Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“I’ll get them,” she said. Matilda merely smiled and shook her head.

The trunk was filled with heavy blankets, neatly folded. Vera took two in her arms and noticed a corner of thinner fabric sticking out from beneath the blanket pile. She gave it an experimental tug, and something attached to the material scraped against the side of the chest. With a steady pull, out came more fabric attached to a wooden embroidery hoop. The project was barely started: a simple cloth napkin. All that was completed was a thin line of green vines and four flower petals sewn with tidy blue stitches.

Vera added it to her armload of blankets. She dropped one on Matilda and pulled the other over herself as she ran her thumb over the bumps of Guinevere’s stitches, feeling like she held a ghost in her fingers.

“Do you remember how to do embroidery?” Matilda’s voice pierced the trance of this thread between Vera and Guinevere.

“Actually, yes.” It was true, but it wasn’t a recovered memory. Embroidery had had a moment in Glastonbury a few years back. Vera and Allison attended a kitschy sip-and-sew workshop where they’d giggled and shared pinot noir while a grandmotherly woman instructed them on various stitches. Vera had enjoyed it and taken it up as a hobby over the following months until she lost interest. Forgotten embroidery was something that she and Guinevere had in common, for Vera knew she had a partially completed project tucked in a drawer somewhere, too.

“I’d guess you had plenty of time for that sort of activity at the monastery,” Matilda said. Vera stared vacantly at her. “While you were recovering at the monastery,” she clarified.

“Oh! Yes. Right. Erm, a bit.” That’s what everyone had been told; that Guinevere spent the year recovering at a monastery in the farthest southwestern corner of the land, an order devoted to healing.

“What was it like there?” Matilda asked. “I’ve heard the monks like to play games to fill their idle hours. Is it true?”

Vera remained so thoroughly delighted by this newfound friendship that she heard herself reply, “Yes,” even though she knew nothing about the monks who were supposed to have cared for her.

“Will you teach me one?”

“Erm …” Of course, she had no idea what games the monks played (if they played them at all). So, Vera taught Matilda the only one that came to mind. “It’s called rock, paper, scissors.”

After sharing a pitcher of wine in the warmth of a fire with a friend who kept forgetting which beat what at rock, paper, scissors, and falsely proclaiming victory time after time, it turned out the game was rather funny.

“All right, all right. I’ve got it. This time, I’ve got it,” Matilda said confidently.

“Fifth time’s the charm.” Vera laughed. “I believe in you.”

Three slaps of fist to hand followed by the reveal. Matilda balled her hand as rock, and Vera laid hers out flat as paper. Matilda squealed in delight before Vera had a chance to say anything.

“I won, didn’t I?” Matilda all but shouted. Vera couldn’t speak. She shook her head, tears rolling down her cheeks as she devolved into the sort of laughter that produced no sound at all.

“I didn’t win?” Matilda cried. “That doesn’t make any sense! Those monks are fools.” This only sent Vera further into her hysterical collapse. And then Matilda was laughing, too.

For the moment, the embroidery hoop had fallen aside from Vera’s lap, forgotten, but it had sprouted an idea.

Dinner the following evening proceeded as was now usual. They ate, the performers performed, then Arthur made an excuse to leave. They arrived at his exit like clockwork.

He nodded to Lancelot and then to Vera as he muttered, “Good evening.”

That was one of a few positive shifts. Since the night when he’d been so harsh, he’d at least acknowledged Vera before he departed each evening. She wasn’t sure if this was owed to her new “could not give a shit” attitude, if Lancelot had said something to him, or if he just felt guilty. Once she had stopped seeking Arthur, however, he seemed to relax. He even laughed at Lancelot’s jokes in her presence or forgot to harden his gaze when he accidentally met Vera’s eye, but only ever for a moment.

