How to Survive Promotion in the Middle Ages (5/11)
Please see Masterpost for fic headers and author's notes.
Back to Part Four
It was generally agreed that Sir Gwaine's knighthood ceremony would have been forgettable in itself, but for the party that followed. Someone had procured, in addition to the usual provisions, an extra wagon load of mead from the Rising Sun tavern, a particular local brew that had quite an unexpected kick to it around the second flagon for those who weren't used to it. Sir Gwaine carried himself well throughout the evening, but some of the younger knights and squires quite lost their heads, and poor Sir Bors was found the next morning the wrong end up in one of the horses' feeding troughs and wearing an inexplicable headdress constructed from a lady's undergarment.
Sir Gwaine made himself instantly popular among his new fellows by a combination of salacious anecdotes and a much-lauded ability to judge when the person he was talking to had finished his ale and not to impede his quest for a refill. Every so often he gravitated back to the centre of the hall where the King, Queen, and one of the royal councillors sat in a circle of more restrained, private mirth. He sometimes wrapped a friendly arm around Merlin and tried to draw him out into the general conversation, but inevitably lost him back to the little inner circle before they could get very far. The name "Lancelot" drifted out of the private conference every so often, which Sir Gwaine tried to ignore by returning to the more boisterous conversations going on around the edges of the hall. Inevitably, though, he would be drawn back to hover at Merlin's elbow, or to flirt with Gwen, or to insult the king. It all made for a full evening's entertainment.
He woke up in a new room that he eventually recognized as his own to find the king himself standing at the foot of his bed, his arms crossed and looking maliciously cheerful.
"So I have 'a face like a warthog's backside after it's eaten a few too many elderberries'?" King Arthur said.
Gwaine, blinking into the painfully bright morning sunshine, tried to remember if that was actually one of the things he had said to the king the night before. It seemed plausible enough.
"Was there something I could help you with, sire?" Gwaine asked, as politely as he could without moving his mouth very much. It tasted like he had been chewing on old, musty bed furnishings. Moving his tongue brought it into contact with new and unpleasant sensations.
"It's more about what I can do for you," Arthur said. "You are a new knight of Camelot, you have much to learn about the brotherhood of knights, and I can think of no better way to truly welcome you into our midst than to personally oversee your first day of combat practice with the others. I try to take a personal interest in ensuring that every knight who serves me knows how to defend himself and others. I thought you might want to start off against me."
"Are you sure - ow," said Gwaine, "that you want to do this now?"
"No time like the present, Sir Gwaine. I look forward to seeing you on the practice grounds in ten minutes. Don't forget your armour," Arthur said and left Gwaine to his necessarily brief private misery.
Gwaine, dressed in his old clothes and not sure he could remember how to find his armour or the practice yard, left his rooms without much of a feeling of optimism and ran smack-dab into Merlin, who had been hovering just outside the door.
"I thought you might be wanting these," he said. He was staggering under a freshly polished pile of armour. "Can I come in?"
"You didn't have to do this, you're not my servant, Merlin," Gwaine pointed out, although his heart lightened immeasurably at Merlin's presence.
"I know that. But I also know what it's like to deal with Arthur in the morning when you've just spent all night coming up with new and colourful epithets for the way he twists his eyebrows around when he's surprised," Merlin said, speaking with the voice of hard-won experience. "So I thought you could use the help - from a friend," he added.
"As a friend, Merlin, you are the most grateful sight I have ever seen," said Gwaine and ushered him into his quarters.
He emerged into the practice grounds only about five minutes late and in a better condition than some of the other new knights, particularly Sir Bors, who seemed to have lost his shirt and attempted to replace it with a hastily altered nightdress. The collar was fairly unobtrusive, despite the lace, but the end kept falling down out of the tunic beneath which he had attempted to bunch it up inconspicuously. He was making desperate attempts to hack off some of the extra material with his sword when Gwaine arrived.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Arthur in a loud, hearty voice, designed to have the maximum effect on those whose heads were already pounding. "I hope I haven't inconvenienced any of you by calling you together for training this morning. Is anyone feeling inconvenienced?"
There was a pregnant pause. Sir Bors whimpered.
"Very good," Arthur said, "and Sir Bors, thank you for volunteering to be part of our first exercise. Anyone else? Ah, Sir Gwaine, you had a number of interesting opinions to share last night that I would like to see put into practice. Do join us."
Gwaine had the sinking feeling, when Arthur slung a companionable arm around Sir Bors' shoulders and started discussing the most efficacious method of removing Gwaine's head or severing one of his limbs, that he might have said one or two more indiscreet things to the king than he had intended.
Merlin, who had snuck down at a decent interval after Gwaine to observe the practice, settled in to watch the training bouts with some satisfaction. Arthur's training techniques had changed over the last six months. Whereas before he had often invited more than one opponent to attack him at the same time, honing his own combat skills against uneven odds, now he was more likely than not to order another knight to defend himself alone and pick out another with whom to coordinate his attack.
Merlin wondered if the knights saw the change as a further petty injustice, like being dragged out of their beds at the crack of dawn for training. Merlin probably would have thought so if he were the one being walloped with a pratice sword. As it was, from his comfortable vantage point on the other side of the fence, Merlin thought it was something else entirely.
Arthur had always relished his place at the centre of the field and the height of the action. He had prided himself on being the very best knight that Camelot had to offer. Now he was, at last, forcing himself to take a step back and place a greater importance on the need of the other knights to learn and improve.
It was a sign of how far Arthur had come since Merlin had first met him that he had stopped trying so hard to prove himself. He knew he was the best knight at Camelot; so did everyone in the kingdom and most of the neighbouring ones too, no doubt. Merlin had never seen anyone beat Arthur in single combat but Lancelot or Morgause. But Arthur didn't need to be the best fighter any more; what he needed now was to be the best leader. And that was the person who Merlin saw emerging from these training sessions.
Arthur was currently having Gwaine practise his skills at defending himself against unequal odds and at the same time teaching Sir Bors how to fight at close quarters with an ally at his side. Of course, the whole practice still looked like puerile revenge, since everyone knew that Sir Gwaine had been... having a bit of a laugh at the king's expense the night before. And there had been the bill for the extra wine casks that had materialized among the castle accounts that morning. And Sir Bors had also caused an unfortunate scene in the public courtyard this morning. Merlin guessed that Arthur would probably call singling them out this morning an exercise in discipline or possibly "a much-needed lesson in the behaviour best befitting a knight of Camelot".
Merlin was just glad he wasn't the one receiving the lesson, this time. He had always hated being dragged out for combat practice. He would never have admitted, except perhaps to Gwen, that the reason he still came to watch these bouts was pride in Arthur and how far he had come towards being the king that Merlin had always know he could be.
Sir Gwaine, for his part, seemed to be holding his own well enough against the other two combatants, although his methods were far from orthodox. Sir Bors on the other hand was taking on a distinctly green tinge and looking about himself desperately, whenever Arthur halted the exercise to provide general instructions, for an unobtrusive place in which to be sick. He was saved from the lamentable decision of whether to abandon his sovereign on the field or be sick on his boots (Merlin could have told him that the boots were the worse option) by the appearance of Sir Rothby, whose presence sent an immediate chill through the crowd.
A wide gap opened up around the visiting knight as he settled in to watch the training.
Arthur gave him a curt nod, said, "Glad you could make it," and, without further acknowledgment, "Sir Bors, if you've finished with last night's mead, you can come support my flank."
Sir Bors, who had taken advantage of the temporary distraction to find a bucket, returned to his position looking none the better for wear. The next round was uninspiring. Sir Bors was clearly too distracted by his stomach to hold up his side of the defense, but Sir Gwaine held off on pressing the advantage, focussing his attack on Arthur instead. Arthur, holding him off easily and unable to inspire Bors to any great activity, let out a cry of disgust and stepped back from the fight entirely.
