Chapter 4, Part 4

Final Touches

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The boar stood just outside the overhang, bristled and mud-caked, its weight shifting as it pawed at the ground. It snorted low, head lowering, the motion deliberate.

Edmund did not move. He stood between it and Elle, the branch clutched in both hands, held out before him like a spear. His grip trembled, the wood unsteady—but his feet held fast.

“Get out of here!” he yelled.

The boar charged, and the distance between them vanished in an instant. Edmund thrust the branch forward, the motion raw and untrained, driven more by instinct than skill. The tip struck the animal’s shoulder. It faltered—not from injury, but surprise—its momentum breaking just enough to stagger its line.

Elle cried out. “Edmund!”

“Go away!” he shouted, though the words carried no weight against the force bearing down on him.

The boar surged again. Closer now. Too close.

Suddenly a figure burst through the brush at the edge of the clearing. The Lord Chancellor with his sword already drawn. He did not hesitate. With one step, one clean strike, he drove his blade deep into the boar’s neck as it lunged past Edmund, the force of the charge carrying it through the blow. Elle gasped. The animal thrashed once, then again, its strength collapsing into the mud. The struggle ended as quickly as it had begun.

Silence followed. Only the rain remained. And the sound of Edmund’s breathing—sharp, unsteady. He stood where he was, the branch still extended, his arms locked in place.

The Chancellor studied him. “Well held, Aelfling.”

Their eyes met. Edmund swallowed, then nodded once.

Behind them, two guards crashed through the brush, breathless, their boots slipping in the wet ground. They took in the scene—the fallen boar, the drawn breath, the stillness. “My lord—”

The Chancellor wiped the blade clean with a practiced motion and sheathed it without urgency. “It seems we have … a hunter.”

He inclined his head slightly toward Edmund. The guards looked to the boy with something like approval. Edmund lowered the branch slowly, his hands still shaking, his face set as though he would not allow himself the relief that pressed at him.

Elle looked at him—proud. Then she shifted, and the pain returned at once, sharp enough to draw a wince from her.

The Chancellor moved to her side and knelt. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my ankle.”

He examined it quickly, his hands careful but efficient. “You will not be walking.” He rose at once and turned to the guards. “Take the boar up to the road. We can feast once we all dry out.”

They moved without question, lifting the carcass and dragging it away through the brush.

The Chancellor bent again, this time to lift Elle. “Come, my queen. I’ll carry you to the horses.” He gathered her into his arms with ease, steady despite the rain and the uneven ground.

She caught at his cloak as he straightened. “Why do you always call me ‘my queen’?”

He did not answer immediately. He simply began to walk, the rain closing around them once more. “Because a wise man decides early whom he will serve.”

Elle considered that, her gaze lingering on him. He adjusted his hold slightly as he moved.

Behind them, Edmund followed—soaked through, mud-streaked, but standing a little taller now, as though something in him had settled into place.

One of the guards fell into step beside him and clapped a hand against his shoulder. “Well done, lad.”

Edmund nodded. Then his eyes flicked to the Chancellor’s blade wondering how much blood had been wiped from it over the years.

They disappeared together into the trees toward the path that led back to Winchester.

* * *

Aelfwynn’s chamber had gone quiet. Candlelight burned low along the walls, its glow softened into shadow, the air heavy with the stillness of late hours. On the long wooden table lay the work of the day—fine wool, folded linen, and the deep navy gown, its gold trim catching what little light remained.

Saras sat before it, stitching. Her hands moved with steady precision, guiding thread through cloth, forming each buttonhole with care that did not falter, even as the rest of her began to. Her eyes were heavy, her focus narrowing to the small, exact world beneath her fingers.

The thread pulled through. Another stitch. Another.

Her head dipped—then jerked upright. She blinked hard, dragging herself back to wakefulness, and resumed. The needle found its place again. The rhythm returned.

The candle flickered, its flame guttering in a faint draft. The door creaked softly. Wynflaed stepped inside. She paused just within the threshold, her gaze adjusting to the dim light. It settled on Saras at the table—slumped forward, the needle still loosely held in her fingers, her body stilled at last by sleep.

Wynflaed crossed the room quietly. She did not wake her at once. Instead, she looked at the work. The stitching was clean. Precise. Each line deliberate, unhurried despite the hour. There was no sign of haste. No compromise.

She reached out and gently eased the needle from Saras’s hand, careful not to disturb the thread. Then, softly, she touched her shoulder. “Saras.”

Saras stirred, her breath catching as she surfaced, disoriented. “I’m not finished—”

“You are finished for tonight, dear.”

Saras tried to straighten, to gather herself back into purpose. She did not quite manage it. Wynflaed steadied her, guiding her to her feet with quiet efficiency, and led her the short distance to the bed. Saras sank onto it without protest. The moment she stopped moving, the exhaustion claimed her again. Wynflaed drew a blanket over her, tucking it gently into place.