Though his gaze had drawn goosebumps on more than one occasion, Vera made a point to give it little of her attention. She’d find the memories without him and never have to go any deeper to figure out what his problem was. After all, she had her newest plan to tend to. She scanned the hall until she found Matilda in the back corner. Matilda smiled knowingly as she wove her way to Vera, an unassuming bag hanging from her shoulder.

By all appearances, she was escorting Vera to her chambers. In truth, they crossed the grounds in long strides, raindrops beginning to splash off the tops of their heads and bursting in tiny explosions on the stone path around them. From the castle’s entry chamber, Matilda passed Vera the bag as she continued alone to the chapel. With a quick wave of confirmation from Vera when she got there safely, only Matilda retired.

She’d initially been hesitant when Vera pitched the idea, thinking it was unwise to send Vera off alone. But by late afternoon, Matilda had an abrupt change of heart. Vera was so pleased that she didn’t bother asking why.

After the first chapel service, the priest encouraged her to come to pray any time, that the chapel would be empty and unlocked in the evenings should she wish to use it, and indeed she did. Vera wasn’t sure if she would call it praying, exactly. But as soon as the idea took her, she knew she wanted to sit alone in that chapel and bathe in the jewel-colored sunset beams streaming through the stained glass, embroidering in the shadow of the exquisite Mary statue. It was all as lovely as she’d imagined.

After that, any evening not spent with Matilda, Vera rushed to the chapel where she embraced the benefits of solitude, of not having to worry about who was watching or listening. While she stitched, she sang whatever she wanted. Vera didn’t have a voice that would make anyone hold their ears, nor would it bring an inspired tear to anyone’s eye, but she liked music and didn’t want to forget the songs from her life before. She sang through the ones she’d loved with a broad catalog of whatever suited her in the moment: The Beatles, Adele, the Mamas & the Papas, Ed Sheeran, Whitney Houston—even the Spice Girls.

This night, Vera’s fifth of such a routine, a soft rain tapped a percussion on the high roof above her. She was so deep in song that her fingers fumbled, and she pressed the needle through the fabric with too much oomph, driving it deep into her thumb. Vera loudly yelped and hissed “Fuck,” as she wrenched the needle free.

And then she heard a noise from the front of the chapel. She sat stock still as fear pulsed in her gut. Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.

Vera realized now that she’d never walked to the very front. There might have been an alcove off to the left. She hadn’t thought to check.

She stood and took a few wary steps forward. “Hello?” she called.

Silence, heavy and ringing, answered.

The sun had set by now. Vera bit her lip, remembering the marble tile controlling the lights on the opposite end of the room. She wished she’d set them brighter. Out of habit, she nearly reached for her phone (that wasn’t there) to use as a torch.

“Is someone there?” Vera called more forcefully.

“Good evening.” The man’s voice came from behind her. She jumped and spun so quickly to face him that she nearly fell over.

“Sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. He stood just inside the door and was around Vera’s father’s age with mostly grey hair save for darker spots clinging to their youthful nut brown. “I saw the light and thought Father John might be here. My name is Thomas. I was appointed deputy treasurer during your time away.” She was relieved he’d introduced himself and that this wasn’t one more person she had to pretend to remember. “I’m sorry to intrude. I was hoping Father John might scribe a letter for me, but it appears you’re alone here?”

“Yes,” Vera said. “Sorry.”

Thomas twisted his hands together, seeming torn between further entering the chapel or leaving. He bobbed for a moment and, with a deep breath, decided on the former.

“Would you pardon a moment of boldness?” Thomas asked.

Her curiosity stirred. “Gladly.”

He came toward her and happened to stop in a chink of blue light reflected from the stained glass. He did not notice that his face was awash in blue, and Vera did well not to chuckle at the sight. “It’s awfully heartening to see a lady spending her idle time in prayer,” Thomas said.

He meant it as a compliment. Vera murmured her thanks, curious what he would have said if he’d heard her cursing after stabbing her thumb.