"This is pathetic! You aren't even trying," Arthur told them. "You are knights of Camelot, you are the foremost line of defense for the security of the realm. You must be able to defend yourselves and those around you no matter the circumstances. If that means facing a friend - learning his strengths and weaknesses so that you know how to complement them when you stand by side - or being able to step in unprepared, you must learn to do so! Enough," he said at last, when Gwaine had half-heartedly knocked Sir Bors off his feet.
Sir Gwaine helped Sir Bors apologetically back up while Arthur asked anyone who had "come prepared not to embarrass himself" to step forward.
Sir Leon and several of the more experienced knights looked ready to volunteer, but Sir Rothby's discreet cough cut through their polite reticence.
"Sir Rothby, I take it you would like to try your skills against some more of Camelot's finest?" Arthur asked. "Thank you. Do we have another volunteer?"
The knights, even those who had been prepared to step forward a moment ago, now shuffled indecisively in place. Sir Rothby had not made himself popular among them.
"I would be happy to try my luck against Camelot's most renowned knight of all - that is, if you don't consider it beneath you," Sir Rothby said snidely.
"Not at all," Arthur said, "but the purpose of these sessions is to allow the knights to train. It would do them good to practise against a little known opponent."
"Surely they would not object to a demonstration?" Sir Rothby suggested. "They can observe while they... recover their stomach for fighting."
Arthur seemed displeased but held it back as well as he could. "Very well. Prepare yourself, Sir Rothby."
Sir Rothby selected a sword from the weapons rack, making a show of testing its balance while glaring significantly at Gwaine. The blade cut easily through the air and Merlin looked on in horror, sure without knowing why that something was about to go terribly wrong.
There was something different about Sir Rothby's gait this morning. It was a little more confident, a little more decisive. When Sir Rothby ran his finger along the dulled edge of the practice sword, a shiver of apprehension ran down Merlin's spine. It felt like a stronger version of the wariness he had felt around Sir Rothby since they first met, but now it was more definite and he recognized it for what it was. He would have bet his life that Sir Rothby had just done something to enchant the sword in his hand - the sword he was about to turn against Arthur - and that it would not now be stopped by mere armour.
Merlin was tensed and ready to interfere in whatever way he could - to trip up Sir Rothby, or perhaps to invent an errand on which he could urgently draw Arthur away - but he was spared the trouble by the appearance of a genuine message from within the castle. A servant stepped forward to whisper in Arthur's ear and Merlin heard Arthur repeat, "Lancelot?" before he excused himself, leaving Sir Leon in charge of handling Sir Rothby and the knights' training.
Merlin ran after him as Arthur strode briskly into the castle.
"There's word of Lancelot?" Merlin asked a little breathlessly as he caught him up.
"I don't know yet," said Arthur shortly.
"What the hell was that you were doing back there, anyway?" Merlin demanded once they were out of earshot of the others.
"Rupert told me his nephew was keen to practice his skills with the other knights, but that they had been... inhospitable. I'd already told the Earl I intended to oversee today's training personally, so I extended an invitation to his nephew. What else could I do?"
"But did you have to be the one to fight him?" Merlin asked.
"The whole point was to set an example," Arthur said in exasperation. "By facing him myself I show that I consider him the equal of any of my own knights. Besides, the others weren't exactly leaping forward at the chance."
"Probably because they haven't got turnips for brains," Merlin muttered and, when Arthur huffed indignantly, said more loudly, "He was up to something. He would have tried to kill you if you had fought him."
"Lots of people have tried to kill me," said Arthur, "that's no reason to break off diplomatic relations."
"I'm not joking, Arthur," Merlin insisted. "Did you see what he did with that sword when he picked it up? I'm telling you, if you tested that edge you'd find it was no dulled practice blade."
Arthur paused in his progress, but only briefly. "I can take care of myself," he said finally.
"I know, I know you can," Merlin said, "but sometimes you shouldn't. Please, Arthur, I'm begging you, you have to be more careful around him. There's something wrong going on there. I can feel it."
Arthur looked at him a bit strangely, but didn't say anything more because they had almost reached the Great Hall.
"Is he in there?" Arthur asked one of the guards outside the doors.
"Yes, sire," the guard replied.
Gregory sulked. He would not have called it sulking if asked; he would have said he was sunk in a deep and introspective meditation on the finer points of law, chivalry, and the art of combat. He was, however, most definitely sulking.
Circumstances were conspiring to make Gregory look foolish. By now the entire castle knew that Gregory had been bested by some... nobody of a man in the woods. Worse, it seemed both of Gregory's brothers had bested the man easily in practice. Apparently this Lancelot fellow had even saved Sid a lot of trouble by tripping over his own feet on a couple of occasions.
Then William had stopped by his rooms bright and early in the morning to ask if he was coming down to practice, and slipped ever so subtly into conversation the fact that he'd had a round with their stranger knight yesterday and that the fellow was a complete pushover. Even accounting for William's natural tendency to rub it in when he won a match, this was humiliating.
No one was ever going to let Gregory forget that he had been beaten by a man who Sidney could knock over with his little finger.
He couldn't even work out how the bastard had done it, either. His brothers said Lancelot had been travelling with another man when they caught up with him that night, but Gregory had seen no sign of a second man in the clearing when Lancelot attacked him.
"He must just have caught you off guard," Sidney had said about it with a shrug.
It was all very well for Sidney to say that; he hadn't been the one standing there staring down the sword of a man who came out of nowhere, nursing a bruised foot from his own sister's boot.
There was no shame in being caught off guard in an ordinary way. It was the bit where he'd been caught off guard by a man he could see clearly up to the moment he lost consciousness. It all led to niggling doubts about what Elaine had been up to out in the woods and whether she had been the one to knock him out. Since he doubted that he'd get much more sympathy for blaming his little sister for the attack, he preferred to keep his mouth firmly shut on that point.
"Chrétien," he called out, seeing his father's servant pass by his open door. "Come here for a moment."
Chrétien, carrying a tall pile of books that reached up over his head, took a minute to locate the source of the voice. The books tottered precariously as he turned so he could see Gregory waving him forward.
"Yes sir, is there something I can do for you?" he asked in a tone that said very clearly that Gregory was distracting his attention from at least ten much more important things.
"Oh, it's just a silly rumour," Gregory said, trying to sound off-handed. "I thought you could clear it up for me. William was in here earlier, talking some sort of rubbish about this Lancelot fellow having one of my father's swords to use in the tournament."
Gregory did his best to say it without grimacing, but only managed a somewhat toothy grin that made Chrétien take a step back. The books teetered dangerously.
"I don't suppose there was any basis to that, was there?" Gregory asked. He would have liked to slap Chrétien on the back to show that he knew they were just sharing a good-humoured joke about the very idea that his father would do a thing like that, only he didn't want to deal with the parchment avalanche that would follow.
Chrétien, as if he had divined Gregory's thoughts, stepped carefully out of his arm's reach. "Yes, sir, he gave him Dolor," he said.
"I expect he was just loaning it to him, though, right?" Gregory asked hopefully. "For the tournament, I mean."
Chrétien coughed and shifted the stack of books in his arms. "No, sir, I'm sorry, sir, I think he meant it as a gift."
Gregory glared at him hard. "And what makes you so sure it was a gift?" he demanded.
"Because your father said it was a gift, sir," said Chrétien.
He said it perfectly blandly and politely but for some reason Gregory was sure he would have preferred to say, "because I'm not a nincompoop, you ninny."
"May I go now?" the servant asked, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
Gregory waved him away, already sunk back deep into thought. Or, as it might be, sulking.
Dolor was his grandfather's sword. It was the sword with which he had won back the kingdom from the hands of some over-zealous barons who had taken it upon themselves to declare that the royal family were cursed - or a bunch of lecherous thugs, accounts varied - and installed some sort of council of nobles to rule instead for a couple of generations. It had been a prosperous time for the kingdom and their tradespeople had been rising in affluence, but fortunately Gregory's grandfather had stepped in to put a stop to it. He had taken up the sword of old King Pellam, the last king in their line, and killed off any of the barons who had shown signs of free-thinking, until the land was firmly back under his control and the peasants suitably destitute.
