Chapter Text
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PROLOGUE
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"Arthur."
Merlin's solemn voice drew Arthur from his studies. The prince narrowed his eyes and took in Merlin's lank form standing just inside the door. His manservant's face was drawn, his lips a hard line.
"Yes?" Arthur responded slowly, caught off guard.
Merlin swallowed but did not come closer, hovering in the shadows beyond the morning's light. "Sire. I, um, need to request a leave of absence," he began. His mouth opened, but the rest of the story seemed to stick in his throat.
Go on, Arthur gestured, masking the alarm rising suddenly in his chest.
"My… mother. She's taken ill, and I must return to Ealdor until she recovers."
Arthur put down his quill with a touch of relief. Merlin seemed so agitated, he'd thought... well. But of course he'd be agitated if his mother was so unwell he was called home to her side. "Will she be all right?"
"She will be, yes, I think so. I hope so," Merlin replied. "I've just got a letter. I'll know more when I get there. But she's strong yet." Merlin's empty hands fidgeted with the hem of his jacket.
"Of course. Take all you need," Arthur said as he pushed back from his desk. Hunith, proud and kind, was an extended member of his household, as far as he was concerned. "Extra provisions, medical supplies. And your horse, naturally. She's suitable for light draft work if you need it."
He wished Hunith a quick recovery, of course. But every illness was a gamble, and if she should have a long convalescence, a horse would lighten Merlin's burden of caring for his mother and her crops.
"Thank you, sire," Merlin said, a genuine smile relaxing his stance. "I know it's inconvenient with the reception tomorrow, but George will--"
"I know." Arthur stood, cutting him off. "Which is why we'll have to leave tonight."
"We--what?" Merlin blinked.
"I'd hardly expect you to go alone," Arthur went on as he crossed the room. "If any bandits spot you with all your baggage, you'll end up in a ditch. So if I'm going to make it back for the ceremonies tomorrow, we've got to get a move on. Well?"
He watched, horrified, as water welled in Merlin's eyes. This certainly wouldn't do.
Merlin swiped roughly at his cheeks and stood blinking for a moment, taking in a shuddering breath. "Arthur... you... that's very kind," he finally got out. "But the illness--I don't know if it's catching. You can't risk falling ill."
The alarm-sense was back again, stronger now, but Arthur could only go forward. "Then I'll see you to the edge of the fields," he amended, wary.
"That's... thank you, sire. I'll go ready the horses." With another breath, Merlin inclined his head before rushing out the door, leaving quite a bewildered Arthur behind.
---
They rode out separately so Merlin's provisions would not cause questions about the prince, but met on a rise just beyond sight of the sentries.
As always, action had settled Arthur's nerves. Camelot blossomed in early summer with wildflowers thick along the roads. Droning insects swarmed and birds swooped down to catch them. A light breeze played across the fields, fresh after the recent rain, and Arthur's spirits rose to see the new plantings around them flourish. It had been a good start to the growing season and he only hoped the luck would hold though an equally good harvest.
Merlin was waiting just ahead, sitting astride his bay mare with all her familiar tack and saddlebags. Some long, strange object was rolled in a blanket behind the saddle, something the size of a longbow. Merlin never brought weapons of his own on their journeys--something Arthur thought now he should rectify--and it puzzled Arthur to see it.
"I'll add you to the training roster, shall I?" Arthur called as he approached. "What's that? A bow? A spear?"
"A staff," Merlin replied, though he shifted and glanced away.
"Well it won't do you much good packed away if we need to defend ourselves," Arthur commented. He urged his gelding forward and took the lead.
"I thought that's why I was bringing you along," Merlin retorted.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “One day you’ll have to stop cowering in the trees.”
"The staff is for... other kinds of trouble,” Merlin dissembled. “Kanen's kind of trouble."
"Have there been more attacks?" Arthur asked sharply, glancing back.
"No," Merlin said. "But he's not the only brigand who's ever tried to steal a harvest."
Arthur nodded and nudged his horse into an economical trot. He'd have to push to make it home by noon tomorrow, but he hardly wanted Hengroen to come up lame.