“I know we choose with the grace of Christ to be tolerant of all,” he said hastily with a dismissive wave. “But with so many who follow the old pagan ways, I, for one, am grateful our king and queen follow the Christian path. You are the queen our people need.”

Vera had to consciously coach herself not to bristle at Thomas’s comments. Nearly everything about this time had been more free-thinking than she could have dreamed. And she was moved by his earnest conviction and generous compliments, even if she felt it was misplaced by being directed at her.

“You’re too kind,” she told him honestly as she searched for the right words to say. “I’m … not sure my prayers would satisfy the Lord.”

He beamed. In her attempt to be subtly truthful, Vera had unintentionally fit further into Thomas’s demure caricature of her. “You’re a sweet girl. It’s an honor to meet you, my queen.”

As she watched him leave, Vera remembered what Lancelot had said about her being alone with a man and wondered if the protocol breach registered with Thomas.

She never thought again about exploring the alcove at the front of the chapel, and she forgot to wonder: if not Thomas, what, indeed, had made the noise she heard on that rainy night?

In the three weeks since Vera’s first night in the chapel, she estimated that she and Lancelot had run more than one hundred and fifty kilometers over six different routes. They were both surprised when Randall was waiting for them on the outskirts of town as they returned to the castle one morning. Completely unprompted, he’d made Vera two more sets of running clothes, including one thicker shirt, which was much needed as the perfectly crisp mornings of fall had shifted to the biting chill of winter.

“I see you running nearly every damn day,” Randall said, pushing the bundle of clothes into her arms. “Having some extras might be helpful, and Matilda won’t need to collect the laundry as often.”

Vera thanked him profusely, which he waved off as he hurriedly made an excuse to leave.

“I like those shoes, Your Majesty,” he called over his shoulder. Vera and Lancelot stared at one another, wide-eyed.

The two had also gone back to play the keep-away game a handful of times, but they had not returned to the sacred grove. With December winds whipping up and rain pattering their heads more frequently, they moved their end-of-run chats from the hill to a well-shielded patch of wood near the castle wall with a perfect clearing for comfortable lounging.

Seated in the chapel, Vera completed three embroidery projects. Thomas stopped by at least once a week, always with polite conversation. He brought her a flower on two occasions, which she tucked into the bouquet in her room even when it did not match. He’d often wax on about her piety or purity, but he was kind to her, albeit slightly scathing about any other members of her sex. She cringed inwardly and reminded herself, magic or not, it was the Middle Ages, and politely tolerating him until he left was likely the least confrontational outcome.

Thomas was there the night she finished her third embroidery piece. It had been nice to have someone to celebrate with. She’d proudly passed him the hoop, and he’d fussed over it.

He traced his thumb across her tidy stitches. “If you give this sort of attention to your sewing, I can only imagine what you pour into your husband. Our king is blessed to have your devotion.”

Her smile had faltered. She doubted Arthur would share his admiration.

Beyond a muttered “Good evening” at dinner, Arthur had entirely avoided speaking to Vera. So when he sat down for the evening meal and straight away turned to her, Vera knew something was coming. Her cup had been raised nearly to her lips. She set it down without even taking a drink and arranged her hands folded in front of her on the table. In a blink-and-she’d-have-missed-it moment, she was positive she caught Arthur’s lips ticking up at the corners before he had time to cover it.

“Did Merlin tell you about court?” he asked her so seriously that Vera was convinced she’d imagined his flash of lightness.

She looked around the room. This was the court, wasn’t it?

“It’s not all this.” Arthur waved his hand toward the dinner gathering. “We’ve been on a pause since your arrival, but each week we usually hold court. Anyone in the kingdom can come to address us—address me. Merlin had planned for you to attend like Guin—” He clenched his jaw. “Like you used to before.”

Every time he stopped speaking, he clenched his teeth together and then relaxed them—a pattern performed on repeat. Vera wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been so near to him and hadn’t been studying his face with the fervor of a field botanist, waiting for any change in the foliage with patient diligence. The muscle in front of his ear lobes bulged and contracted with the rhythm of the clench-release cycle.