Then, in his father's generation, everything had gone wrong again. There had been stories about Gregory's uncle, the one they never saw, getting himself enchanted by a cut-rate sorcerer so that he could sneak into a lady's chambers undetected. Unfortunately, the spell hadn't worn off when it was supposed to, and she had screamed blue murder when she found herself being caressed by an invisible hand. There were other stories in which the lady was the sorcerer's wife and that was why his uncle was never seen again. Still others said he roamed across the Wasteland, rendered permanently invisible, striking down knights from beyond its borders who dared to venture within and pinching the bottoms of passing young women. Whatever the truth of the matter was, his kingdom was no longer a popular travel destination.
Since Pelles' older brother was cursed with an immortality filled with perpetual suffering, Pellam's sword, and the remaining parts of the kingdom that hadn't been cursed along with him, had passed to Pelles, the only remaining son who wasn't too cursed or invisible to rule. Pelles had always made it clear that he intended to avoid his father's worst mistakes by only passing the kingship on to one of his children who he could be convinced was competent and not likely to tear the rest of the kingdom apart.
Gregory had always been the best knight in his father's kingdom. He had enjoyed being the best. He had known with a kind of pleasant but abstract certainty that one day Pelles would come to him and say, "My son, you have proven yourself to be a worthy heir to this kingdom. Take now your grandfather's sword and swear to protect these lands and their people." It was the sort of thing he thought about when he was having a nice hot bath after a long day of hitting things with his own sword. It was absolutely unthinkable that his father should just have handed that coveted family heirloom and all it represented over to a complete stranger.
It was true their father had a soft spot for Elaine, but when all that came down to was giving her a couple of scraps of wood with a morbid prehistory, Gregory wasn't bothered by it. It was something else entirely to hand over King Pellam's sword to a nobody just on the off-chance that he might prove himself worthy to marry Elaine.
Besides, he didn't see how his father could seriously expect the man to triumph in the contest, not after how badly he'd fought against Sidney, so why just hand over Pellam's sword to someone destined to fail?
Gregory sat up suddenly at attention. There was only one reason he could think of why his father would hand such a valuable symbol over to a man who was sure to be beaten by one or the other of his sons:
It was a test.
It had to be, it was the only logical explanation. Pelles had decreed that each of his sons was to fight in turn against this Lancelot fellow. Lancelot had the sword. Therefore whichever of them defeated Lancelot and took the sword from him, earning it in combat, would be the next man to rule the kingdom. It was all so simple.
There was only one thing for it. He, Gregory, was going to have to be the one to defeat Lancelot in the tournament and, what was more, he was going to make sure neither of his brothers did. That was the only way to impress upon his father how much better he, Gregory, was than his brothers, and how much more suitable he would be to reign after his father's death.
If Lancelot was confused when Gregory turned up at his door with a hearty grin, he did his best not to show it.
Gregory greeted him warmly and said, "So what's all this I hear about you having some trouble standing up to my brothers on the field? Better let me help you with that."
For the third day in a row, Lancelot found himself dragged out to the practice yard, thinking ruefully that it would have been nice to have a full night's sleep before this. If Elaine tried to drag him out again tonight, he would just have to make her see reason, that was all. When he was younger he had trained every day, without fail. Even then, though, he had never trained morning, noon and night. If he didn't make it through the tournament itself, it might be due to the exhaustion of practising for it.
"I don't know what you're all looking at me for," Gwaine said defensively. "It's not as if I even knew him. He was just someone I ran into on the road."
They were all looking at him - all being Arthur, Gwen, and Merlin, who had just happened to be there in the king's private chambers when Gwaine had been summoned to them - as if expecting him to confess to murdering Lancelot in the woods.
"And you say you didn't actually see him leave?" Arthur was asking again, with what hope of a better answer Gwaine did not know.
"I'm telling you, he just vanished in the night." Gwaine threw up his hands as the other three exchanged a glance that seemed to indicate some private understanding that he did not share. "He could have been a vision or a hallucination, some figment of the brain, for all the sign of him there was left in the morning. It was his watch," Gwaine repeated forcefully, "I heard him pacing about for a while and then it was just quiet and the next thing I knew I was waking up and he'd gone. I thought he was a bit of a bastard, to be honest, for sneaking off like that and leaving me undefended after we'd promised each other we'd take turns standing guard."
Another significant glance between the three.
"He's been taken against his will then," Arthur gravely concluded. "He would never have gone off like that and left someone he was travelling with in peril."
Gwen was biting her lip and seemed less sure. "What if he - if he decided, if he changed his mind - it's not the first time he's left without a word."
Merlin touched her arm and said quietly, "You know that wasn't why - if Arthur and I hadn't been there... you know he would never have left you alone, Gwen. Not while he lived."
Gwen nodded slightly, staring down hard at the floor, while Arthur coughed and appeared to be trying to look anyone else, even at Gwaine.
Gwaine looked between the three of them, suspicions turning themselves over in his head. "Just how good of an old friend did you say he was, again?"
Arthur's attention snapped back from an inoffensive spot in the middle distance to focus sharply on Gwaine. "Thank you for your information, Sir Gwaine. Please don't hesitate to tell us if you come to know of any other of your fellow knights going missing."
Gwaine left the three of them behind, clustered in a tight protective knot with Gwen as its centre, feeling very much alone and hard done by.
When he rejoined the other knights - many of whom had drifted away from their training to find out what had been going on - it seemed that the name "Lancelot" was echoing back and forth from one side of the field to another. Some of the older knights still remembered Lancelot from when he had first come to Camelot, although his time among them had been extremely brief.
The man must have been gifted with the art of making an impression. Sir Leon had been new to the company at the time, still starry-eyed at the prospect of fighting alongside the golden Prince Arthur. He, like so many others, had been awed when Lancelot had bested the Prince at his own challenge. Few enough of Arthur's knights could manage to knock the Prince down, even after long training against him. No one else had ever managed it at a first try.
Then had come Lancelot's mysterious disappearance, and the rumours that he had defeated a magical beast against which the Prince and all his knights had been unable to stand. That he had been banished in spite of his heroism only added to the mystique.
Here was a figure the younger knights were clearly prepared to regard with awe. Especially those who had made fools of themselves after the previous night's revelry. Some of them were already picturing themselves performing Lancelot-like feats of chivalry, perhaps beating King Arthur for once in an exercise, to the ready acclaim of all.
Gwaine's appearance when he returned among them was thus greeted with even more cross-questioning about Lancelot than the king and queen had required. When Gwaine got sick of answering the same questions over and over again - "Yes, he said something exactly like 'hold, you uncouth fiend, and unhand that lady at once or you will taste the wrath of Sir Lancelot, knight of Camelot,' but I was the one who hit the other fellow with a big stick" - he stormed off, exclaiming, "and I hope he gets back soon so you can all line up to wipe his arse for him. It's a mystery to me why Arthur even wants him back at all," he added to himself in an undertone. "If he had any brains at all, he'd keep his queen's old lover away from here."
Sometimes, when a man has been drinking in the tavern and sharing a series of good-humoured remarks with his new-found friends about the curiously troll-like figure of a man who has been hired to stand by the door and look menacing as a way of keeping the peace, he finds himself saying into an unexpected lull in the general conversation that, "Basher's mother must have looked like the hindquarters of a horse." It takes a moment for his mind to catch up with his tongue and order it into silence, by which time "Basher" is already making his way across the tavern floor with a view to a friendly conversation about the respectful behaviour due to one's elders.
The same thing happened now to Gwaine, as the words "the queen's old lover" made themselves heard to the greater part of the people gathered around the courtyard. If Gwaine could have bitten off his own tongue to stop them from carrying, he would have done it gladly.
