As Guinevere passed through the village, she stopped frequently to acknowledge the greetings of merchants, and to exchange a few words with her friends. It was always the same. So many who knew and respected her father, now respected her in a similar fashion. She remembered the day her father was killed by the king's men. There were rumblings of discontent, and even anger among the villagers. It was Gwen who counseled patience. It was Gwen who told them of her faith in the prince. Prince Arthur would be different from his father, King Uther. In the end, it was Gwen who quelled the simmering discontent. Though she would never have named it such, she was something of a leader among the villagers. They valued and respected her opinions; and they knew that she never lost sight of their best interests, no matter how much time she spent among the nobles.

On this particular late summer afternoon, she tried to make her way with some deliberateness of purpose, only to be waylaid again and again in these welcome distractions. She never turned away without a word, or a press of the hand, or a smile. On this day, she carried a basket over her arm to fill with herbs that Gaius needed for his remedies and salves. She was glad he had asked her to go instead of sending Merlin, as it gave her a chance to visit a place where she knew reflection would come easily ... a place of beauty and quiet and peace.

Seeing, but not really taking in where she was walking, Gwen let her mind wander a bit. So much had changed; there was so much tumult, both for Camelot and for her. She knew her thoughts should be only of Camelot, but instead it was of herself that she thought ... of herself, and Lancelot, and of course, Arthur.

Lancelot was like a star streaking across the night sky. He appeared, inspired and inflamed her passion, and then was gone. She remembered the first time he came to Camelot. There was an undeniable connection between them ... and then, all too soon, he was gone. He came again, invading her heart with heat and passion. And once again, he had left her, leaving a hole, a void, she dared not try to explain to anyone else. Throughout it all, there was Arthur.

By now she was exiting the village. She felt lighter and freer already. She drifted now at a leisurely pace toward the meadow that contained the herbs Gaius needed. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Arthur. When had it happened? For so long, though they walked the same halls, breathed the same air, looked at the same vistas, they were separate and distinct. Like all the denizens of Camelot, Gwen had watched Arthur grow up. But he knew nothing of, cared nothing for, her. It was not until their lives intersected, tied together by a common thread, Merlin, that he took notice of her.

When had it happened? When had things changed? In Ealdor? Or on his presumed deathbed as she helped Gaius nurse him back to health? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Arthur was there, as constant as day and night. All that mattered was that when he looked on her, it was with tenderness, caring, and yes, even love. All that mattered was that he coaxed her back to vitality after Lancelot left her yet again.

It mattered too, that she, Guinevere, his Guinevere, thought of him with love. Not the same love she felt for Lancelot, burning hot with passion and then gone. But rather with a love born of time and respect and honesty. She could not help but love the man he'd become.

At first, he simply took pleasure in tormenting her. In a semi-conscious state, he had heard her exhort him to live. And though he feigned not remembering what she had said as he lay mortally wounded, he would bring out a word or phrase from time to time to remind her that he'd heard every word. At these times, it seemed to please him to watch her face suffuse with color and embarrassment. At first she'd been mortified, but as time went on, she'd come to enjoy their interplay. It was a secret held between the two of them alone.

Over time, she found that he sought her out. When he wanted to know what the villagers thought or felt about something, he turned to Gwen. When Merlin puzzled him with his strange and awkward behavior, Arthur turned to Gwen to make sense of his servant's behavior. In the end, he sought her out with no purpose in mind; only to walk beside her, sometimes to tease and provoke her, but sometimes in silence and gravity.

What she shared with Arthur was so different from what she had shared with Lancelot, for their moments together were constrained. With Lancelot, the only constraints were the ones they imposed upon themselves. With Arthur, the whole world seemed to observe and judge, such was the burden of nobility.

For the first time that afternoon, she felt the heat of the day. She looked across the meadow. Rays of sun pierced a small stand of trees, but beneath them was the promise of shade. She made her way toward it, one hand outstretched, tickled the taller blades of grass, and in turn, they tickled her palm.