When he stayed silent, Vera noticed he was watching her closely, too. Their eyes met, and, for once, Arthur did not look away. Her stomach fluttered under the intensity of his gaze. Dammit. After weeks of his appalling rudeness, why did she care if he looked at her? Certainly, he was remembering Guinevere from before. Maybe her time here was making Vera seem more like her.

“I don’t mind coming,” she said quickly, anything to break the hold of this moment. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow.” She heard Lancelot’s voice before he leaned forward so she could see him on Arthur’s other side. “Tuesday. Every bloody Tuesday. Most kingdoms hold court once a month, but not this one. A solid six hours of complaints and queries and asinine requests every week,” he said brightly. He clinked his cup against Arthur’s before draining its contents and heartily slamming it on the table with a performative eyeroll. “It’s so fortunate for you to get that experience back.”

Vera peppered Lancelot with a steady stream of questions about court during their run the next morning. “It is valuable and incredible for the kingdom’s morale,” he relented breathlessly as they crested a steep hill in the woods. “But of course, everyone thinks what they have to say is the most important thing in the universe. They all want to feel understood by their king, and I’ll be damned if Arthur doesn’t deliver. It just takes so long, Guinna, and it’s usually mind-numbingly boring.”

She’d instinctively been connecting what was to come with the judicial system. “But isn’t that where you’d address crime or violence?”

Their eyes were trained on the ground in front of them while they ran, ever ready for rocks and roots, but Vera could feel Lancelot looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Well, yes, but things have been remarkably good since the wars ended. It’s been a bit like living in a bubble … there’s been little crime.”

“And … ?” Vera prompted, sensing there was more.

“And it’s a carefully cultivated culture. There’s no way it will last. We’re going to outgrow the idealism of it. But if you tell Arthur I said that, I will deny it to my grave. We keep as many sentencings out of court as possible. When crime does happen, it’s a battle with Arthur to punish offenders appropriately.”

“Is he harsh?” asked Vera, remembering Arthur’s sharp glare and glassy eyes from the first time she’d seen him. And it didn’t take an historian to know the Middle Ages were a cruel time, chopping off hands for theft and heads on a whim. She’d been scared to even ask. Scared to find out how Arthur wielded his godlike power to keep the land in such a utopian peace.

But Lancelot laughed so loudly that Vera stumbled. She huffed and ran on in silence.

“I forgot that you don’t really know him anymore,” he said more gently. “He isn’t harsh. That’s the problem. We spent so many years on the battlefield. Justice in war was unforgiving and brutal. Arthur had a different vision. When justice needed to be dealt, it could be done with mercy. He always wants to find a way to choose mercy.”

“And you don’t want him to?”

“He can’t, Guinna. You can’t rule and have everyone go home happy. When a criminal complaint arises at court, Percival—you’ll meet him later today. He’s the youngest knight and easy to pick out as he has a scar across his whole face. Anyway, Percival and I work to convince Arthur when it comes time for sentencing. Arthur’s no fool. He knows what needs to be done, but hearing it affirmed by the ones you trust most … well, in the end, he’s laid the groundwork for the country he hopes for. More often than not, if he extends a fair justice, he can trust that his people will come through with mercy.

“But it’s rarely ever anything interesting. We get a lot of announcements of marriage, farming issues, magic gone sideways, someone quarreling with their aunt’s brother’s cousin over land … It will be more interesting when you begin retaking queries,” he added the last with a baiting tone that Vera knew without looking was accompanied by a sly grin.

“You’re joking,” she said, endeavoring to keep her voice flat and not give him the satisfaction of rising to his taunt. She hadn’t considered that she might be expected to participate in the proceedings.

“Yes, but not entirely,” he said. “Once you’re feeling more yourself, Merlin thinks you should. But that seems like it might be a while, doesn’t it?”