The silence around him grew louder and longer, and the other knights edged away from him in a subtle show of their instinct for self-preservation.
"That jest comes very near to treason, Sir Gwaine," said Sir Leon, breaking the silence at last.
"It was a foolish - I meant nothing by it," said Gwaine, feeling abashed, but unable to recall the words.
With that the general atmosphere returned to something more tolerable. The murmur of conversation came back again, more quietly, as Sir Leon called the knights' attentions back to their duties. Sir Gwaine received no small number of raised eyebrows, some of which also made unfortunate attempts at waggling and knowing winks.
On the edge of the milling crowd, as Camelot's finest returned to their practising, Gwaine caught sight of the solitary figure of Sir Rothby, standing still amid the resumed activity and watching him closely.
It was still barely lunch time and Sir Gwaine would already have been glad to cancel out the entire day and go back to bed. It certainly couldn't have been worse.
Sir Rothby walked sedately back into the castle, waiting until he was out of sight of the crowd of knights and back in the quiet halls of the castle to break into a fast walk, almost a run. He arrived at the Lady Lavinia's quarters with his breathing rapid and excited. Lady Lavinia answered at the first knock and Sir Rothby didn't even wait until he was within to say, "I have a way."
Lady Lavinia ushered him in with a quick, cautious look down the corridor. When she had finished protecting the room from potential eavesdroppers, she asked, "You are sure?"
Sir Rothby smiled smugly. "It cannot fail. What is the one thing Arthur will always do?"
"Protect the kingdom?" Lady Lavinia shook her head in perplexity. "I do not know him as you do."
"No, Gwen," Sir Rothby said, eyes gleaming with excitement. "He would do anything for her. If she is threatened, there are no lengths to which he would not go. You saw how he behaved when she was kidnapped. When she was accused of sorcery he offered to give up the throne. She is the only way to ensure he sets aside his caution and throws himself into the ring."
"How will you do that?" Lavinia asked. "Now that she is queen, it is surely as difficult to attack her as Arthur."
Sir Rothby shook his head emphatically. "Not if she is accused of adultery. Then she will have to answer for her actions in open court."
"I thought she was so devoted to Arthur...?" Lavinia left the question hanging.
"She is now," said Sir Rothby, "but there was a time before that when she was quite fond of another man. Not that she said anything about it, but I could see it - Sir Lancelot, while he was here, had quite the hold on her fancy."
"Surely the past is of no use to us, though?" Lavinia asked, "How can it be of consequence what she once felt if she her affections are now bound to the king?"
"It could be if I say she has sent for her lover to return to her bed," said Sir Rothby with a smirk.
"You have proof of this?" Lavinia asked in surprise.
"What more proof do I need," asked Sir Rothby, "than to say that I saw her meet with her lover last week in the forest? The whole court is talking about the fact that Lancelot came within twenty miles of Camelot and was never seen openly - and now the king has received a mysterious message that he cannot be present at the tournament because he is detained elsewhere. No farther than a day or two from the court of Camelot and he does not show himself? That is suspicious, don't you think?"
Lady Lavinia shook her head. "Will it be enough? If it is your word against the Queen's..."
"Not only my word," said Sir Rothby delightedly, "but one of Arthur's own knights, Sir Gwaine, has practically accused her himself in front of half the court."
Lady Lavinia lifted her eyebrows incredulously.
"Oh, I don't suppose he meant it, or even meant to say it," said Sir Rothby. "What does it matter, though, now there are witnesses who cannot deny that at least one member of the court, known to be close to the king and queen, has said it?"
"She will protest her innocence," Lady Lavinia pointed out.
"I trust that she will," said Sir Rothby, "for according to the laws of the land, which Arthur has sworn to uphold, the way for a lady to prove her innocence in such matters is by a trial of combat."
Lady Lavinia began to smile in understanding. "And when it comes to defending the good name of his queen and protecting her from harm..."
"...there is no one Arthur would trust with Gwen's safety and happiness more than himself," Sir Rothby finished triumphantly. "He will have to face me in combat."
"No, that is one thing I cannot allow," Lady Lavinia protested. "You have done marvellously in this, sister, and shown that you understand the people of this court better than anyone, but I must be the one to fight him." She placed a hand tenderly upon Sir Rothby's cheek. "We both know I am the more experienced fighter."
Sir Rothby began to object and she shushed him with a finger laid across his lips.
"I know you would like to destroy Arthur by your own hand, but let me do this for you. You know that I can defeat him in combat. I have done so once before, and if I fall - hush now! - if I fall, Camelot will not lose its best hope of a queen who can finally end the persecution of those born with magic."
Sir Rothby took her hand and held it in his own. "I could not do this without you. If you fall, I do not think I could have the courage to do what must be done. I do not think I could be Queen of Camelot without you by my side."
Lavinia shook her head. "You are stronger than you know. Whatever happens, I believe that you will carry on and make this kingdom once more what it was before Uther's hatred destroyed the land."
They embraced and Sir Rothby, holding tightly to her as if Lavinia were about to face Arthur in combat that minute, said, "Sometimes I wish..."
Lavinia drew back and looked at him closely. "You aren't hesitating now, are you?"
"No, of course not," Sir Rothby said. "I was just thinking - just wondering what it might have been like, if it weren't Gwen and Arthur. If she had married anyone else. Or if he hadn't been Uther's son. None of this would be so hard."
"But he is Uther's son. You know what he thinks of magic. He has closed his eyes to the truth of his mother's death and shut his heart against anyone who uses magic, even for good. You know what he would do if he found you here," Lavinia reminded him.
Sir Rothby shut his eyes briefly, and when they opened they were glowing gold. "Then let it be done tomorrow. In the morning, when the council gathers to discuss the treaty, I will accuse Guinevere before the court."
"Good. And take care," said Lady Lavinia, "Arthur is sure to be angry."
"I can deal with Arthur," said Sir Rothby. "He's terribly predictable. He won't do anything while the presence of the delegation holds him in check. As soon as it is over, come to my chambers. We should exchange disguises as soon as possible in case we don't get another chance. I'm sure Merlin or some other lackey will be watching us."
"Then take care, sister. Until tomorrow," said Lady Lavinia.
"Until tomorrow," Sir Rothby repeated. "And then it will be done, come what may."
Elaine had found an empty old crate to perch on while Lancelot went through his solitary exercises in the practice yard. After the trial match against Gregory, Lancelot had been most careful to stay out of the rest of the family's way, so he could rest a little before the tournament instead of being dragged out to practice night and day.
His head rarely twinged now from the blow it had received, but he wouldn't have minded a few more days of rest to recover from it, either. He had even, shamefully, hidden behind the door when Gregory came to seek him out again later for a rematch. He hadn't made such a poor show of it the first time around, it was true, but he'd felt himself a little unsteady towards the end and yielded when he was forced back into a corner rather than trying to fight his way out of it.
Gregory had taken his surrender with good humour, and given him a great deal of friendly advice on his brothers' tactics before allowing Lancelot to go off and rest. Lancelot couldn't fathom why Gregory had suddenly become so keen on helping him. Elaine said he had probably decided that it would look better if Lancelot beat the others but not him, which didn't seem very fraternal to Lancelot, but he had given up on trying to extract logic from any of Pelles' family.
Pretending not to be in his rooms had worked with Gregory, who only pounded on the door and stuck his head in when there was no answer, and Lancelot had successfully avoided going a final round with any of Elaine's brothers. Elaine herself had been more difficult to avoid. Even after another late-night training session, she had turned up bright and cheery to drag him down to the yard this afternoon.
Dragging was a literal term in this case, since Lancelot had unsuccessfully attempted to hide under the low bed when she came in despite his protests and he had got a bit stuck. Lancelot had tried to cower farther out of her reach and only ended up wedged in tightly against the wall. Fortunately Elaine had a good grip and a strong arm and none of Lancelot's concern for avoiding bumps and bruises along the way.