Still, the fresh morning air drew them into a canter down the next slope, and Arthur went for the gallop on the flat. Merlin didn't hesitate to follow, keeping his seat impressively well for someone so new to riding. Arthur remembered Merlin's first time on a horse, a year ago this springtime: he'd had every beginner's bad habit, and more besides. Hunched shoulders, lax hands, and a penchant for pitching forward. But his deep affinity for the animals and the stablemaster's patient tutelage had brought him along remarkably well. So much so that Arthur had to work--just a bit--to keep his lead.
They laughed as they pulled up at the turn towards the forest.
"Next time you won't be so lucky," Merlin grinned. He patted his mare's neck as she ambled on. "Daisy was just warming up, weren't you, girl?"
"Daisy is a lovely lady, fit for the daintiest of riders," Arthur shot back. "It's no wonder she carries you so well."
"But poor Hengroen, to have to bear the weight of your enormous backside," Merlin sighed theatrically. "It's a wonder he doesn't collapse from the strain."
"He'd run away with your backside in an instant. You'd be in the dirt before his feet touched the ground."
"Is that a challenge, sire?" Merlin asked impishly. "Care to test it?"
"Let's," Arthur grinned. "A challenge, when you return."
All the joy fled from Merlin's face. "Yes, let's," Merlin said, looking down. He patted Daisy again. "Let's water them at the next crossing. Not far now."
They lapsed into silence. The trees thickened around them as they rode on. The deeper woods were quiet, with fewer birds and little breeze, and the mossy trunks made their space a sort of shady cocoon. Some time later, the burble of water cut through the trees and Arthur gratefully dismounted.
After all were fed and watered, Arthur tried to coax Merlin out of his silence again.
"I don't believe you know the first thing about fighting with that staff," he drawled, nodding towards Merlin's bundle. "Unless you're planning on throwing it at your attacker and running the other way."
Merlin did not return the jab. "Hm. Well. I still have a lot to learn," he said absently. He stared down at his hands and rubbed his thumbs.
"We're making good time," Arthur said. "Show me. I need to be sure you're not completely useless on your own."
"Some other time," Merlin cut him off. He stood abruptly and moved to untie Daisy from her tree. "We should get going."
"Oh, come on," Arthur tried again. "Merlin--"
"We've got to go," Merlin repeated. He swung into the saddle. "We don't have time for a pissing contest."
Arthur relented, dusting off his trousers as he stood. Once in the saddle, he paused.
"You're worried about your mother," he said. "I understand. Believe it or not, I'm only trying to help."
Merlin finally looked up, meeting Arthur's eyes. His own were hooded and his face was somber, but he softened at Arthur's words.
"I know," he said quietly, his gaze steady and true. Arthur caught his breath, taken off guard as always by these moments of sudden gravitas. Merlin was usually a babbling brook, splashing here and there over logs and stones, but now and again he'd reveal a pool within sparkling bedrock, with the bottom always just out of reach.
"I will show you," Merlin said at length. "When I return, I will. That's a promise, Arthur. I will."
And Arthur knew, then, that he meant more than the weapon wrapped in that bundled pack. Merlin's eyes were clear and deep, and Arthur could almost, almost see the shape of something huge inside.
But the time was against them. It would have to wait.
"Alright," he said, nodding slowly. "I'll hold you to it."
Hoofbeats and heartbeats carried them on and on through evening and sunset and a bright gibbous moon rising high in the sky. The crickets were calling as Arthur slowed at the turn that would separate them for the night. For a week, perhaps, or a month at most, surely.
Merlin pulled up as well. Next to Arthur, an arm's length away, he peered down the path and sighed. "This is it, then," he said quietly, flicking his gaze to his prince.
"Merlin," Arthur paused him. "Take this."
He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a slim roll of leather. A blank scroll of parchment and a vial of ink were wrapped inside, with a prism of wax and a courtly seal tucked in between. "Write me," Arthur said. "Tell me of your mother's health, Ealdor's fortunes, anything you learn while you're away. The seal will ensure anyone carrying a letter will be paid by the court when they arrive."
