Arthur meets Guinevere

It would be the first time Arthur met Guinevere properly. They’d seen each other before, always in formal, stuffy settings: at tournaments and parties, when he was still a carefree squire, then at his ascension to the throne, when Ducal families were paraded before him, a dizzying blur of names and faces. He’d barely taken notice of her – or anyone else – back then, crumbling under the weight of his crown, smothered by his tight, high collar.

Now, everything was different. They were no longer simply peers, fellow noble offspring; neither was this just a meeting between king and royal subject, but the beginning of their official courtship.

The betrothal was all but cinched at this point, and this was mere formality. Merlin had already spoken with the parents and Lady Guinevere herself, before Arthur could even pen, under the kind guidance of the Royal Sorcerer, his official proposal of the union to the family. To seal the deal once and for all, they’d agreed that the betrothed would have to first meet in person. This was ideal, Merlin had told him. Such political marriages have, and still sometimes were easily conducted with the grooms only ever meeting on the day of the wedding.

Arthur wished he could say it took some of the pressure off his shoulders to not be rushed straight to the altar, no formal introductions, but yet it only worked to add more of a burden on him. Now his anxious mind was preoccupied with all the ways in which he could mess this meeting up.

He talked to his friends and family asking how to go about courtship; yet what he needed was not only a guide on romantic pursuit, but simple conversation too.

While all gave useful advice, it was Lance who had spent the most time with Guinevere, when his knightly duties saw him housed at her parents’ castle for a few good months.

The man considered the question silently for a while, thoughtful face tilted to the side. Lancelot, who was so quick and precise with his sword, could be so reserved and meager with his words, choosing them as if they might cut – himself or those he spoke to, Arthur wasn’t sure.

“She’s good-humored, with a kind smile,” he finally said, gaze returning to Arthur. “She loves to talk, and loves to laugh. Very fond of rabbits, too.” He paused. “I think you’ll like her.”

Arthur made up his mind then. He’d bring Guinevere a carved token of a bunny. The cutting and hewing gave his fidgeting hands a purpose and precious moments of clarity of mind.

The night before they arrived to her castle, he tossed and turned in his inn bed, tormented by visions of failure. His vivid, wicked imagination conjured up all the gaffes that he could make: step on her dress and tear it up, fail to understand a joke she made, or say something so unbelievable silly that she won’t only question his merits as a potential spouse, but as a ruler as well.

By morning he’d slept so uneasily, he could add another fear to his endless list: bringing insult to Guinevere through his relentless tired yawning.

At breakfast Merlin brewed him a soothing tea, not too potent as to dull his already drowsy senses, but enough to pacify his nerves, at least somewhat.

The carriage rolled towards the castle, which loomed tall and sprawling at the end of the alder lined road, all jutting spires, towers, chimneys and cupolas as if it housed an entire city on its roof. His heart did not quite gallop but went on at a canter, fingers industriously fussing with the lacy cuffs of his doublet. The ruff was too tight around his throat, and he fought the urge to tug at it. It didn’t help his nerves that he was riding in a carriage, but the flight with Elewen would have messed up his appearance, Merlin said. His fear of looking disheveled was enough to make him acquiesce to the jittery ride inside the pokey cabin, its frills and trims only working to make it more smothering.

As they got closer, he could make out the silhouettes gathered to welcome them, four of them, all patiently waiting. He stared at the bunny carving in his hands until it was time to climb down.

Meeting Guinevere was worse than Arthur had anticipated. Lance’s modest description had not prepared him well: Guinevere’s smile was not only kind, but lit up her entire face. It crinkled the corners of her eyes, rounded out her, sweet, rosy-powdered cheeks. She smiled with teeth – some of which were adorably crooked – the kind of smile that makes your owns lip twitch upward unwittingly.

It disarmed him completely. He carried himself through the introduction and pleasantries with as much grace as he could muster. It wasn’t as hard as it had been in the beginning, but he couldn’t rid himself of that nervous itching beneath his skin, even though he knew to hide it now. Guinevere received the bunny with delight, and cradled it as if it were flesh and bone and fur, delicately running her fingers over the white-painted wood.

His party was given time to rest and freshen up before being summoned to tea and lunch, where Arthur ate more out of politeness than anything else, munching slowly on small bird bites.

Then Guinevere and he were ushered outside into the garden, to have a walk and conversation away from prying eyes and ears. He gave Kay and Lance one last pleading, anxious look before the doors closed on them.

He cast his gaze around the courtyard – over swirls of tulips so vividly hued they made him dizzy, and neat rows of blossoming fruit trees – searching for something to say.

He went for the remark closest at hand – and safest ,if dull. “It’s a beautiful garden.”

