Chapter 4, Part 3
Protectors
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The rain had softened, but the river had not. It still tore through the countryside, swollen and violent, its surface churning as if the storm had not yet released it. The banks were slick with mud, the ground unstable beneath any step.
Edmund clawed his way up from the water, fingers digging into the earth as he dragged himself onto the bank. He coughed hard, water spilling from him, his breath ragged and uneven.
Behind him, Elle was thrown forward by the current, tumbling onto the mud beside him—soaked through, shivering, her hair plastered to her face. For a moment, she lay still, her breath coming in sharp pulls, her anger directed as much at the river as at anything else.
They lay there together, side by side, gulping air.
Edmund rolled toward her first. “Are you all right?”
Elle pushed herself up on one elbow. The movement brought a sharp intake of breath. “My ankle—” she managed, breathless. “It struck a rock.” She tried to stand. Her leg gave way at once. She caught herself with a wince, the pain immediate and undeniable.
Edmund looked around quickly, scanning the terrain through the thinning rain. Not far off, a shallow rock overhang jutted from the slope, its lip offering at least some shelter from the weather. “There.”
He scrambled toward it, slipping once in the mud before catching himself. Then he turned back, returning to her side.
“I can—” she began.
“No. Don’t.” He pulled her to her feet, ignoring her protest, and half-carried, half-dragged her toward the overhang. Beneath it, the world narrowed.
Rain fell in steady sheets just beyond the stone lip, the sound constant, enclosing. Edmund gathered his soaked cloak around both of them, drawing it tight despite its uselessness. It did little to keep out the cold, but it gave them something—some small barrier between themselves and the storm.
They huddled close, shivering. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Elle studied him. “You should have asked for help with the crossing.”
“Anyone would have slipped.”
“You should have asked.”
He shot her a look, sharp with irritation. She smiled.
“At least I can still walk,” he said. “You should have stayed on the shore.”
“Someone must make certain you don’t drown before we’re married.”
He blinked at that, the edge in him softening without quite yielding. “I was not drowning.”
“You were flailing.”
“I was … swimming.”
Elle raised an eyebrow. “Like a goose with one wing.”
He snorted despite himself, the sound brief but real. Outside, the rain eased slightly, though the river still roared beyond.
“Why must we ride about like this?” he asked after a moment. “From hall to hall?”
“Would you rather be sent away like your sisters?” The question landed cleanly.
Edmund looked away, his expression shifting. “Father said they were brave,” he said. “Sent to men with crowns they’ve never met. To places they’ve never seen.” A pause. “For Wessex.”
Elle watched him, more carefully now. “And what for you?”
He hesitated. Then shrugged, as if the answer did not matter. It did.
“Father said every son must earn his place.” Another pause. “Aethelstan rules.” The words carried weight, even here, even now. “So I suppose I must fight.” There was no bravado in it. Only acceptance.
Elle considered him for a moment. “Then learn to stand without slipping first.” She nudged his shoulder lightly.
After a moment, she grinned before attempting deadpan. “Actually, I think your job is to serve me.”
He scoffed. “Oh?”
“Obviously.” She gestured vaguely toward the miserable shelter, the rain, the mud, the cold. “You will build great halls for me—with fires that do not smoke—and you will keep the dogs from stealing my supper.”
“I shall forbid dogs entirely.”
“Then I shall forbid you!”
They laughed—quietly, briefly—but it warmed something between them that the cloak could not. Edmund shifted closer, pulling the damp fabric tighter around them both.
“Whatever I rule … men, dogs …” he said, his voice settling into something steadier, “I will make it strong.” A pause. “So no one can send us away.” He took that in as if it were a promise. Or something like one.
Then—a rustle. Both of them froze. Another sound, closer this time. Movement through brush. Heavy. A low, guttural snort. From the trees, a wild boar emerged—large, bristled, its hide caked with mud, its presence immediate and territorial. It stepped into the open space before the overhang, head low, eyes fixed. It pawed at the ground. This was its shelter.
Edmund swallowed. He stood, placing himself between it and Elle.
Elle’s hand tightened on his sleeve. “Edmund—”
The boar lowered its head.
Edmund’s gaze flicked downward, searching. He seized a fallen branch, lifting it with both hands, leveling it awkwardly like a spear. Ten years old, terrified, but he did not move.
The boar snorted again, harsher now. Neither opponent stepped back. They held their ground.
* * *
Alefwynn’s chamber in the royal manor was small but carefully kept. Candles burned steadily along the walls, their light softened by the pale wash of daylight streaming through the narrow window. The space held an easy elegance—nothing ostentatious, but nothing careless.