Gingerly, Merlin accepted the package. "Of course, sire," he replied, bemused. "Though I wouldn't know what importance news from Ealdor could have for Camelot."
Ealdor would hardly be harboring spies or armies on the move. But its people had fought under Arthur's command, shoulder to shoulder against a villain of the lowest sort. Arthur hoped to hear that they were well. "Perhaps none. But you never know," Arthur went on. "Vital information may arise in the strangest of places."
"Are you calling my mother's home strange?" Merlin smiled, just a bit.
"As long as you're there, yes," Arthur smirked. "Go on then. Take care."
---
"Merlin? What are you–?"
Hunith sat up in bed, reaching for a candle stub that lit itself silently in the golden glow of her only son's eyes. She looked him up and down as she rose to meet him, scanning for injury or illness, or worse.
"I'm all right, Mum," Merlin reassured her quietly. He stepped into her open arms and squeezed her tightly. "It's okay. I'm okay. Well. It's a long story, but--"
"And Arthur? What's happened?"
Merlin snorted, amused. "He’s fine. Nothing's happened. I'm told he actually can take care of himself."
Hunith pulled back and grasped his arms, looking plainly at his face. "Merlin. You know I am always happy to see you. But you wouldn't return here with no reason. And in the middle of the night! What is going on?"
Reluctantly, Merlin stepped back, heaving a sigh and dropping his bags by the door. They were large and well-laden; Hunith wouldn't have been surprised to find a horse of Camelot's livery in Old John's empty stall come morning. As if she needed any more evidence of Merlin's favor in Arthur's court.
"Arthur thinks you've fallen ill and I've come to care for you. He wanted to come, too, actually, but I told him it was probably contagious." Merlin pulled a face, half smile, half frown.
"And why did you tell him that?" Hunith asked archly.
He looked past her, taking a moment to measure his words. A tightness crept back into his eyes. "Because I need to leave Camelot for a while," he said at last. "But I want to return when it's time."
"Hmm," she mused. She stepped back fully, turning to rearrange her stores so Merlin would have a place to sleep. He helped wordlessly with hands and intentions. "Should I assume you won't be staying in Ealdor, then, either?"
"A few days," Merlin replied. "But then I must go. I need to find... I need to know--"
"You need a good night's sleep, and you'll tell me the rest in the morning," Hunith cut him off. "You're a good boy, little bird. We'll make it right after breakfast."
And he gripped her in another hug, tighter than the first, with shaking shoulders and tears that fell on the crown of her head.
---
ONE
---
It had rained the day before, and the wet wood wicked into Merlin's trousers and tunic as he settled within the ancient oak. The great tree had grown tall and collapsed innumerable years ago, and the younger trees growing from its stump and fallen trunk encircled a sanctuary Merlin had first found as a child.
He crossed his legs and leaned back further against the oldest daughter trunk, itself so large that Merlin could barely encircle it with his arms. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of wet earth and clear air. A breeze rustled the upper branches, sending last night's raindrops tumbling onto his upturned face. Merlin returned the greeting by sending his awareness deeper into the oak.
He was safe here in a way he had never been anywhere else. The tree had played with him as a boy, coaxing forth his magic with games of twinkling lights and playful zephyrs. There were no words between them, yet this place had taught him that magic was a force for good.
Merlin's fourteen months in Camelot had shaken that conviction. He had hardly expected Uther's kingdom to harbor much goodness, but the onslaught of evil wrought by magic users and magical creatures had torn at his soul. And the killing--his killing, his newfound role as judge and executioner of the magical realm... and then there was the lying...
The great tree held him as the tears burst forth again. Here, he needn't hold back. His pain would be absorbed by a being with far more scars than he.
The sun rose to its zenith. Bird song quietened and the breeze grew still.
"What do I do?" Merlin whispered, heart-sore and trembling. "If I'm meant to bring magic back, why must they always die?"
Freya had been the last straw. A victim of evil magic and Uther's hatred both.