For a moment, she stood there, looking down. At this woman who did not belong here—and yet had set herself to work as though she did, asking nothing, offering everything. “How shall we ever repay you?”

Saras did not open her eyes. “Clothes,” she murmured.

Wynflaed leaned slightly closer.

“For Arthur. Tuck. And me.” A faint pause, her voice slipping further into sleep. “For the presentation.”

Something in Wynflaed’s expression shifted—softened, almost amused, almost moved.

Saras continued, barely conscious now. “We cannot look like we’ve been sleeping in a storeroom.”

A ghost of a smile touched Wynflaed’s lips. “Certainly, dear.” She adjusted the blanket once more, more carefully this time, ensuring it held. Then she lingered a moment longer, studying Saras—measuring what had been given, and what it meant. At last, she reached for the candle. The flame dimmed, then vanished.

Wynflaed stepped out into the passageway and closed the door behind her with care, the latch settling softly into place.

She turned and nearly stopped short. The Lord Chancellor stood a few paces away, half in shadow, as though he had been there long enough to become part of it. Watching. Waiting.

“Lady Wynflaed.”

She inclined her head. “My lord.”

A brief silence followed. His gaze shifted, almost idly, toward the closed door. “I hear our guest has taken a keen interest in the Queen’s presentation.”

Wynflaed did not bristle. “She has.”

Another pause.

“And you find this … reassuring?”

Wynflaed studied him, not hurriedly, not defensively—simply weighing the question, and the man asking it. “I find it generous.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not agreement. “The Devil’s first move,” he said, “is to earn your trust.”

Wynflaed did not look away. “So you are acquainted with his methods?”

The remark settled between them. For a moment, it seemed he might smile. He did not.

“I have lived at court long enough to recognize influence when I see it.”

“Influence is not always malign.”

He stepped closer, the movement subtle, his voice lowering as the distance narrowed.

“Outsiders do not labor so diligently without cause.”

“Everyone here labors with cause ... her cause is to help my daughter.”

He searched her face for hesitation and found none. “And you are certain of her loyalty?”

Wynflaed held his gaze. “I am certain of her devotion.”

The distinction landed. It changed the air between them, if only slightly. He nodded once—not persuaded, but informed. “Devotion is not always predictable.”

“For now,” Wynflaed said evenly, “I will take all I can get.”

He looked once more toward the closed door, as if measuring what lay beyond it. “I trust that you will do what is best for the Queen.” Something passed through his expression then—brief, unguarded. Not political. Not strategic. Protective. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

He turned without another word and walked down the passage, his steps quiet against the stone. Wynflaed remained where she was, watching him go. The stillness returned but the tension lingered.

* * *

The next day the chimney of the cruck house stood finished. Rough in its making, but upright and certain, its new stone rising from the side of the house with a kind of stubborn pride. At its base, Arthur stood with Deorwine and the masons. All of them looked up.

Nothing. No smoke. No movement. Only the hollow dark of the chimney’s mouth against the sky.

“It’s drawing,” Arthur said. “I can feel it drawing.”

Deorwine did not look at him. “You can feel smoke?”

“Not the smoke,” Arthur replied. “The … anticipation.”

Deorwine squinted upward, unimpressed.

“If this mortar cracks—”

“It won’t.”

“It has not fully cured.”

“It is enthusiastic.”

Deorwine turned his head, slowly. “Mortar cannot be enthusiastic.”

“Today it can be.”

The door of the cruck house burst open. Tuck came flying out, wild-eyed, breathless. “It’s lit! And really starting to flame!”

They all looked back up. Still, nothing. Until a thin ribbon of smoke curled from the chimney’s top. Faint. Uncertain. Then another.

“Look!”

The smoke thickened, steadied—became a plume.

Arthur threw his arms into the air. “It’s working!”

Deorwine said nothing, but a small nod betrayed his satisfaction. The first of the townsfolk began to gather again, drawn by the sight.

Women hurried out from the house, their faces bright with disbelief. “Praise be—it’s a miracle! The smoke’s staying out of the house!” one cried out. “It’s true!” chimed another.

The cheer rose quickly, spreading through the small crowd as more people arrived, craning upward, pointing, laughing in relief. The plume climbed higher, fuller now, carried cleanly into the open air. Deorwine folded his arms, his gaze still fixed on the work.

Arthur turned to him, already moving ahead. “You realize what this means?”

Deorwine glanced at him, cautious.

“You are about to be very busy.”

“Yes, Master Deorwine, please build one at my house,” a woman called.

“Mine too,” a man added.

The voices gathered, overlapping, eager now, the idea already taking hold. Deorwine flicked his eyes toward Arthur.

“I told you,” Arthur said, self-satisfied.

“If the mortar holds.”

Arthur clapped him on the back. “It will hold.”

At that moment, a porter approached, slightly out of breath, a wrapped bundle held carefully in his arms. “Master Arthur? Master Tuck?”

Arthur turned. “Yes?”

The porter offered the bundle. “From Lady Wynflaed.”

