Chapter Text
There is no way she’s doing this.
The thought grows steadily in her head, its words ringing louder and more defiant each time. Her feet pound the ground with every step she takes on her way out of the room.
The page had tried to be casual but Agnes wasn’t born yesterday – getting summoned to their sovereign’s chambers for an audience was no good news. She had scarcely been in his presence in the last five years, despite being the one to take care of his child. Never had she lamented the man's aloofness. The word had spread as to how he and Queen Igraine came to be, and it being anything but a pleasant story had her grateful he kept his distance.
Until today, that is.
King Uther had formulated his request as though it was a simple matter, just a set of utterly conventional instructions to follow. Genuine dread had swelled up inside her. It was no secret to her that he had expected a son, but to do such a thing?
A distinctive giggle halts her halfway through the corridor. Slowing down her stride to keep her footsteps from echoing too harshly off the stone walls, Agnes comes up to the open door she was about to pass by.
The very object of her distress is there, grinning under the flickering glow of the many candles scattered around the room. Arturia is climbing up the intricate legs of a high wooden bench to sit by her half-sister, who promptly drops her quill to secure the child’s initiative.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Morgan whispers. “If Mother catches you, she will get— agitated again.”
Regardless of the whole decade that separates them, sneaking into Morgan’s lessons has turned out to be her charge's favourite transgression. Agnes doesn't mind it. Arturia has always been such a remarkably polite girl that there is something gratifying in her occasional expressions of mischief. Agnes can never quite tell how her sister feels about it, though.
The young lady is usually a master of poise, to the point where most confess to feeling vaguely uncomfortable in her presence. She does not look her age, either, so rumours of King Uther’s desire to marry her off soon aren’t even much of a surprise. In the eyes that spot her at the doorway, however, Agnes cannot read anything other than a lost teenager.
“Agnes,” she pleads while Arturia peeks at the parchment laid out before them. Morgan is still hovering a hand at her back to prevent her from falling.
“Right away, my lady,” Agnes replies before gesturing for the girl to join her. Disappointment pours from Arturia’s expression, though she complies without discussion. “Is your tutor not around?”
“His cape caught fire. He’s claiming it has something to do with me,” Morgan sniffs haughtily. All at once she looks much more true to the person Agnes knows. “Am I not sitting right here? Should I be blamed if he does not walk with caution when surrounded by lit candles?”
The argument definitely is too emphatic to be above suspicion, but Agnes knows better than to engage in that kind of debate. Rumours around the girl abound among the castle's servants. There are only so many disturbing occurrences she can allow herself to disregard.
Arturia, who has always found pleasure in company, is looking fairly miserable at her side. The secrecy this court imposes on her is quite isolating, and though Agnes already allows her to spend much more time with her own children than she’s supposed to, her involvement in the situation weighs on her.
"Would you care to go and look at the horses again?"
Her eyes light up so swiftly they seem to sparkle.
No way, Agnes swears in the privacy of her heart.
Despite everything, she finds herself dragging her feet to the child’s room.
It is the midst of the night, Tintagel has been quiet for hours now, and the whole thing is ludicrous.
Two ironclad knights are watching her approach from each side of the heavy oak door, both wearing the stern look of someone guarding a prisoner’s cell. She has seen their faces before, but the taste forming under her tongue is too bitter for her to feel any kind of embarrassment upon not remembering their names. Three of us to do this?
“We must be on our way,” one of the knights murmurs in a deep, pressing voice. His sunken cheeks and tightly drawn skin are very marked under the light of his lantern, doing nothing for her to put him down as anything other than sinister.
Go ahead, she wants to challenge. If you are set on this, get the girl yourself. I will take no part in this folly.
The men most likely do not even know the child as such, and the thought makes something dark seethe in her stomach. Agnes merely makes an expectant gesture towards the door, declining to make the process any quicker. A sigh escapes from the man before he prudently pushes it open, his armour making small tinkling sounds as he steps into the room.
For a moment, all of them watch the blankets rise at the rhythm of the sleeping child’s breathing. The dim moonlight bathes the chambers in silver, her short hair dulled to a tint paler than straw.