As soon as he emerged, feet first, she had changed her hold on his ankle for one on his wrist and marched him down to the yard for more practice. Since she was unable to train with him in the daytime, she settled for observing his form and making cutting remarks every time he deviated from the proper posture for sword fighting, as laid down in The Arte of Combatte.
She also supplemented Gregory's instructions on how to beat William and Sidney with instructions on how to beat Gregory, and went at even greater length into some of the dirty tricks that William liked to pull. The first time she compared Lancelot's private parts to raisins he almost dropped his sword in alarm.
"You don't think William's going to hold back when it comes to naughty words, do you?" Elaine asked complacently. "Try again," she said, and proceeded to utter such a string of filth while he was going over his footwork that he finished the sequence flushed all the way down his neck.
"Oh, and Sidney's ticklish, though you'd never know it," she added as calmly as if she'd just been discoursing on the weather. "Not that it's likely to do you much good to actually reach in and try to tickle him, you'd probably just get your hand cut off, but it does make him a little extra defensive if you can get your sword near his underarm. He sort of... flinches, and that can do all sorts of things like weaken his grip or make him over-cautious."
She made Lancelot run through a series of moves that she said were particularly important if he didn't want Gregory to wear him down right away, because he liked to come on with very flashy, aggressive bladework in the early stages and if you didn't keep out of his way it could be lethal.
"He always catches Sid with that, because poor Sidney can't help trying to block every move, even when there's not much force behind it. William does better, but of course he always wants to show off too, so he ducks and weaves more than he needs to and does most of Greg's work wearing himself out all on his own. I wish Papa would let me have a go against them, I'd love to give Greg a taste of his own medicine."
Lancelot agreed that she probably would and made noises about retiring to bed. It was only the reminder that he would be facing Sidney soon after first light in the morning that dissuaded her from keeping him there until dusk so they could square off against each other again, and even so she pouted. It wasn't an attractive pout. She looked like a child that has had its toy taken away and is about to begin wailing at any moment. Lancelot made his escape while he could.
If he thought of anything when he retired to bed that night other than strategies and defenses for the morrow's combat, it was a passing wistful thought that things would have been so much more peaceful if only he had reached Camelot. After that, he was fast asleep and his only thought was of his pillow.
Part Six
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/63037.html at Dreamwidth.
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It was generally agreed that Sir Gwaine's knighthood ceremony would have been forgettable in itself, but for the party that followed. Someone had procured, in addition to the usual provisions, an extra wagon load of mead from the Rising Sun tavern, a particular local brew that had quite an unexpected kick to it around the second flagon for those who weren't used to it. Sir Gwaine carried himself well throughout the evening, but some of the younger knights and squires quite lost their heads, and poor Sir Bors was found the next morning the wrong end up in one of the horses' feeding troughs and wearing an inexplicable headdress constructed from a lady's undergarment.
Sir Gwaine made himself instantly popular among his new fellows by a combination of salacious anecdotes and a much-lauded ability to judge when the person he was talking to had finished his ale and not to impede his quest for a refill. Every so often he gravitated back to the centre of the hall where the King, Queen, and one of the royal councillors sat in a circle of more restrained, private mirth. He sometimes wrapped a friendly arm around Merlin and tried to draw him out into the general conversation, but inevitably lost him back to the little inner circle before they could get very far. The name "Lancelot" drifted out of the private conference every so often, which Sir Gwaine tried to ignore by returning to the more boisterous conversations going on around the edges of the hall. Inevitably, though, he would be drawn back to hover at Merlin's elbow, or to flirt with Gwen, or to insult the king. It all made for a full evening's entertainment.
He woke up in a new room that he eventually recognized as his own to find the king himself standing at the foot of his bed, his arms crossed and looking maliciously cheerful.
"So I have 'a face like a warthog's backside after it's eaten a few too many elderberries'?" King Arthur said.
Gwaine, blinking into the painfully bright morning sunshine, tried to remember if that was actually one of the things he had said to the king the night before. It seemed plausible enough.
"Was there something I could help you with, sire?" Gwaine asked, as politely as he could without moving his mouth very much. It tasted like he had been chewing on old, musty bed furnishings. Moving his tongue brought it into contact with new and unpleasant sensations.
"It's more about what I can do for you," Arthur said. "You are a new knight of Camelot, you have much to learn about the brotherhood of knights, and I can think of no better way to truly welcome you into our midst than to personally oversee your first day of combat practice with the others. I try to take a personal interest in ensuring that every knight who serves me knows how to defend himself and others. I thought you might want to start off against me."
"Are you sure - ow," said Gwaine, "that you want to do this now?"
"No time like the present, Sir Gwaine. I look forward to seeing you on the practice grounds in ten minutes. Don't forget your armour," Arthur said and left Gwaine to his necessarily brief private misery.
Gwaine, dressed in his old clothes and not sure he could remember how to find his armour or the practice yard, left his rooms without much of a feeling of optimism and ran smack-dab into Merlin, who had been hovering just outside the door.
"I thought you might be wanting these," he said. He was staggering under a freshly polished pile of armour. "Can I come in?"
"You didn't have to do this, you're not my servant, Merlin," Gwaine pointed out, although his heart lightened immeasurably at Merlin's presence.
"I know that. But I also know what it's like to deal with Arthur in the morning when you've just spent all night coming up with new and colourful epithets for the way he twists his eyebrows around when he's surprised," Merlin said, speaking with the voice of hard-won experience. "So I thought you could use the help - from a friend," he added.
"As a friend, Merlin, you are the most grateful sight I have ever seen," said Gwaine and ushered him into his quarters.
He emerged into the practice grounds only about five minutes late and in a better condition than some of the other new knights, particularly Sir Bors, who seemed to have lost his shirt and attempted to replace it with a hastily altered nightdress. The collar was fairly unobtrusive, despite the lace, but the end kept falling down out of the tunic beneath which he had attempted to bunch it up inconspicuously. He was making desperate attempts to hack off some of the extra material with his sword when Gwaine arrived.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Arthur in a loud, hearty voice, designed to have the maximum effect on those whose heads were already pounding. "I hope I haven't inconvenienced any of you by calling you together for training this morning. Is anyone feeling inconvenienced?"
There was a pregnant pause. Sir Bors whimpered.
"Very good," Arthur said, "and Sir Bors, thank you for volunteering to be part of our first exercise. Anyone else? Ah, Sir Gwaine, you had a number of interesting opinions to share last night that I would like to see put into practice. Do join us."
Gwaine had the sinking feeling, when Arthur slung a companionable arm around Sir Bors' shoulders and started discussing the most efficacious method of removing Gwaine's head or severing one of his limbs, that he might have said one or two more indiscreet things to the king than he had intended.
Merlin, who had snuck down at a decent interval after Gwaine to observe the practice, settled in to watch the training bouts with some satisfaction. Arthur's training techniques had changed over the last six months. Whereas before he had often invited more than one opponent to attack him at the same time, honing his own combat skills against uneven odds, now he was more likely than not to order another knight to defend himself alone and pick out another with whom to coordinate his attack.
Merlin wondered if the knights saw the change as a further petty injustice, like being dragged out of their beds at the crack of dawn for training. Merlin probably would have thought so if he were the one being walloped with a pratice sword. As it was, from his comfortable vantage point on the other side of the fence, Merlin thought it was something else entirely.
Arthur had always relished his place at the centre of the field and the height of the action. He had prided himself on being the very best knight that Camelot had to offer. Now he was, at last, forcing himself to take a step back and place a greater importance on the need of the other knights to learn and improve.
It was a sign of how far Arthur had come since Merlin had first met him that he had stopped trying so hard to prove himself. He knew he was the best knight at Camelot; so did everyone in the kingdom and most of the neighbouring ones too, no doubt. Merlin had never seen anyone beat Arthur in single combat but Lancelot or Morgause. But Arthur didn't need to be the best fighter any more; what he needed now was to be the best leader. And that was the person who Merlin saw emerging from these training sessions.