Vera couldn’t even imagine it.

Court was in a chamber she had never been in before. She sat on the throne next to Arthur’s atop a dais at the front of the room. Several other chairs were behind them, one occupied by Matilda, the rest by advisers and attendants: the crown’s treasurer, two citizen representatives (who Lancelot told her changed each week), Lancelot, and Percival. She recognized the latter by the prominent scar beginning under his eye and tracing across the bottom right half of his young face before it disappeared beneath his tunic. Merlin was the last to come in. He’d only gotten back the day prior. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and he moved more slowly than usual.

Vera had stumbled upon him in the courtyard on the way back from her run. She’d been worried he would want to exchange pleasantries and belabor the conversation, but Merlin was nearly as eager to broach the heart of it as her.

“Has Arthur—” He stopped. Vera was already shaking her head.

“I did try,” she said at his look of disappointment. To her surprise, she found she actually cared that he knew that. “Can we try magic?”

Merlin pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed. “I don’t think we have another option.”

She’d been ready to follow him to his study right then and there.

“After court,” he’d said wearily. “I need to consider how we do this. I’ll have more time soon.” It was cryptic, but his meaning became clear as soon as court began.

Merlin’s was the day’s first audience. He and Arthur announced they’d sent for a second mage to fill Viviane’s position. “He is the youngest among the council of mages. He is very smart, though a bit odd.” Merlin smiled fondly before he carried on. “The demand of maintaining the current magical structures of Camelot has kept me from attending to the kingdom’s long-term needs. This will help.” At that, his tired eyes flashed to Vera, and she averted hers, feeling senselessly guilty. Arthur was the one who should be ashamed.

The pettiest part of Vera relished that she might get to see him under pressure today. There could be a complaint about him that he’d have to answer, that he couldn’t turn away from with an icy glare.

But it was nothing like that. He was nothing like that.

She’d seen so little of him beyond a cold expression, and he’d said even less. Here, he was an entirely different person than the man who slept in the room adjacent to hers. This man listened to his citizens with interest and respect. It had no bearing if they were dressed in finery or rags, whether they approached Arthur with dire concerns about their farm’s survival, a dispute when the equivalent of pennies was owed, or even a baby’s birth announcement. Arthur asked thoughtful questions and engaged each in conversation. His voice, which Vera had thus far heard in only a few sentences at a time, was now the anchoring sound. She was startled when she realized that the sound of his voice, commanding, steady, and deep, soothed her.

Depending on the subject, Arthur consulted with each member of his gathered council. Lancelot and Percival provided advice about military matters, and the two citizens served as a catch-all for interpersonal and daily life issues. All were regularly included in the process except for Vera, who watched silently from Arthur’s side.

He never grew weary as the hours crawled on and person after person filed into the throne room. Vera’s mind would occasionally drift, and her eyes glazed over, but the low tenor of Arthur’s voice drew her back. The image that Merlin and Lancelot painted of him came into focus. Perhaps this was the magic they had described. Even Vera could feel it: Arthur was made for this. Made to build and rule and love his country. It was extraordinary to witness; here was a man who measured up to his legend.

The sting of it was immediate. Vera had done so well at burying fear and loss and any manner of unpleasant things. Even Vincent. Tucking his memory in an unreachable place was easier here, so far from the world where she’d known him. Vera had decided to detach from Arthur’s cold distance, and that should have settled it. Usually, she could master such a task, but this gnawed at her. Why didn’t he feel compelled to help her, or know her, or even show her basic kindness?

But now Vera had seen him. She’d seen him among friends, seen him interacting with his people: witnessed his softness, his easy smile, his warm face. He chuckled at a joke Vera didn’t hear and quipped a jovial response that brought a scattered chorus of laughter from everyone else in the throne room. This was the real Arthur—and he gave it to everyone but her. That was the piercing blow. It lodged in Vera like a forgotten axe wedged into a stump and left there to rust.