And Merlin, for all his magic and deeply-held morals, was a failure. A country bumpkin in truth whose naivety led to death. Whenever he acted as his heart demanded, misery followed, yet denying his heart made things no better. Freeing Freya and causing her death, and others. Supporting Morgana and dooming the Druids. His indecisions around Mordred--a child! The mess he made of saving Tom.
His human mother had sent him away to learn: to seek knowledge and a purpose for his gifts. And was he any better than the day he'd arrived?
The mentors he had found were more complicated than he'd first understood. The Dragon was mercurial and withholding, and Gaius was a man, and fallible, whose years of hiding limited what Merlin could learn.
Merlin needed more.
He needed this place, this childhood sanctuary, to make his way back to his heart. The great tree had only ever asked him to find himself.
He needed to leave, to find more--a greater understanding of his gifts and the world he hoped one day to see.
And then he needed to return. To Arthur, and their destiny.
---
Merlin set out for Eryri the next morning.
The northern mountains were wilder than Camelot and Essetir's fertile plains. Better chances for old magics to survive, he thought, and farther from regular army patrols. The Mother Tree must have kin somewhere, and he planned to find them: other expressions of magic itself, unbound by mortal vices. The Tree had taught him so much. What knowledge could others hold?
With a hot breakfast in his belly and a warm sky overhead, he made for the old Roman road going north.
He'd traveled this road often as a boy to reach the market in Newtown. It was a busy thoroughfare; he had to step nimbly around animal droppings and muddy trackways. He also had to avoid drawing attention.
He wore a traveling cloak and his new foul weather hood--a gift from his mother--and carried everything else on his belt. He'd styled himself as a pilgrim seeking holy sites in the northlands. Daisy would remain in Old John's care--she was a bit dainty, in truth, and Merlin worried about her footing on craggy peaks.
Gwen's parting gift rested visibly on his hip: a curved knife, as long as his forearm, with a handle of horn and soft leather sheath. The Sidhe staff was dressed up as a walking stick with leather wrappings hiding its appearance. And Arthur's writing tools were wrapped in his satchel of sundries.
Alone with his thoughts, he walked on.
---
Three days into his trek, and a week after leaving Camelot, he opened his pack to find a letter.
The letter had appeared nestled with the writing tools, tied to a small, snow-white rock. The rock had been cleaved in two but now appeared whole, though the splitting crack remained.
Merlin grinned first at the rock, giddy. The spell had worked!
It was the spell that would make this entire journey possible. The white rock--moonstone--could be split in half and separated, then used to guide a transportation spell. The cracked white stones in his satchel each had their other halves in his mother's home or Gaius's rooms, and objects affixed to the stones could be moved between him and them.
He had a large half-stone bound to a rook's feather and tied on a cord around his neck. In an emergency, he was reasonably sure he'd be able to transport himself. The feather's twin and the stone's other half remained in Gaius's care.
After a moment, he realized he should probably see what the letter said. Fumbling with the string, he prised it off and revealed the seal of Camelot. And the stone, he realized, had come from the set he'd left with his mother. She must have received a message from Arthur and passed it on to him.
18th April
Merlin-
I gave you parchment under the impression that you are indeed able to read and write, but have seen no proof thus far. Remedy this immediately.
-HRH AP
Merlin huffed, his smile widening. So Arthur had meant it, then, that he was to write. He felt warm suddenly and doffed his hood as he pulled out the parchment and ink.
Once the letter was written and sealed, he tied it to another half stone along with a note to his mother asking her to send it back to Camelot. He recited the trigger for the transportation spell and the bundle vanished without a sound. Merlin paused a moment, gazing over fields of new green flax and wheat, before releasing a breath and readying his pack to get back on his feet.
---
TWO
---
Arthur sighed into the gloomy silence of his chambers. The few remaining candles clustered near his desk gave neither encouragement nor reproach. He sighed again. How could he have been so stupid?
The luncheon would not leave his mind’s eye. Seated between kings Alined and Olaf, Arthur had done his very best to be a pleasant and charming host, inviting both men to reminisce on the glory days of their youth. He had yet to meet a man his father’s age who did not like to bask a bit in his own reflection.