Saras sat alone at a table, waiting.
The door opened. Aelfwynn entered first, her energy barely contained, her anticipation written plainly across her face. Behind her came Elle, moving with deliberate composure, the deep blue gown already lending her a quiet gravity. Lady Wynflaed followed, watchful, measured, with a maid at her side.
Saras rose at once and inclined her head. “Milady.”
Elle regarded her with polite curiosity. “Mistress Saras, thank you for coming and offering to help in me look my best. Aelfwynn tells me you’ve see many different things.” A small pause. “I thought it might help to entertain a different perspective.”
Saras said nothing at first. She simply looked at her.
“At tomorrow’s presentation,” Elle continued, “the court—the noblewomen—will judge me.” She let our an honest, self-aware breath. Then vulnerably, “I would like them to see that I belong.”
Saras let the words settle. Then calmly—“Please stop.”
Elle straightened instinctively, the reflex of defense immediate.
“Oh dear,” Aelfwynn murmured.
The maid froze where she stood. Wynflaed’s gaze sharpened.
“Stop?” Elle repeated, unsettled.
Saras gestured lightly toward the gown. “You are trying to be noble.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot be.”
Aelfwynn looked stricken.
“They will never allow it,” Saras said. A beat. “And even if they did … why would you want that?”
Elle absorbed the blow, not recoiling, but turning it over. “Then what should I be?”
Saras stepped closer—calm, direct. “The queen.” She let that sit for a moment. “You don’t need to be noble. You need to be the queen.”
Something in Aelfwynn lit at once. Wynflaed did not move, but her attention deepened, her eyes fixed on Saras now with sharper interest. Elle held the thought, testing it against herself.
“Let’s start with the dress,” Saras said. “A noblewoman’s dress blends into a room. A queen’s dress makes the room disappear.”
She moved behind Elle, gathering the loose fabric at the back. “So first, this—” She drew the cloth together at the waist. “—must go.” With a firm grip, she pulled the material tight, shaking Elle.
“Oh!”
She shaped the dress to Elle’s form—waist, then bust—transforming the line of the gown in a single, decisive motion.
Aelfwynn gasped softly. Elle turned her head toward the polished metal mirror, catching her reflection. The gown was no longer something she wore. It revealed her.
Saras turned Elle gently toward the window. Light struck the gold thread at the collar and cuffs, drawing it into quiet brilliance. For a moment, Elle stood at the center of the room—and the room itself seemed to recede around her. Without thinking, the others stepped back. To look.
“How will she get into it?” Aelfwynn asked, still breathless.
“Buttons.” They stared at her. “I’m going to introduce you to buttons.” She turned to the maid. “Which means we will need the carpenter.”
“The carpenter?” the maid echoed, uncertain.
“Yes. There’s more.” Saras’s attention returned to Elle, already moving ahead, assembling what was needed. “We’ll also need needles. Thread. Lots of thread. And scissors.”
She stepped back slightly, studying Elle as a sculptor might study stone—seeing not what was, but what could be drawn out.
“There will be braids,” she said. “And we’ll weave flowers through them. White ones. Subtle.” She glanced toward the maid again. “Meadowsweet.” Then back to Elle. “Brushes. Almond oil. Rose water. Crushed rose petals for the cheeks. Berries for the lips—just a touch.”
“If we’re doing all of this,” Aelfwynn said, “perhaps we should do the same for everyone?”
Saras looked at her—a faint smile. “Never outshine the bride. And in this case, we should not even come close. She must outshine everyone.”
Wynflaed gave a small, approving nod.
“Oh,” Aelfwynn said, her enthusiasm dimming just slightly. “That seems unfair.”
“It is.”
Aelfwynn grinned anyway.
Saras returned her attention to Elle. “You won’t need a necklace.” A pause. “But she will need a crown.” She turned to Wynflaed. “A circlet. Does she have a gold circlet to match the blonde?”
“I’ll find one,” Wynflaed said at once.
“Excellent.”
Saras’s focus sharpened again, her instructions now crisp, efficient. “Aelfwynn, after I mark the dress, I’ll fetch the remaining supplies. While I’m gone, have her bathed. Hair washed. Well combed. And then comb it again.” She stepped closer once more, already assessing. “We will trim it today and finish it tomorrow—just before the presentation. I will have the gown ready. Everything ready.”
She paused. “And lastly, wine. We’ll need wine.”
Wynflaed arched an eyebrow. “Wine? We need you sober.”