She set the basket beside her, all thoughts of medicinal herbs vanished for the moment. The shade and a cool breeze joined forces in counterpoint to the heat she felt. She had been resting there in the shade, for some indeterminate period of time, before she heard him approach.

****

Arthur stood gazing out the window, watching Guinevere from high above, as she made her way across the castle courtyard toward the gate, a small basket adorned her arm. As always, she moved with effortless grace--unaffected and natural. Arthur sighed and averted his eyes. He thought of all of the times he'd seen her and yet not seen her as she moved about the castle, in service to Morgana. How was it possible to have lived side by side with her for so many years and still not see her goodness, and strength of character, and beauty. She had not the advantages of the women of the court, yet she had something they would never possess--spirit ... clarity ... purpose. At first it had merely intrigued him, but as time went on he wanted, no, needed to know more of her.

Just then he became aware of the presence of another in his apartment. Without turning, "Merlin?"

"Yes, sire?" his servant replied with a hint of irritation in his voice. Arthur wondered whether Merlin would ever be like the other servants.

"Do you know where Guinevere is going?" It was natural that he should ask Merlin, as he and Guinevere were close friends. Since the death of her father, she redirected the care and comfort she'd devoted to him to Merlin and his mentor, the aging physician, Gaius, to Gaius in particular. For the old man, it was like having the daughter he never had. The three of them had become a family of sorts. Though it made Arthur glad that she had Merlin and Gaius to care for, and to care for her, it made him feel envious as well.

"Gaius asked her to gather some herbs," Merlin began. "But truth be told, I think he just wanted her to have a change of scene." He surveyed the room to assess the work ahead of him and went on, almost to himself, as much as to Arthur, "Gwen is strong, but sometimes, she seems ... oh, I don't know, low in spirits. The death of her father, seeing Lancelot ride away ... again, the changes in Morgana, have all taken a toll on her."

Arthur heard every word Merlin said, as he watched Guinevere disappear from sight, but he turned and said, "Merlin, quit prattling on. Just tell me where Gaius sent her."

"To the meadow, just beyond the village ..." Merlin began, even as Arthur swept past him, with the commanding gait of a sovereign, a blur of red and gold. There could only be one such place, and he knew it well.

As Arthur moved with speed and authority through the halls of the castle, all before him moved aside and bowed, as was his due. In a corner of his mind he realized not that very long ago, he would have looked past Gwen in a similar fashion. But today, it was not his indifference or their inconsequence that drove him, it was his desire to meet and see Guinevere. Though he'd been warned against it, he dismissed the guards that attempted to accompany him. At the moment, Camelot was safe, and he craved to be alone, both as he made his way, and once he encountered her.

As he made his way with speed and decision through the village, Arthur was aware of the looks of villagers, but he had no time or inclination to care about such things. Instead, he was consumed with thoughts of Guinevere. Though he followed her to her destination, he did not know to what end. As was often the case when he thought of her, his mind led him to a night, when she had helped to nurse him, as much in spirit as in body. His body clung to life that night, but what he remembered, was the sound of her voice. He had had to search his mind to summon up all of her words. But he did remember, and it pleased him to let her know, by gentle teasing that he remembered. He loved the way he discomfited her by reciting something she'd said to him that night.

More precious to him was remembering the feel of her hands, as she soothed his fevered brow. And later, he remembered the way she held his hand in hers in a tender caress. Surely, he told himself, it must mean something ... something more than the ministrations of an attentive nurse. She had kindled something in him that night, and for him at least, there was no denying or ignoring it.

In the distance, he saw her in the shade of a small stand of trees at the edge of the meadow. He stood and watched her from afar. Until now, he'd not thought what he would say to her. He thought about his father. Uther would have chastised him for behaving this way. His father would have reminded him that he could have any woman in Camelot. Still Arthur did not want any woman. He wanted Guinevere. Never had that been more clear in his mind and in his heart than when he saw her with Lancelot. Arthur had tried to harden his heart toward her, but when Lancelot left for a second time, he could not bear to see her so downcast. Only now did he realize that in the days after Lancelot's departure, he had sought her out, as much for himself, as for her.