But Olaf had seemed distracted, which was disappointing, and Alined… Alined had cut him down, deriding Arthur for “the frivolous cares of boyhood." Swordplay and battle tactics were necessary for security, of course, but a king could hardly spend his days waving weapons about, and if that’s what Arthur cared to focus on, he was a small-minded prince indeed.
Arthur, wrong-footed, had managed a weak rejoinder about the military foundation of Camelot’s strength, but Alined had turned away to engage Lady Harlowe in conversation for the remainder of the meal.
Alined’s remarks had been rude, Arthur knew. To dismiss the knights and their training was entirely ridiculous. Alined had been sour about this treaty from the start and he was certainly just trying to put Arthur off.
And yet it was true that there was more to kingship than fighting. The months of strategy and diplomacy that Uther had leveraged to convene this meeting alone was well beyond Arthur’s understanding-–his father had him join in order to learn, not contribute. He could tell that the kings and their counselors had layers of meaning hidden beneath their statements at the negotiating table, but at present they exceeded Arthur’s grasp.
In his heart of hearts, Arthur could not understand what drove men to be false with one another. How could Alined possibly object to ending conflict among their kingdoms? The treaty as it stood was fair–-more than fair, allowing each kingdom its own special advantage of resources or geography or trade–-and would end the lives lost and money wasted on pointless skirmishes among them. United, also, the kingdoms would be a powerful deterrent to the raiders that plundered the coast each spring and affected all their trades and fortunes. This treaty meant peace and prosperity, if only each king would pledge his hand.
But Arthur knew, of course, that men like Alined were everywhere. He would one day have to manage and maneuver around them. So he would have to understand.
Only, what if he couldn't?
Arthur couldn't practice negotiation drills. There was no footwork to memorize, no weapon design to study. Those who excelled in diplomacy seemed to have some sort of sixth sense for the invisible threads driving the actions he saw on the stage--a sense Arthur had couldn’t seem to acquire.
It was no matter that Alined had been rude before. Arthur should have known how to deflect and put him in his place. How to turn about and gain the upper hand.
Instead, he'd picked at his meal in silence, waiting like a child for his betters.
Arthur sighed again, now rubbing his face roughly with both hands. He shivered. His mind had been going in circles for hours now, and it wouldn't improve with lack of sleep. He stood abruptly and threw himself onto the bed, where crisp linens greeted him and the faint smell of lavender tickled his nose. Guiltily, he remembered his boots, and sat up to remove them and brush their dust from his covers.
A year ago, he'd have done no such thing. The cleanliness of his bedclothes had always been someone else's responsibility and thus no care of his. But then there had been Merlin, and Arthur had learned to see the human beings behind the service.
Of course, a week ago Arthur would have left the messon purpose, just to make Merlin squawk, but in his manservant's absence he would hardly trouble someone else.
Cleaning finished, he reclined again on the bed, pulling a small folded square of parchment from his vest and opening it to re-read.
21st April
Dear Arthur,
(What a scandal Merlin was. Did he even know Arthur's full title?)
I am pleased to report on Camelot's finest vellum that my mother has begun to recover. She suffers an ague that brings fevers and painful swelling of the hands and feet and will need care until that improves, but I have the remedy and will confer with Gaius to be sure. No others in Ealdor appear to be affected.
Your military strategists should note that Ellen's geese recently defeated the fortifications of the seed stores and made a right mess of the beans, but with this year's crop already in the ground we predict a full recovery. Fence-building strategy will however be the main topic of our next council session.
As ever,
Your servant,
Merlin
Arthur smiled in spite of himself, pleased, of course, that Hunith would recover, but mostly imagining what Merlin would have made of Alined's attitude that afternoon.
"What a boor. He's just trying to bother you," he would have said. "So don't be bothered."
And it could just be that simple, couldn't it? If Alined aimed to get a rise from him, Arthur need only deny him the pleasure.