Saras turned to her, untroubled. “Not for me—” she said, then inclined her head slightly toward Wynflaed “—for whoever must watch this happen.”
Aelfwynn giggled. Even Elle smiled.
Then Saras faced her again. Serious now.
“Yes, you will be watched. Judged. Measured.”
Elle nodded.
“But the queen is already in you.”
Wynflaed watched her daughter closely.
“We are simply going to make sure they see her.”
Elle’s eyes filled, the emotion rising before she could check it.
“You will enchant them,” Saras said quietly. “You will make them realize they must measure themselves against you—” A beat. “—and they will find themselves wanting.”
The words settled into her.
Saras held her gaze. “Are you ready?” she asked softly.
Tears slipped free as Elle nodded. “Yes.”
Saras clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive. “Alright. Let’s show them their queen.”
Aelfwynn beamed. Wynflaed said nothing, but the way she looked at Saras had changed. And at the center of it all, Elle stood very still—nervous, exhilarated, and beginning, just beginning, to believe.
* * *
The broken edge of the Roman wall lay half-buried in earth and storm debris, its stones scattered and softened by time. Arthur knelt among them, brushing aside dirt with curious but careful hands.
“See? Right there,” the little girl said, pointing eagerly.
He dug where she indicated. More coins surfaced. Gold, dulled by soil but unmistakable once the light caught them. The girl leaned closer, her breath quick with excitement. Deorwine hovered just behind, watching with growing curiosity.
From the slope, the children’s voices rose. “Gold! We found gold!”
The cry carried. Townsfolk drifted over from the cruck house, drawn by the noise, by the promise of something unexpected. They gathered in loose clusters, craning to see.
Arthur stood, several dozen coins glinting in his cupped hands. For a moment, he simply held them—measuring the weight, the moment, the crowd.
Then he shifted. The showman returned—but quieter now, more controlled. He turned to the little girl.
“Do you know what you’ve found?”
She shook her head, eyes wide. “No. What?!”
Arthur pivoted to face the gathering crowd. “You’ve discovered a survivors’ treasure.”
A murmur moved through them.
“What?” the girl echoed.
“When the Romans built their fortifications,” Arthur said, his voice carrying easily, “they would leave a purse inside the stone.” A brief pause. “Not for ornament. Not for superstition.” He held up one of the coins. “If the fort fell—and the garrison survived—the gold belonged to those still standing.”
The idea took hold almost immediately. Heads tilted. Nods followed. The logic settled cleanly into place.
“It was the price of survival,” Arthur continued. “A means to rebuild … or to walk away.”
He gestured toward the cruck house—the half-built chimney, the scaffolding, the work in motion. Then beyond it, to the town itself. “The Romans are gone ... but we remain.” He lifted the coins slightly. “And we are the survivors, are we not?”
The answer came without words. It moved through the crowd in agreement, in quiet affirmation.
Arthur knelt again, spreading the coins between his hands, dividing them with deliberate care.
“One coin for each child helping to collect stones.” The children erupted in cheers.
“One for each mason building this chimney.” Approving nods from the men.
“One for Auntie, who feeds the lot of us.” Laughter, warm and immediate.
“And the rest to the Church,” Arthur added, “so the blessing holds.”
That settled it. Whatever uncertainty had lingered gave way. The moment shifted—from discovery to celebration, from question to meaning.
Arthur pressed an extra coin into the little girl’s hand. “And one more for our treasure hunter.”
She beamed, clutching it tightly.
“And that’s all the Romans left.”
The crowd began to disperse, the energy still carrying with them—coins in hand, voices bright, the story already taking shape as it passed from one to another.
Soon, only Arthur and Deorwine remained by the rubble. Deorwine looked down at the stones, then at the space where the coins had been.
“I’ve raised walls half my life,” he said. He paused for a moment. “Never heard of Romans burying gold in them.”
Arthur did not look at him at first. He feigned mild surprise. “No? That’s surprising.”
Deorwine studied him. “You don’t know why those coins were there, do you?”
Arthur glanced up at last, a small, knowing grin touching his mouth. “No.” He let that sit. “But I do know what would happen if people believed there could be more.”
Deorwine followed his gaze back to the ruined wall. “My men would not lack for work.”
Arthur gave a quiet chuckle. “Let’s keep them busy building hearths,” he said, “and not rebuilding ramparts.”
Deorwine looked at him again, something like respect settling into his expression. They shared a brief smile. Then turned together, walking back toward the cruck house, where the work—and the future—waited.
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Oh, I LOVED Saras in this.