fell over his cheeks once more, his eyes halfway closed, and his voice low, spitting out silent curses.
She was frozen.
She was taken out of her body again, transported to a decade and a half ago. A fifteen year old boy was alone in the throne room.
“Arthur.”
Guinevere folded her hands over his.
Not out of obligation.
Not out of habit.
“I- it’s-”
She shushed him and inhaled a deep breath.
She felt his trembling hands underneath hers, uncertain and fluttering, a broken heartbeat. His skin was clammy, and if she were selfish or cold- everybody seemed to think she was- she would have recoiled, ran out of the room, and acted like it never happened. Was that what he wanted?
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he nodded, then he changed his mind, shook his head. “Yes, I will be. You do not need to worry, Genny.” He swallowed. “I will be able to attend the Fair.”
“Oh, good Lord,” she scoffed, “you believe that’s my main concern at the moment?”
“We have a duty to attend-”
“Nonsense!” She couldn’t help from pressing, squeezing his hands. “Nonsense! I asked if you were all right, Arthur.”
His eyes had darkened, full of shame, unnecessary and wretched.
“Did this happen before?” She asked, lowering her voice.
“Clever girl,” he sighed. “I sent Galahad away because I did not want the boy to see me in such a state. He is devoted to me, and his knight must be strong and worthy of his loyalty.”
He was shaking, but he was worried about his squire.
She loved him.
Oh, good god, she loved him.
If he saw it flash across her face, he didn’t speak up.
Like every time before.
“And I-” he paused. Can I go on? He asked wordlessly.
She nodded.
“I am nervous about today. I know, I know it was your idea, and I hope the events satisfy you. But with- with Pelly arriving.” He corrected himself, exhaling, “With Sir Pellinore coming to court, and the knight’s attitude towards Sir Lancelot, I fear-”
“What?”
“Why would you add your king to the midst?”
She was speechless.
“A foolish thought?”
“If you elaborate, perhaps not.”
“I have seen my subjects in their taverns and fields,” he began, “dancing and drinking and… well, I should not repeat such things in front of you. But they are wild, and free, and behave as if they have the secret to all of life’s joys. And do you know why?”
“No,” she confessed. “I do not understand them the way you do.” Spoken like a true royal. Like your father. She didn’t remember everything, but she remembered his tone.
“I do not understand them,” Arthur argued. “Not fully. But I am not a stupid man. They are happy because they are not bound to courtly politics and customs. They are happy because they do not live by vows of fealty and- and a cause, I suppose. And most of all, they have fun because there is not someone to watch over them and make sure they are on their best behavior.”
You were never allowed to be like them.
“They do not want a king watching them, Genny.”
His expression crumbled for a second, and his eyes softened as he searched her face. “Well?”
“A foolish thought indeed,” she said.
“But is that not the entire point of this May Day? No rules? Only maidens and men, not knights and ladies. Just what you described-”
“And you were included in my description,” she interjected.
“Why?”
“Why?”
Guinevere brought their hands down from his chest, letting them linger, drawing a line between them- or was the line closed? Were they closer?
She let go.
She let go, and she tugged the final clasp in place. “You are taking me to the fair, of course.”
“I am a simple escort,” he sounded defeated.
“You are my only escort.” She turned, “Are you wearing shoulder plates as well?”
“Genny, please-”
She found them. New and freshly polished, silver glinting in the daylight and gold scrolled across the edges. Fantastical designs were etched into the four layers of metal, vine like- or something more violent, serpentine. Did he pick them? Did he sketch it out and ask for someone else’s opinion?
And what would you have suggested, Guinevere?
A beaming sun, or stars.
Something to remind him of the heavens.
Yes, he’d like that.
Her eyes landed on the symbol hidden between the vines.
Small, gold skulls.
Wrong.
“And what would you do,” she slid the plate over his extended arm, “if you did not attend the fair?” Her eyes narrowed. “And do not say you’d find somewhere to hide.”
“I would have the castle to myself.” He considered. “Perhaps Pelly and I could dine together or share a glass of your French wine in my study.”
“Would he want to miss out on the festivities?”
“No,” thank God, Arthur grinned. “He is- he was always a very jovial sort of man. Even when faced with certain death. Lord, he hasn’t seen me since I was a boy. After I was newly crowned, and there was this knight wreaking havoc on others passing by.”
“The Black Knight?” She aimed for an answer.
“Yes… how did you know?”
“Through other’s memories. I am a good listener,” she replied.
“He was a downright scoundrel,” he spit out the word, and she bit her lip to keep from giggling like a girl, “and nearly broke Excalibur when I finally fought him. Merlyn was worried about that, because where in God’s name was I supposed to find a replacement? And Pelly- I would not say he was helpful, but he tried. He was already an old man by then.” Was her husband blushing? “He will still think I am a boy king, I suppose.”
“Not when he sees you in this.”
She pulled on the final toggle and took a step back.
“Finished?”
Guinevere nodded.
God, he was handsome. He looked as if he didn’t belong here, as if he was conjured up from an ancient story about a great king, a golden warrior with light hair and eyes like the storms and seas, his shadow overpowered by divine sunlight. And his red was not the color of blood, but life. New and uncertain and exciting, thrilling, hopeful.
One look at him, and you knew he was a king.
One look at him, and she still knew-
He will do something great.
And she wanted to be standing beside him.
Let me follow you, Arthur.
“Yes.”
They stared at each other.
“Shall we leave?”
“You are wearing a new dress.”
He noticed.
And she didn’t know what to do.
“Yes. You are not the only one in something new.”
God, you are a fool.
In truth, she hadn’t thought to tell him about it-- she had strictly told her ladies not to reveal what they were wearing, either. What harm was there in a little shock? A little whisper and watching from the men? They showed off in their armor everyday, didn’t they? And the other nobles strolled like peacocks.
Now, an awkward, uncomfortable wave washed over her, the roles reversed. Was she a girl wearing her mother’s clothes? When was the last time she’d worn pink? Soft tulle and flowers? Ribbons in her hair? Her wardrobe was extravagant, but limited. People didn’t need to look at her and say, “Look at her, in her fine gowns and fur. Trying to look like a queen instead of being one.”
“Only for today, Your Majesty.”
“Genny?” His voice changed.
“Arthur?”
“You look beautiful.”
His eyes traced the lines of her collarbone, exposed and vulnerable, like the old, eroded stone walls outside the castle gates. Her breath hitched, crushed in her lungs as she saw his face change, too, the anxiety fading into a sudden, stunning longing. She couldn’t move, her entire body pulled toward him, leaning and swaying-
He caught her, his arm wrapped around her waist, the sensation spreading through and spiking her nerves, new and needed. The ache slowly started to heal. Yes, yes, yes. Her eyes closed, but she forced them back open, wanting to see his face, wanting to remember everything, put the memory where her past once was.
And, then, agonizing and slow- she almost cried out, almost fell into his touch- his hand brushed against her neck, and disappeared into layers of her long, dark hair. She didn’t ask what he was doing. The silence was loud and her heart was pounding, and she would be shocked if she wasn’t shaking- was she shaking?
A light tug.
Arthur’s fingers gently held a pink ribbon, hanging from her flower crown.
He pulled it forward, and let go.
On her bare chest.
Oh, good god, she loved him.
She looked up at him, her mouth open.
Genny. Genny. Say it.
Arthur looked at her, entranced…
By what?
He took a deep breath.
And she knew the spell was broken.
The memory unfinished.
“They do not start without us.”
He repeated himself, an echo as he left.
Guinevere was alone in the armory.