Arthur leapt out of bed and grabbed his own roll of writing tools from the drawer beneath the desk.
Merlin, I don't doubt a goose could outwit your craftiest constructions. Perhaps a roast supper is the solution. Give my regards to Hunith. His Royal Highness Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot
As he pressed his seal to the wax, a weight lifted from his brow, and he snuffed the candles and crawled into bed, shoeless.
---
THREE
---
27th April
Dear Arthur, Prince of Weeds,
The geese are our army of weeders; only an idiot would cull one before harvest time. Otherwise we'd be pulling grass from the vegetables every other day.
Today I am thinning the croft garden and catching up on the spinning. My mother has little land to work, and supports herself with her spindle and barter for her eggs. And being a good neighbor, of course--favors make the world go 'round.
As her hands cannot yet manage the twisting, I will need to stay on until they have recovered, or she will have a very difficult winter. I will be sure to keep you abreast of all critical strategic developments.
I hope the Summit of Kings was a success, or that you managed at least to impersonate the kind of thoughtful prince that gives others hope for the future. Once you're back in regular training, be sure George does not overtighten the pauldrons--remind him the gorget buckles should be drawn up first, and the pauldron adjusted to it. Last time he nearly snapped the leather.
Your servant,
Merlin
~
30th April
Merlin,
If your mother's security depends on your spinning skills, I advise you to cast about for another source of industry. I shudder to think of the thread you'd produce.
Or better yet, bring Hunith back to the citadel. We are always in want of spinners and she can be close at hand if she needs help in the future. I'll speak with the steward about lodging--you can consider it done.
The Summit of Kings was successful indeed, probably because you weren't there to drop food on anyone. Even Alined ratified the treaty. It is a masterstroke by my father, and Camelot and these allies have a strong future ahead.
I see you have decided to adopt George’s propriety in your written correspondence. Consider also that George has been an exceptional servant in your absence and hasn't dented my armor or torn my clothing once.
HRH Arthur Pendragon
~
5th May
Dear Arthur, Prince of Kindness,
You are generous to offer my mother a home in Camelot, sire, and I thank you for it. Truly. But she is not one for the city and I doubt I could convince her to leave Ealdor.
Besides reprising my excellent spinning skills--who do you think made the thread for my clothes!--I am fortunate to have some time to learn more about the history of my family and this land. I didn't think much of it while I lived here, but much has changed since I left. I hope to understand better by the time I return.
If George thinks his service is deserving of a prince, I fear I will have much to repair when I resume my position. Your head will have gotten too big for your crown and you'll be frightening children away.
Take care,
Merlin
~
5th May
Dear Gwen,
I'm sure you have heard from Gaius that my mother is recovering. She will need my assistance for a little while longer, but I hope to return by midsummer.
I have been using your knife every day and it always makes me smile. Thank you again for such a beautiful tool.
I hope you are well, and that the Lady Morgana is, too. Will you write me if there's any trouble? I know I am away, but I wouldn't miss a chance to help if I can.
Your friend,
Merlin
~
5th May
Gaius,
I have reached the lands of Eryri. I made good time on the Roman roads, but terrible weather has slowed the pace as I've taken to the smaller paths. The closer I get to the Rhinogydd range, the worse it becomes, and quite unseasonably. I feel as though something will happen. That something is waiting.
These lands are truly wild. Trees more ancient than mine appear around every corner. I feel them, but they will not engage me. They glow at night--the worms in the branches, the mushrooms in the rotted logs--and in the day they swell and creak like the fingers of some buried giant.
I am unsettled. But I go on.
Merlin
~
6th May
Merlin,
Be careful, my boy. There are wild magics in the world that think very little of humans. I do not doubt your strength or resourcefulness, but I fear as ever your impulsiveness, and beg you to proceed only slowly with your main aim the road back out.
Eryri may have what you seek, but also it may not. Preserve your strength and be able always to return home and try again tomorrow.