Arthur took it, exchanging a quick, puzzled look with Tuck. Then he unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay garments. Finely cut. Richly made. Formal in a way that did not invite refusal.

“What is this?” Tuck asked.

Arthur stared at them a moment longer. “Oh no.” He held up a tunic against himself, measuring it unconsciously. “This is for the Queen’s presentation.” A beat. “This is not an invitation. It is a requirement.”

He glanced down at himself—dust clinging to his clothes, the marks of labor still fresh. Then at Tuck, who was no better, streaked with soot and ash. “We have to get cleaned up!”

“And quickly!” Tuck added, before bolting back toward the house.

Arthur hesitated only a moment longer. He looked once more at the chimney, the steady plume rising cleanly into the sky. “Well done, Master Deorwine.”

Deorwine allowed himself the smallest smile.

Then Arthur turned and hurried after Tuck, the work behind him—for now—already giving way to what came next.

* * *

Elle stood before a polished metal mirror in her chamber, dressed only in a simple linen gown. Her hair had already been transformed—braided with care, gathered high into an elegant up-do that lifted her face and revealed its natural symmetry. It was not the custom; most women wore their hair long and loose. Here, it was controlled, deliberate. Small white flowers had been woven through the braids, subtle and precise. She was radiant already.

The blue gown lay folded nearby, its richness concealed for the moment, as though its full presence were being held in reserve.

Saras stood before her, intent on the final details. She worked in silence, her movements precise, controlled. Between her fingers, she crushed rose petals, releasing their color, then lifted her hand to Elle’s face and brushed the faintest trace of it across her cheeks.

“Just a touch,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Aelfwynn watched from the side, her excitement barely contained, her hands clasped as though she might otherwise interfere. The maid stood ready, holding a small bowl of crushed berries.

Saras stepped back, studying the effect. “Good.” She reached for a berry. “And now the lips. Again—just a touch.”

She applied the color lightly, barely there, just enough to bring life to the line of Elle’s mouth. When she finished, she did not speak at once. She simply looked.

Then she turned Elle toward the mirror. Elle blinked as her reflection settled into focus.

Aelfwynn gasped softly. “You look like something from a story!”

Wynflaed smiled, the expression quieter, more measured.

“Beauty will hold,” Saras said. “But grace must be remembered. So let’s do this.” She stepped forward, adjusting Elle’s shoulders with gentle precision, guiding her posture without force. “Confidence is not stiff,” she said. “It is easy.” She stepped back. “Breathe in. Hold at the top. Hold the shoulders as you exhale. Comfortable.”

Elle’s posture shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. Wynflaed saw it at once.

“Better,” Saras said. “Do that as often as you need.”

Elle studied herself again, the nervousness still there, but changed now—contained, tempered by something steadier. Something beginning to take shape.

“The court has not seen a queen in Wessex for fifteen years,” Wynflaed said. Her voice was calm, but it carried weight. “For many of them … this will be something entirely new.”

The women lingered in the moment, their attention fixed on Elle, as though seeing not just what she was, but what she would soon become.

Behind her, Saras had gone still. Wynnflaed’s words provoked a thought. Something shifted in her, urgency. She reached for a cloth and wiped her hands clean, already shifting forward.

“May I borrow your chambers to prepare myself?” she asked Aelfwynn.

“Of course,” Aelfwynn said at once.

Saras inclined her head toward the folded gown.

“And you can manage the buttons?”

Aelfwynn beamed. “Yes.”

“Good.” Saras turned back to Elle. “Do not touch your hair.” A faint smile touched her lips. “I will see you at the presentation.”

She quickly gathered her things and rushed toward the door.

At the threshold, she paused, just long enough to glance once more at Elle’s reflection in the mirror. Then she was gone.

Aelfwynn leaned close at once, her voice dropping into a whisper of delighted urgency. “You are going to enchant them.”

Elle did not answer immediately. Her eyes drifted instead to the door Saras had just passed through, something like curiosity flickering there.

Wynflaed watched that same door, her expression thoughtful.

* * *

Saras moved quickly through the stone passageway, her breath just short of hurried, her pace unbroken. Two guards stood before the heavy wooden doors of Edmund’s chambers. They straightened as she approached.

“I must speak with the King,” she said. “Immediately.”

The guards exchanged a glance. “His Majesty prepares for the presentation.”

“Yes,” Saras replied. “That is why I must speak with him.”

The first guard studied her, weighing the urgency in her tone against the impropriety of the request. He knocked on the door then opened it just enough to speak within. “Your Majesty, someone to see you.”

Saras leaned forward slightly, her voice carrying past him into the chamber. “It concerns the Queen.”

After a moment the door opened wider. Edmund stood within, already dressed for ceremony, the weight of it visible in the set of his shoulders. He looked at Saras, taking in her urgency. “What is it?”

“I have an idea, Your Majesty,” she said. “For you. For the Queen.”

He considered her for only a moment. Then he nodded and stepped aside to allow her in, the door closing behind her.

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