Arthur was currently having Gwaine practise his skills at defending himself against unequal odds and at the same time teaching Sir Bors how to fight at close quarters with an ally at his side. Of course, the whole practice still looked like puerile revenge, since everyone knew that Sir Gwaine had been... having a bit of a laugh at the king's expense the night before. And there had been the bill for the extra wine casks that had materialized among the castle accounts that morning. And Sir Bors had also caused an unfortunate scene in the public courtyard this morning. Merlin guessed that Arthur would probably call singling them out this morning an exercise in discipline or possibly "a much-needed lesson in the behaviour best befitting a knight of Camelot".
Merlin was just glad he wasn't the one receiving the lesson, this time. He had always hated being dragged out for combat practice. He would never have admitted, except perhaps to Gwen, that the reason he still came to watch these bouts was pride in Arthur and how far he had come towards being the king that Merlin had always know he could be.
Sir Gwaine, for his part, seemed to be holding his own well enough against the other two combatants, although his methods were far from orthodox. Sir Bors on the other hand was taking on a distinctly green tinge and looking about himself desperately, whenever Arthur halted the exercise to provide general instructions, for an unobtrusive place in which to be sick. He was saved from the lamentable decision of whether to abandon his sovereign on the field or be sick on his boots (Merlin could have told him that the boots were the worse option) by the appearance of Sir Rothby, whose presence sent an immediate chill through the crowd.
A wide gap opened up around the visiting knight as he settled in to watch the training.
Arthur gave him a curt nod, said, "Glad you could make it," and, without further acknowledgment, "Sir Bors, if you've finished with last night's mead, you can come support my flank."
Sir Bors, who had taken advantage of the temporary distraction to find a bucket, returned to his position looking none the better for wear. The next round was uninspiring. Sir Bors was clearly too distracted by his stomach to hold up his side of the defense, but Sir Gwaine held off on pressing the advantage, focussing his attack on Arthur instead. Arthur, holding him off easily and unable to inspire Bors to any great activity, let out a cry of disgust and stepped back from the fight entirely.
"This is pathetic! You aren't even trying," Arthur told them. "You are knights of Camelot, you are the foremost line of defense for the security of the realm. You must be able to defend yourselves and those around you no matter the circumstances. If that means facing a friend - learning his strengths and weaknesses so that you know how to complement them when you stand by side - or being able to step in unprepared, you must learn to do so! Enough," he said at last, when Gwaine had half-heartedly knocked Sir Bors off his feet.
Sir Gwaine helped Sir Bors apologetically back up while Arthur asked anyone who had "come prepared not to embarrass himself" to step forward.
Sir Leon and several of the more experienced knights looked ready to volunteer, but Sir Rothby's discreet cough cut through their polite reticence.
"Sir Rothby, I take it you would like to try your skills against some more of Camelot's finest?" Arthur asked. "Thank you. Do we have another volunteer?"
The knights, even those who had been prepared to step forward a moment ago, now shuffled indecisively in place. Sir Rothby had not made himself popular among them.
"I would be happy to try my luck against Camelot's most renowned knight of all - that is, if you don't consider it beneath you," Sir Rothby said snidely.
"Not at all," Arthur said, "but the purpose of these sessions is to allow the knights to train. It would do them good to practise against a little known opponent."
"Surely they would not object to a demonstration?" Sir Rothby suggested. "They can observe while they... recover their stomach for fighting."
Arthur seemed displeased but held it back as well as he could. "Very well. Prepare yourself, Sir Rothby."
Sir Rothby selected a sword from the weapons rack, making a show of testing its balance while glaring significantly at Gwaine. The blade cut easily through the air and Merlin looked on in horror, sure without knowing why that something was about to go terribly wrong.
There was something different about Sir Rothby's gait this morning. It was a little more confident, a little more decisive. When Sir Rothby ran his finger along the dulled edge of the practice sword, a shiver of apprehension ran down Merlin's spine. It felt like a stronger version of the wariness he had felt around Sir Rothby since they first met, but now it was more definite and he recognized it for what it was. He would have bet his life that Sir Rothby had just done something to enchant the sword in his hand - the sword he was about to turn against Arthur - and that it would not now be stopped by mere armour.
Merlin was tensed and ready to interfere in whatever way he could - to trip up Sir Rothby, or perhaps to invent an errand on which he could urgently draw Arthur away - but he was spared the trouble by the appearance of a genuine message from within the castle. A servant stepped forward to whisper in Arthur's ear and Merlin heard Arthur repeat, "Lancelot?" before he excused himself, leaving Sir Leon in charge of handling Sir Rothby and the knights' training.
Merlin ran after him as Arthur strode briskly into the castle.
"There's word of Lancelot?" Merlin asked a little breathlessly as he caught him up.
"I don't know yet," said Arthur shortly.
"What the hell was that you were doing back there, anyway?" Merlin demanded once they were out of earshot of the others.
"Rupert told me his nephew was keen to practice his skills with the other knights, but that they had been... inhospitable. I'd already told the Earl I intended to oversee today's training personally, so I extended an invitation to his nephew. What else could I do?"
"But did you have to be the one to fight him?" Merlin asked.
"The whole point was to set an example," Arthur said in exasperation. "By facing him myself I show that I consider him the equal of any of my own knights. Besides, the others weren't exactly leaping forward at the chance."
"Probably because they haven't got turnips for brains," Merlin muttered and, when Arthur huffed indignantly, said more loudly, "He was up to something. He would have tried to kill you if you had fought him."
"Lots of people have tried to kill me," said Arthur, "that's no reason to break off diplomatic relations."
"I'm not joking, Arthur," Merlin insisted. "Did you see what he did with that sword when he picked it up? I'm telling you, if you tested that edge you'd find it was no dulled practice blade."
Arthur paused in his progress, but only briefly. "I can take care of myself," he said finally.
"I know, I know you can," Merlin said, "but sometimes you shouldn't. Please, Arthur, I'm begging you, you have to be more careful around him. There's something wrong going on there. I can feel it."
Arthur looked at him a bit strangely, but didn't say anything more because they had almost reached the Great Hall.
"Is he in there?" Arthur asked one of the guards outside the doors.
"Yes, sire," the guard replied.
Gregory sulked. He would not have called it sulking if asked; he would have said he was sunk in a deep and introspective meditation on the finer points of law, chivalry, and the art of combat. He was, however, most definitely sulking.
Circumstances were conspiring to make Gregory look foolish. By now the entire castle knew that Gregory had been bested by some... nobody of a man in the woods. Worse, it seemed both of Gregory's brothers had bested the man easily in practice. Apparently this Lancelot fellow had even saved Sid a lot of trouble by tripping over his own feet on a couple of occasions.
Then William had stopped by his rooms bright and early in the morning to ask if he was coming down to practice, and slipped ever so subtly into conversation the fact that he'd had a round with their stranger knight yesterday and that the fellow was a complete pushover. Even accounting for William's natural tendency to rub it in when he won a match, this was humiliating.
No one was ever going to let Gregory forget that he had been beaten by a man who Sidney could knock over with his little finger.
He couldn't even work out how the bastard had done it, either. His brothers said Lancelot had been travelling with another man when they caught up with him that night, but Gregory had seen no sign of a second man in the clearing when Lancelot attacked him.
"He must just have caught you off guard," Sidney had said about it with a shrug.
It was all very well for Sidney to say that; he hadn't been the one standing there staring down the sword of a man who came out of nowhere, nursing a bruised foot from his own sister's boot.
There was no shame in being caught off guard in an ordinary way. It was the bit where he'd been caught off guard by a man he could see clearly up to the moment he lost consciousness. It all led to niggling doubts about what Elaine had been up to out in the woods and whether she had been the one to knock him out. Since he doubted that he'd get much more sympathy for blaming his little sister for the attack, he preferred to keep his mouth firmly shut on that point.