“It is, isn’t it? I take any opportunity to get out when the weather if fair, than be cooped up inside. You could spend all day just walking through the grounds, to be honest.” She chuckled. “I used to play hide and seek with my sibling and cousins – we still do, actually, when we’re bored. It’s quite a challenge. But most of the days I simply knit or read for hours on end.” She pointed to a wicker chair shaded by an alcove of climbing roses.

“Oh,” Arthur was happy to hear there were common threads he could grasp onto. “I love being outside, too. Especially with Elewen.” Though since becoming ascending the throne, he hadn’t been able to go out and about in nature as much he used to, as much as he wished to. “I could read for hours on end, too. What do you prefer?”

“Poetry. Though I do not limit myself to it. Yourself?”

“I read all sorts of stuff. And too many official documents I wish I didn’t have to read,” he jested, then quickly regretted it. How was he coming off, a King who spoke so flippantly of his duties?

But Guinevere only laughed. “Oh, I imagine there’s not much excitement or lyricism to be found there.” She played with her jeweled girdle belt, meeting his eye with an ease Arthur could not reciprocate. His gaze snapped to the grassy ground, and remained pinned there. At the corner of his vision swayed her ample, silk satin gown of bright yellow, printed with a lovely pattern of daisies.

“Thank you again for the bunny,” she said. “It’s quite adorable. I heard you often carve.”

“I do.” He added after a beat: “My father taught me.”

She gently coaxed him to talk about it, listening with interest and patience as he chose his words. Arthur spoke little, and mostly when prompted, it wasn’t that he was at a loss for words, just a lack of courage to say them.

Arthur was relieved, and intimidated anew. Relieved, for Guinevere was an easygoing companion who could make up for his own conversational skills. Intimidated, for he wasn’t sure he could match up with her demeanor. He feared that one misspoken word or pause too long would disappoint her. Convince her that beneath his kingly regalia and Pendragon blood, he was not that impressive a man. He didn’t buckle under the weight of his crown as much as he did when he was younger, but he was overly conscious of its pressure on his forehead, and all that it meant.

After a while the conversation fell into a lull, which Guinevere seemed utterly unbothered by, basking in the silence as one does in the sun, while Arthur simmered under the pressure of what to speak of next. His chemise was slick with sweat beneath his doublet. Did she expected him to talk first, and what if he chose to say something stupid – oh, had he already said something silly? He can’t afford to do it again –

“Would you like to see the bunnies?” Guinevere asked.

Arthur blinked. “Yes,” he said, sounding more relieved than warranted, as if he’d been thrown a lifeline.

She led him to a spacious pen. Even from a distance he could see four hopping balls of fluff, leaping over each other like acrobats, shooting in and out of tunnels. They flocked around Guinevere, continuing to jump as if they were weightless, dandelions in the wind. Their long ears twitched as Arthur approached and he stilled, as wary as them.

“They’re nervous around strangers,” Guinevere explained.

“It’s alright,” Arthur said, “I’ll just sit here.” he lowered himself onto the grass in his corner of the pen, while she sat down among the bunnies.

One of them, all snow white fur, pushed their head against Guinevere, demanding to be pet. “This is Cauliflower,” she said, obliging their request. “And this -” she used her other hand to scratch a brown and white mottled rabbit “- is Licorice.” In lieu of free hands, she tilted her head towards the other two.

“The straw-colored one is Strawberry, and the one bothering Strawberry is Mint.”

The aforementioned Mint, with fur of a deep grayish blue, was nibbling on their bunny peer’s ear.

“They’re shy creatures, you know. Anxious, sharp ears, quick on their feet, ready to leap off at any moment. Their life in the wilderness shaped them to be like this,” she explained as shed did her best to split her attention five-ways. “You have to be patient and careful and gentle with them. And once you earn their trust and affection – well, it’s very well worth it.”

Arthur smiled, he couldn’t help it, not when she spoke with such warm fondness.

Guinevere beckoned to him. “Come slowly.”

Arthur hesitated, then did as told. The allure of fuzzy fur and twitching noses too strong to ignore. He inched closer on his knees, and reached out a hand, waiting for the bunnies to bridge the distance. The creatures stared as if his arm may turn out to be a snake, ready to snatch them up. He’d almost lost hope and was preparing to shuffle back into his lonely corner of the pen when one brave bunny stepped forward – Cauliflower. They took small hops towards him and sniffled his fingers, determining if they were right enough to touch their fur, a thorough inspection that Arthur passed. He stroked the bunny slowly, until they had their fill and hopped back to Guinevere, nuzzling her said as if to say Look! I was brave and went to him.

“They’re so fluffy,” Arthur said, which must have sounded like an inane thing to say to Guinevere, whose hands were more than full of rabbits.

But Guinevere only smiled, that wide, teeth-flashing, eye-crinkling infectious smile of hers.

He smiled back.