Agnes has always wished for more when it came to her, from the very moment she became her wet nurse. More than a father who only regards her as a means to further ends, more than a mother who can barely stand to look at her, more than being paraded around while Agnes ensures nobody learns too much about Arthur.
By no means am I doing this, she thinks again, but when the baleful-looking knight approaches the bed she glances at his heavy, armoured hand and throws herself forward to get there first.
“I will take him,” she says shortly, batting away the gauntlet she wants nowhere near the girl’s skin. “This is why I was asked here, wasn’t it? To avoid any fuss. You can get some warm clothes in the chest over there." Carefully, and keeping the two knights in check the whole time, she cradles her young form into her arms.
Arturia stirs softly against her. Her small fists come up to try and push her hair out of her face, her every move made sluggish by sleep. The same hands that had reached for her when she had started walking. The same eyes that gleamed whenever festivities were taking place on the castle's grounds.
Her heart swelling painfully in her chest, Agnes reaches for the first item on the meagre pile of clothing the other knight has gathered and wraps the golden cloth tightly around her shoulders. The wind outside is biting, and where they’re sending her is anyone’s guess.
Arturia is asleep again by the time they reach the postern gate, her head heavy on Agnes’ collarbone.
In accordance with what Uther had described, a man is slumped against the wall. She can see a mane of pale hair peek out of the hood covering most of his face. His mantle must have once been of some bright tint, but the fabric is filthy and torn at the sides.
For all he could pass as a beggar, he does look like he’s expecting them.
There is absolutely no way she’s doing this.
Yet the part of her that concerns itself with survival wonders what kind of future awaits her if she goes against the King’s direct orders. She does not imagine it would fare well, for her or her children.
The man shifts. Under his hood, she can see him staring at her with eyes of an unreal colour. His head tilts like there is something of interest to be found in what he is observing, and never in her life has Agnes been more petrified facing someone – she might have been uneasy in front of Uther, but this man makes her hair stand on end without uttering a single word.
She is a couple of steps away from him when she finds that her legs will not get her any closer. The knights look at her intently, and for a moment everything stays suspended.
It occurs to her all at once that she does not know whether the Queen is aware of this little scheme. Could anything come out of running to her door at this hour, despite her estrangement from the child? Would her companions even let her get there?
Fleetingly, she considers leaving behind everything she’s ever known. Fleeing the country and caring for this child, keeping her safe and well-fed until she grows old enough to fend for herself. If their goal is to make her disappear, she can take it upon herself, she decides. Erase that name from History, give her a simple life amongst those of her blood. Perhaps by the eastern shores – she has always longed to see what lies beyond Cornwall. She could find herself a nice fisherman to remarry, raise the girl in a modest but tender home.
Then she considers doing what is asked of her and going back to bed with a pang of guilt that would follow her for the rest of her life.
There is something to be said about the light-headedness that takes over right before one resolves to do something very, very foolish.
But at that moment, the knight that has mostly remained withdrawn takes a step towards her. His impatience earns him the most ferocious look she can manage, and Agnes has raised enough children to gather some skills in that.
“Your reluctance is honourable. I, too, have a young son,” he says softly, leaning down to meet her gaze. His palms tighten into fists along his thighs, abashment laid bare over his features. “I can never endorse such an act. Nevertheless, we are but simple underlings. There is nothing we can do about this.”
Agnes adjusts her grip on Arturia, still swathed in the comfortable warmth of sleep. She forces herself not to imagine what her eyes will look like when she awakes, torn away from everything and everyone she has ever known. Her deep breath shakes on its way out.
The white-haired man takes the handed child with an enigmatic grin on his face.
After it’s done, her accomplices swiftly part ways with each other, as though scattering would somehow sever any connection to their deeds.
The corridors of the castle seem to stretch out forever as she makes her way back, each one cloaked in darkness and threatening to swallow her whole. There isn’t a soul in sight, it seems, until she spots the outline of a teenager peering at her through the slightly ajar door of her chamber.
Agnes doesn’t know what to say, so she carries on.
She realises it is her mind playing tricks but Tintagel already seems duller, quieter. She wonders how many of its inhabitants will have trouble sleeping tonight.