"Chrétien," he called out, seeing his father's servant pass by his open door. "Come here for a moment."
Chrétien, carrying a tall pile of books that reached up over his head, took a minute to locate the source of the voice. The books tottered precariously as he turned so he could see Gregory waving him forward.
"Yes sir, is there something I can do for you?" he asked in a tone that said very clearly that Gregory was distracting his attention from at least ten much more important things.
"Oh, it's just a silly rumour," Gregory said, trying to sound off-handed. "I thought you could clear it up for me. William was in here earlier, talking some sort of rubbish about this Lancelot fellow having one of my father's swords to use in the tournament."
Gregory did his best to say it without grimacing, but only managed a somewhat toothy grin that made Chrétien take a step back. The books teetered dangerously.
"I don't suppose there was any basis to that, was there?" Gregory asked. He would have liked to slap Chrétien on the back to show that he knew they were just sharing a good-humoured joke about the very idea that his father would do a thing like that, only he didn't want to deal with the parchment avalanche that would follow.
Chrétien, as if he had divined Gregory's thoughts, stepped carefully out of his arm's reach. "Yes, sir, he gave him Dolor," he said.
"I expect he was just loaning it to him, though, right?" Gregory asked hopefully. "For the tournament, I mean."
Chrétien coughed and shifted the stack of books in his arms. "No, sir, I'm sorry, sir, I think he meant it as a gift."
Gregory glared at him hard. "And what makes you so sure it was a gift?" he demanded.
"Because your father said it was a gift, sir," said Chrétien.
He said it perfectly blandly and politely but for some reason Gregory was sure he would have preferred to say, "because I'm not a nincompoop, you ninny."
"May I go now?" the servant asked, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
Gregory waved him away, already sunk back deep into thought. Or, as it might be, sulking.
Dolor was his grandfather's sword. It was the sword with which he had won back the kingdom from the hands of some over-zealous barons who had taken it upon themselves to declare that the royal family were cursed - or a bunch of lecherous thugs, accounts varied - and installed some sort of council of nobles to rule instead for a couple of generations. It had been a prosperous time for the kingdom and their tradespeople had been rising in affluence, but fortunately Gregory's grandfather had stepped in to put a stop to it. He had taken up the sword of old King Pellam, the last king in their line, and killed off any of the barons who had shown signs of free-thinking, until the land was firmly back under his control and the peasants suitably destitute.
Then, in his father's generation, everything had gone wrong again. There had been stories about Gregory's uncle, the one they never saw, getting himself enchanted by a cut-rate sorcerer so that he could sneak into a lady's chambers undetected. Unfortunately, the spell hadn't worn off when it was supposed to, and she had screamed blue murder when she found herself being caressed by an invisible hand. There were other stories in which the lady was the sorcerer's wife and that was why his uncle was never seen again. Still others said he roamed across the Wasteland, rendered permanently invisible, striking down knights from beyond its borders who dared to venture within and pinching the bottoms of passing young women. Whatever the truth of the matter was, his kingdom was no longer a popular travel destination.
Since Pelles' older brother was cursed with an immortality filled with perpetual suffering, Pellam's sword, and the remaining parts of the kingdom that hadn't been cursed along with him, had passed to Pelles, the only remaining son who wasn't too cursed or invisible to rule. Pelles had always made it clear that he intended to avoid his father's worst mistakes by only passing the kingship on to one of his children who he could be convinced was competent and not likely to tear the rest of the kingdom apart.
Gregory had always been the best knight in his father's kingdom. He had enjoyed being the best. He had known with a kind of pleasant but abstract certainty that one day Pelles would come to him and say, "My son, you have proven yourself to be a worthy heir to this kingdom. Take now your grandfather's sword and swear to protect these lands and their people." It was the sort of thing he thought about when he was having a nice hot bath after a long day of hitting things with his own sword. It was absolutely unthinkable that his father should just have handed that coveted family heirloom and all it represented over to a complete stranger.
It was true their father had a soft spot for Elaine, but when all that came down to was giving her a couple of scraps of wood with a morbid prehistory, Gregory wasn't bothered by it. It was something else entirely to hand over King Pellam's sword to a nobody just on the off-chance that he might prove himself worthy to marry Elaine.
Besides, he didn't see how his father could seriously expect the man to triumph in the contest, not after how badly he'd fought against Sidney, so why just hand over Pellam's sword to someone destined to fail?
Gregory sat up suddenly at attention. There was only one reason he could think of why his father would hand such a valuable symbol over to a man who was sure to be beaten by one or the other of his sons:
It was a test.
It had to be, it was the only logical explanation. Pelles had decreed that each of his sons was to fight in turn against this Lancelot fellow. Lancelot had the sword. Therefore whichever of them defeated Lancelot and took the sword from him, earning it in combat, would be the next man to rule the kingdom. It was all so simple.
There was only one thing for it. He, Gregory, was going to have to be the one to defeat Lancelot in the tournament and, what was more, he was going to make sure neither of his brothers did. That was the only way to impress upon his father how much better he, Gregory, was than his brothers, and how much more suitable he would be to reign after his father's death.
If Lancelot was confused when Gregory turned up at his door with a hearty grin, he did his best not to show it.
Gregory greeted him warmly and said, "So what's all this I hear about you having some trouble standing up to my brothers on the field? Better let me help you with that."
For the third day in a row, Lancelot found himself dragged out to the practice yard, thinking ruefully that it would have been nice to have a full night's sleep before this. If Elaine tried to drag him out again tonight, he would just have to make her see reason, that was all. When he was younger he had trained every day, without fail. Even then, though, he had never trained morning, noon and night. If he didn't make it through the tournament itself, it might be due to the exhaustion of practising for it.
"I don't know what you're all looking at me for," Gwaine said defensively. "It's not as if I even knew him. He was just someone I ran into on the road."
They were all looking at him - all being Arthur, Gwen, and Merlin, who had just happened to be there in the king's private chambers when Gwaine had been summoned to them - as if expecting him to confess to murdering Lancelot in the woods.
"And you say you didn't actually see him leave?" Arthur was asking again, with what hope of a better answer Gwaine did not know.
"I'm telling you, he just vanished in the night." Gwaine threw up his hands as the other three exchanged a glance that seemed to indicate some private understanding that he did not share. "He could have been a vision or a hallucination, some figment of the brain, for all the sign of him there was left in the morning. It was his watch," Gwaine repeated forcefully, "I heard him pacing about for a while and then it was just quiet and the next thing I knew I was waking up and he'd gone. I thought he was a bit of a bastard, to be honest, for sneaking off like that and leaving me undefended after we'd promised each other we'd take turns standing guard."
Another significant glance between the three.
"He's been taken against his will then," Arthur gravely concluded. "He would never have gone off like that and left someone he was travelling with in peril."
Gwen was biting her lip and seemed less sure. "What if he - if he decided, if he changed his mind - it's not the first time he's left without a word."
Merlin touched her arm and said quietly, "You know that wasn't why - if Arthur and I hadn't been there... you know he would never have left you alone, Gwen. Not while he lived."
Gwen nodded slightly, staring down hard at the floor, while Arthur coughed and appeared to be trying to look anyone else, even at Gwaine.
Gwaine looked between the three of them, suspicions turning themselves over in his head. "Just how good of an old friend did you say he was, again?"
Arthur's attention snapped back from an inoffensive spot in the middle distance to focus sharply on Gwaine. "Thank you for your information, Sir Gwaine. Please don't hesitate to tell us if you come to know of any other of your fellow knights going missing."
Gwaine left the three of them behind, clustered in a tight protective knot with Gwen as its centre, feeling very much alone and hard done by.
When he rejoined the other knights - many of whom had drifted away from their training to find out what had been going on - it seemed that the name "Lancelot" was echoing back and forth from one side of the field to another. Some of the older knights still remembered Lancelot from when he had first come to Camelot, although his time among them had been extremely brief.