But court wasn’t simply Arthur getting to be a doting ruler. Issues with magic were prevalent. Mourners announced that a brilliant performer who’d had a gift of perfect vocal mimicry for any voice he’d ever heard had died after a lengthy illness. A sweet old man asked for assistance rebuilding the enchanted goat fence that his late wife constructed. Then, a bee farmer, afraid his hives might have contracted a disease. He hoped for a potion or spell to save his bees and their honey. The most alarming came next. Rumors of mage violence in France, which they called the Frankish Kingdoms.

Vera’s eyes shot to Arthur. The abruptness of her movement drew his attention—or perhaps the nature of the topic. He looked at Vera from the corner of his eyes before he addressed the man standing before them. “How did you hear this?”

The man swallowed as he fished in his pocket and procured a folded piece of paper. “My sister lives in Normandy. She sent word of the whispers in her letter. I wanted to tell Your Majesty straight away.”

The sister was most helpful. She’d heard various versions of attacks along the southern coast, each one slightly different from the last. All employed brutal usage of magic. All were devasting. But it was also all conjecture, and there was nothing to be done about it save for sending a scout to investigate and for the lot of them to feel uneasy in the meantime.

The next woman came forward so quietly that it took them all a moment to notice her as their minds drifted to imagined battlefields on foreign shores. She wore a black dress and veil to match, and it struck Vera with a jolt that her round face and kind eyes reminded her of Allison’s.

She took a shaking breath. “My son has died,” she said, and that was as far as she made it. She sank to her knees with a wail as if the weight of loss collapsed atop her.

Lancelot and Percival looked at one another, stunned. The two townsfolk whispered behind their hands. The treasurer stared all about the room, anywhere but at the woman. Vera turned helplessly from the observers to Matilda, whose expression mirrored Vera’s sadness for the woman, and then to Arthur.

His eyes set on the woman who sobbed alone on the cold, stone floor. He stood and went down the steps, knelt beside her, and tentatively wrapped his arm around her. When the woman leaned into Arthur and cried into his neck, he embraced her with both arms.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He spoke barely above a whisper. Arthur stayed on the floor with her, only ending the embrace when she initiated it.

“I know there’s nothing I can do to ease your pain,” he said. “Could we ease your burden? Are there things you need help with that your son used to do?”

The devastated woman nodded, and with tears streaming down her face, she told Arthur. “My husband has been gone for some time. My son tended our animals, and he harvested the grain. We have a crop that’s ready in the field, and I—I don’t know—”

“It’s all right,” he soothed her. “We can help you.” He looked to Lancelot, who nodded.

“It’s done. We’ll send men today.”

The woman choked back a sob as she accepted Arthur’s outstretched hands to help her stand up. He hugged her and spoke so quietly that Vera could only hear the low timbre of his voice, a hum with no words. Whatever he said, the woman smiled a little and patted his shoulder. And then, Vera saw the most remarkable thing.

Arthur cared for this mother with a tenderness as if he were her own child. It was like it all slowed so Vera could see it clearly. In this exact instant, she felt she was seeing Arthur for the first time. He was beautiful.

She hurriedly averted her eyes when he turned to come back to his seat and instead watched the grieving mother leave while another man was escorted forward. There was something familiar about his waddling frame, dressed in finery and with three attendants who trailed behind. Someone coughed from the seat just behind her. After a few moments, she heard it again and turned. Matilda glanced meaningfully from the man to Vera.

Vera whipped around to face forward.

“Shit.” She whispered it slow and drawn out, a sharp emphasis on the T.

Arthur’s head tilted in Vera’s direction, but she kept her eyes on the man. He wore a crooked, one-sided smirk that didn’t reach his eyes and read of smug satisfaction. He was only slightly less unattractive without the smear of manure across his face, because his cruelty was a permanent feature.

It was the man from the stable, and, as promised, it appeared he was ready to bring his grievance before the king.