Yours,
Gaius
~
8th May
Dear Merlin,
I am glad to hear your mother is recovering. All is at peace here, almost boringly so, not that I'm not thankful for the calm! The Lady Morgana has been sleeping well. The Prince has been rather prickly lately, but I think his upcoming patrol rotation will put his mood to rights again. It will do him good to get out of the citadel in such a fine season.
We will celebrate your return with the poppies! Until then, all my love to you and Hunith.
Your friend,
Gwen
---
FOUR
---
Even the rain couldn't dampen Arthur's spirits as he and Leon rode out together. They had enjoyed four glorious days on patrol with Bors, Pellinor, Gaheris, and Leon's squire Tedrick, and they had just enough time on this last day to drop in on Ealdor and see how things were getting on.
Perhaps he could even bother Merlin into oiling his maille before they had to go.
With coif and hood donned against the weather, nature's sounds were muffled and conversations were brief. Each man kept his own peace.
After the Summit of Kings, Uther had decided Arthur should receive more direct education in the diplomatic arts. Leon had been given charge of the knights while Arthur spent long hours with Geoffrey and every elder member of his father's court, listening to meandering tales of meetings upon banquets upon tournies until his head felt stuffed with wool.
After one particular story that had hinged on the proper presentation of a noble lady's brooch, Arthur had begun to despair. He just could not do this.
He would fail to charm some visiting earl's wife's sister and Camelot would come to ruin when her allies deserted and the Saxons attacked.
Not for the first time, he wondered if Morgana wouldn't be better suited as king. She trapped details like a spider in a web and knew just when to unwrap the juiciest ones to eat. If she were also trained in military strategy, she would be formidable indeed. If not as the king, perhaps one day as an advisor.
And so Arthur carried on. The escape of patrol had been a great relief, and Arthur's spirits rose further as he and Leon crested a hill to see Ealdor below.
The fields were empty owing to the weather, so Arthur dismounted and made for Hunith's cottage to announce himself and ask where to shelter the horses.
But the cottage was unexpectedly empty.
Undeterred, Arthur made for the next closest building. As he raised his hand to the door, a burst of laughter rang out from inside. Rising voices were giggling and speaking over one another. Arthur made sure his knock was firm.
A round-faced woman answered the door. Her lingering smile turned immediately to shock upon recognizing her visitor.
"Prince Arthur! Your highness! Come in, my goodness!" She stepped back, opening the door wider as she dropped a hasty curtsy. "Goodness! Come in out of the rain!"
"No, no, thank you," Arthur demurred, nodding to acknowledge her deference. "I'm only looking for--"
"Me, your highness?"
Hunith stood and placed her hand on the other woman's shoulder, smiling at her as the woman made way. Hunith then turned to Arthur and dropped her own curtsy--a very practiced one, Arthur noted, and very smooth--before reaching for her hood and stepping towards the door. Behind her, two more women stood awkwardly behind the table where they had apparently all been spinning together.
"Hunith, yes. It's good to see you so well," Arthur said, stepping back so she could exit.
"Thank you, sire. Where is your horse? Shall I show you to John's stables?"
Arthur signaled to Leon and they proceeded to follow Hunith across the common to a snug little shed with a familiar horse already inside. Daisy whickered a greeting as Arthur and Leon saw to their mounts and Hunith assisted.
"I'm afraid Merlin is away," Hunith volunteered after a moment. She hefted a pail of water to pour it in the trough. "He's taken the spinning to market at Newtown and won't be back for a few days at least. Longer if this rain keeps up."
"On foot?" Arthur asked, glancing again at Daisy.
"In John's cart," Hunith explained. "He drives anyone with wares to sell in town. The woodcarver went this week too, I believe."
Arthur shrugged away a pang of disappointment as he worked on rubbing down Hengroen's flanks. So what if his manservant was out. He'd made do without him for a month now, and everything was fine. He'd just have to wait a little longer for the maille.
"You're looking well, if I may say so," Leon said to Hunith. He wiped the tack methodically and kept his gaze on his task. "We were all very worried when Merlin was called away."
