Page 62 of Warrior Queen
A shadow of her former self, shrunken and bent, the old queen showed every year of her age. Had she hoped her husband would die peacefully in his bed with her by his side? But which was better? To die honorably fighting for your kingdom, or to succumb in the end to the ravages of age? I had no idea. The fear of what lay ahead for Arthur before old age reached him, and for me, rekindled in my stomach. I regretted the food I’d eaten that morning.
The long prayers for the dead began. I hung my head, too distraught to look at the sea of mourning faces. Never had I felt the sense of being on the outside looking in so strongly. This was their world, not mine, no matter how much I thought I’d come to be a part of it. My first twenty-four years of living in the twenty-first century had spoiled me for that.
*
After the funeralwas over, as night fell, I walked back with Merlin to the palace, unsure where Arthur would choose to go. Once in my chamber, I sent a servant for hot water and had the bath refilled. I’d just settled into the warm water when the door swung open.
Arthur stood on the threshold.
He was drunk. Easy to see because of the swaying, and the fact he was leaning on the door lintel.
I sunk my shoulders down into the water, acutely aware someone might see me through the open door, even if it was only Cei or Merlin.
For a long moment, he stood staring at me, before he came in and let the door slam shut. He wove his way over to the table, where a jug of wine stood beside the bread, cold meat and olives a servant had brought me, and sat down heavily on one of the chairs. Uncertain whether to continue with my bath, I watched him, wary of his drunkenness.
With an unsteady hand, he slopped wine into a large goblet, lifted it to his lips and gulped it down. Some of it ran down his bristly chin. He refilled the goblet.
That was enough of that. I rubbed myself down with the sponge as quickly as I could, and climbed out of the bathtub, reaching for my linen towel. I’d been meaning to wash my hair, but that would have to wait.
“Don’t,” he said.
Hand on towel, I froze. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t cover yourself up.” His gaze ran over my body in a way I didn’t like and didn’t understand. This wasn’t my beloved husband looking at me. This was a stranger. A drunken stranger. I drew the towel in front of myself, as the water pooled by my feet.
“Have a drink with me,” he said, slopping more wine into another goblet. The table swam with wine.
I wrapped the towel around myself, glad it was big, and came and sat down in the other chair. “I’d rather have some food.” I reached out and pulled the plate of cheese toward me.
His hand shot out. “No. Drink with me. Both of you.”
I met his gaze, as he blinked myopically. Where had he got this drunk? I’d come straight back to the palace after the funeral, so where had he gone? And why, when he was mostly a sparing drinker, had he got like this? I’d only ever seen him this drunk once before– after the deaths of Ummidia and her daughters. Perhaps it was his way of coping.
I picked up the goblet and took a tentative sip. “I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
He drained his second goblet. “Yes. Where were you? You should’ve been with me. Walking in the funeral procession. Showing respect for the dead.” He slurred his words, having difficulty getting them out, more drunk than even after the women died.
“I was with Merlin. He was looking after me.”
He snorted. “Hah. Merlin. Thought he could worm his way in with you, did he? Now he doesn’t have Morgana.”
I bristled at the implication, but heat rose to my cheeks as I remembered how I’d slept in his arms, for comfort only, when Arthur hadn’t been there. “Merlin and I are friends. Just as you and he are.”
Another snort. “Really? Then if he’s my friend, why didn’t he do something to save Rhiwallon? Why did I have to slide my dagger into that boy’s heart? Eh? Tell me. Why?”
Oh, how I wished I could. And how I wished I could undo my decision to bring Rhiwallon with me when I’d followed Arthur.
He put the goblet to his lips again and drained half of it in one gulp.
“You’re drunk,” I said, as gently as I could. “Don’t drink any more.”
He would have stood up if he could, but luckily, he couldn’t. Instead, he leaned across the table toward me, his face distorted with a mixture of fury and pain. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’m your king. Your husband. You can’t tell me what to do.”
I sat rigid, staring at him, a nugget of fear in my heart. Not fear of him, but fearforhim. I reached out and touched his hand. “Why don’t you come to bed?”
His mouth worked as though he wanted to say something, but his brain wouldn’t connect. He must have had an awful lot to drink before he’d arrived here, and now he’d drunk the best part of a bottle of wine in less than five minutes.
I got up and stepped around the table to his seat. “Come on,” I whispered, my heart breaking for him. “Let me help you up. Come and lie down beside me.”