A gentle, but persistent breeze, lifted and dropped the loose tendrils of hair that framed her face. Her body was still, her arms slightly out stretched as though to embrace the breeze, the basket at her feet. He followed her gaze across the meadow. The grass mellowed into late summer gold, contrasting perfectly with Gwen's rust-colored gown. A gown that on anyone else he would have thought worn and tired, but she managed to infuse it with a beauty born of earnestness.

He felt a tightness in his chest that he'd come, of late, to associate with her quiet countenance. When had it happened? When had his mere notice of Lady Morgana's handmaiden transformed into something else ... into something deep and enduring inside of him? In truth, he thought, it began in Ealdor, when she spoke to him as no one else dared. And he, in turn, heard both the scolding and the faith in her words. It made him look at her, indeed to see her, for the first time.

And then again, they were linked inextricably through the death of her father, by order of his. Her father's death had weighed heavily on Arthur. There was little he could do, save offering her his assistance and seeing to her security of situation. Still, she had borne it all with grace and calm, that surely must bely what she felt.

As he approached her, he felt the push-pull of desire. He hated to intrude--almost feared to, but intrude he must. She heard the rustle of the leaves and tall grass before she saw him. She turned to face him. "Sire." She curtsied low before him, her head and eyes downcast.

"Guinevere," he said extending his hand to her.

"Sire?" she repeated, standing without accepting the proffered hand.

"Guinevere, how many times have I asked you to call me Arthur when we are alone?"

"We are rarely alone, sire ... I mean, Arthur, and it does not come naturally to me."

"It did at one time," he smiled cheekily at her.

Her cheeks flushed. "Much has changed since then, Arthur," she returned with gravity.

"Look at me Gwen. I'm the same man I was then. The same man you placed your faith in."

"Yes, sire. But I am not the same woman. So much has happened."

Following her train of thought, "I know that Lancelot was your first love." At this, her eyes met his with a look full of challenge, pain, and recognition. He regretted it even as he said it. "I'm not blind ... or indifferent." Pained silence was her answer. He went on, "But Lancelot is long since gone, and you and I ..." he gestured with his hand, as words failed him. How could words fail him now? How could he still feel the sting of knowing what she shared with Lancelot? He no longer cared about that, he told himself emphatically. For each time Lancelot touched her life, he did so only to leave her feeling bereft and alone. And Arthur, for all his faults, would never leave her so.

"Sire, please," she implored him.

"Arthur," he corrected her with a bit of his old impatience. There was a long moment of silence between them. At last Arthur fractured it, closing the space between them. "Guinevere, tell me what I must do? Command me!" He dropped to one knee before her.

"Arthur, please stop. It is not for me to command you. You are king now Arthur, and my life ... all our lives are yours to command."

"But what kind of king will I be without you, Guinevere? You are my compass, my conscience. You teach me right from wrong, just from unjust."

"Sire, that is not true."

"There, you see. You teach me true from false," he laughed, relieving the heaviness of the moment.

Now, she extended her hand to him. Taking it, he rose, but did not release her hand. She bestowed on him a smile that melted his heart. It was at once the smile of the shy handmaiden, and that of a self-assured woman, the woman who commanded the heart of the king. "Arthur, you give me too much credit. You have always known what is right and just and fair. At times, I may have helped you to see and recognize what you already knew to be true."

"Then be my looking glass Guinevere--show me the man you've seen inside." He brought her hand to his lips and peppered it with kisses. Then slowly he turned her hand and kissed her palm in a manner so intimate, she felt the heat and color rise within her. She, in return, gently stroked his cheek, and caressed his face--the face of the king. "Marry me Guinevere and be my queen."

Her only word of assent was "Sire."

~the end~