And indeed, Hunith seemed the picture of health. The buckets she'd lifted must have weighed at least two stone, and she hadn't trembled or fumbled one bit. And the spinning--there had been a distaff for each woman in the cottage, Arthur had noticed. Hunith had indeed been working there.
"He's taken good care of me," Hunith said, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron. "I'm better every day. My lords, may I ask what hospitality you require? Would you like a meal, or perhaps a drink?"
Leon drew a breath to demur but Arthur cut him off. "A pint would be most welcome," he said smoothly. "We've had a long patrol."
"Of course, sire," Hunith curtsied again and turned away. "If you'll follow me."
Arthur caught Leon's eye. His mood had plummeted into a deep unease. They needed to figure out just what was going on.
---
Hunith's home was much as Arthur remembered it: mud-brick walls, thatched roof, dirt floor. A small fire in the hearth lit the gloom and threw off enough heat to help them all begin to dry. It illuminated the wooden table, the cooking pot, and the single bed.
Skeins of spun wool hung on pegs beside the door.
"Merlin left some behind, then?" Arthur asked, nodding to the yarn as he sat at the table.
Hunith lifted a flagon and poured each man a drink. "Oh, those are for my own use, sire," she said. "I'm making another blanket for wintertime, so I won't need to burn quite so much wood."
Merlin had always said Ealdor winters were cold. He made fun of Arthur each time Arthur asked for another log to be thrown on the fire. Soft, is what you are, he'd said. You valley folk wouldn't last a day where I'm from. (Arthur had usually replied with a cuff to his ear.)
But here was an opportunity.
"Or you could join Merlin in Camelot," Arthur said. "I told Merlin we can always find a place for a spinner, and the citadel is quite warm over winter. But he seemed to think you wouldn't be interested." Arthur took his pint gratefully and drank a deliberately long draught. Leon followed his lead.
"You are too kind, sire," Hunith replied. She produced a rustic loaf from her bread box and began to cut two thick slices. "Truly. But I'm afraid I am not one for the city."
"May I ask why not?" Leon inquired.
"Mmm," she began, drawing out her butter crock and slathering the bread. "Well... I lived in Camelot once, you know. I'm sure my brother told you. Gaius and I grew up there; our father was chief falconer. But I found I preferred a quiet life in the country, and now here I am."
Arthur and Leon exchanged glances once again.
"What brought you to Ealdor?" Arthur asked, accepting the proffered bread.
"A cousin. She was willing to help me and--" Hunith paused, biting her lip. She shook her head slightly. "You know, it was a very long time ago."
"About eighteen years, if I might guess?" Arthur said gently. Merlin would be eighteen at midwinter.
Hunith stilled and looked up, meeting his gaze straight on. "No, sire," she spoke slowly. "More like twenty."
Arthur's unease began climbing his throat. So she hadn't fled Camelot with a bastard in the womb, then. She had left twenty years ago. Twenty years, since...
"You know, Merlin has never said much about his father," Arthur went on. He kept his voice calm and paused to break his bread. "Did he pass when Merlin was young?"
Hunith's fingers laced tightly together, bereft of tasks, her knuckles white. Her voice was also forcibly calm. "Merlin's father never knew I was pregnant," she said. "He had to move on. I... stayed."
"With your cousin," Leon surmised.
"Yes," Hunith nodded. "She was a great help to me. She passed some twelve years back."
"My condolences," Arthur murmured. He gazed now into the depths of his ale.
The conversation lulled and the pattering of rain again filled their senses. It remained as steady as it had all day, a susurrus suspending each moment in time. The thatch caught it gently and the ground took it in.
“Merlin will be sorry to have missed you,” Hunith said after a time. “He cares for you very much, you know. For all his friends in Camelot.”
“Indeed,” Leon agreed. “He has shown great loyalty to His Highness.”
The last was said with a look to Arthur, who slowly emerged from his reverie. “Hm?” he started, raising his head. “Oh. Yes. Well. It’s getting late, and we must return to the others.” He stood and rolled his shoulders, straightening out his maille. “Thank you for the hospitality. We’ll see ourselves out.”
With a brisk nod of his head, he strode out into the rain.
---