The man must have been gifted with the art of making an impression. Sir Leon had been new to the company at the time, still starry-eyed at the prospect of fighting alongside the golden Prince Arthur. He, like so many others, had been awed when Lancelot had bested the Prince at his own challenge. Few enough of Arthur's knights could manage to knock the Prince down, even after long training against him. No one else had ever managed it at a first try.
Then had come Lancelot's mysterious disappearance, and the rumours that he had defeated a magical beast against which the Prince and all his knights had been unable to stand. That he had been banished in spite of his heroism only added to the mystique.
Here was a figure the younger knights were clearly prepared to regard with awe. Especially those who had made fools of themselves after the previous night's revelry. Some of them were already picturing themselves performing Lancelot-like feats of chivalry, perhaps beating King Arthur for once in an exercise, to the ready acclaim of all.
Gwaine's appearance when he returned among them was thus greeted with even more cross-questioning about Lancelot than the king and queen had required. When Gwaine got sick of answering the same questions over and over again - "Yes, he said something exactly like 'hold, you uncouth fiend, and unhand that lady at once or you will taste the wrath of Sir Lancelot, knight of Camelot,' but I was the one who hit the other fellow with a big stick" - he stormed off, exclaiming, "and I hope he gets back soon so you can all line up to wipe his arse for him. It's a mystery to me why Arthur even wants him back at all," he added to himself in an undertone. "If he had any brains at all, he'd keep his queen's old lover away from here."
Sometimes, when a man has been drinking in the tavern and sharing a series of good-humoured remarks with his new-found friends about the curiously troll-like figure of a man who has been hired to stand by the door and look menacing as a way of keeping the peace, he finds himself saying into an unexpected lull in the general conversation that, "Basher's mother must have looked like the hindquarters of a horse." It takes a moment for his mind to catch up with his tongue and order it into silence, by which time "Basher" is already making his way across the tavern floor with a view to a friendly conversation about the respectful behaviour due to one's elders.
The same thing happened now to Gwaine, as the words "the queen's old lover" made themselves heard to the greater part of the people gathered around the courtyard. If Gwaine could have bitten off his own tongue to stop them from carrying, he would have done it gladly.
The silence around him grew louder and longer, and the other knights edged away from him in a subtle show of their instinct for self-preservation.
"That jest comes very near to treason, Sir Gwaine," said Sir Leon, breaking the silence at last.
"It was a foolish - I meant nothing by it," said Gwaine, feeling abashed, but unable to recall the words.
With that the general atmosphere returned to something more tolerable. The murmur of conversation came back again, more quietly, as Sir Leon called the knights' attentions back to their duties. Sir Gwaine received no small number of raised eyebrows, some of which also made unfortunate attempts at waggling and knowing winks.
On the edge of the milling crowd, as Camelot's finest returned to their practising, Gwaine caught sight of the solitary figure of Sir Rothby, standing still amid the resumed activity and watching him closely.
It was still barely lunch time and Sir Gwaine would already have been glad to cancel out the entire day and go back to bed. It certainly couldn't have been worse.
Sir Rothby walked sedately back into the castle, waiting until he was out of sight of the crowd of knights and back in the quiet halls of the castle to break into a fast walk, almost a run. He arrived at the Lady Lavinia's quarters with his breathing rapid and excited. Lady Lavinia answered at the first knock and Sir Rothby didn't even wait until he was within to say, "I have a way."
Lady Lavinia ushered him in with a quick, cautious look down the corridor. When she had finished protecting the room from potential eavesdroppers, she asked, "You are sure?"
Sir Rothby smiled smugly. "It cannot fail. What is the one thing Arthur will always do?"
"Protect the kingdom?" Lady Lavinia shook her head in perplexity. "I do not know him as you do."
"No, Gwen," Sir Rothby said, eyes gleaming with excitement. "He would do anything for her. If she is threatened, there are no lengths to which he would not go. You saw how he behaved when she was kidnapped. When she was accused of sorcery he offered to give up the throne. She is the only way to ensure he sets aside his caution and throws himself into the ring."
"How will you do that?" Lavinia asked. "Now that she is queen, it is surely as difficult to attack her as Arthur."
Sir Rothby shook his head emphatically. "Not if she is accused of adultery. Then she will have to answer for her actions in open court."
"I thought she was so devoted to Arthur...?" Lavinia left the question hanging.
"She is now," said Sir Rothby, "but there was a time before that when she was quite fond of another man. Not that she said anything about it, but I could see it - Sir Lancelot, while he was here, had quite the hold on her fancy."
"Surely the past is of no use to us, though?" Lavinia asked, "How can it be of consequence what she once felt if she her affections are now bound to the king?"
"It could be if I say she has sent for her lover to return to her bed," said Sir Rothby with a smirk.
"You have proof of this?" Lavinia asked in surprise.
"What more proof do I need," asked Sir Rothby, "than to say that I saw her meet with her lover last week in the forest? The whole court is talking about the fact that Lancelot came within twenty miles of Camelot and was never seen openly - and now the king has received a mysterious message that he cannot be present at the tournament because he is detained elsewhere. No farther than a day or two from the court of Camelot and he does not show himself? That is suspicious, don't you think?"
Lady Lavinia shook her head. "Will it be enough? If it is your word against the Queen's..."
"Not only my word," said Sir Rothby delightedly, "but one of Arthur's own knights, Sir Gwaine, has practically accused her himself in front of half the court."
Lady Lavinia lifted her eyebrows incredulously.
"Oh, I don't suppose he meant it, or even meant to say it," said Sir Rothby. "What does it matter, though, now there are witnesses who cannot deny that at least one member of the court, known to be close to the king and queen, has said it?"
"She will protest her innocence," Lady Lavinia pointed out.
"I trust that she will," said Sir Rothby, "for according to the laws of the land, which Arthur has sworn to uphold, the way for a lady to prove her innocence in such matters is by a trial of combat."
Lady Lavinia began to smile in understanding. "And when it comes to defending the good name of his queen and protecting her from harm..."
"...there is no one Arthur would trust with Gwen's safety and happiness more than himself," Sir Rothby finished triumphantly. "He will have to face me in combat."
"No, that is one thing I cannot allow," Lady Lavinia protested. "You have done marvellously in this, sister, and shown that you understand the people of this court better than anyone, but I must be the one to fight him." She placed a hand tenderly upon Sir Rothby's cheek. "We both know I am the more experienced fighter."
Sir Rothby began to object and she shushed him with a finger laid across his lips.
"I know you would like to destroy Arthur by your own hand, but let me do this for you. You know that I can defeat him in combat. I have done so once before, and if I fall - hush now! - if I fall, Camelot will not lose its best hope of a queen who can finally end the persecution of those born with magic."
Sir Rothby took her hand and held it in his own. "I could not do this without you. If you fall, I do not think I could have the courage to do what must be done. I do not think I could be Queen of Camelot without you by my side."
Lavinia shook her head. "You are stronger than you know. Whatever happens, I believe that you will carry on and make this kingdom once more what it was before Uther's hatred destroyed the land."
They embraced and Sir Rothby, holding tightly to her as if Lavinia were about to face Arthur in combat that minute, said, "Sometimes I wish..."
Lavinia drew back and looked at him closely. "You aren't hesitating now, are you?"
"No, of course not," Sir Rothby said. "I was just thinking - just wondering what it might have been like, if it weren't Gwen and Arthur. If she had married anyone else. Or if he hadn't been Uther's son. None of this would be so hard."
"But he is Uther's son. You know what he thinks of magic. He has closed his eyes to the truth of his mother's death and shut his heart against anyone who uses magic, even for good. You know what he would do if he found you here," Lavinia reminded him.
Sir Rothby shut his eyes briefly, and when they opened they were glowing gold. "Then let it be done tomorrow. In the morning, when the council gathers to discuss the treaty, I will accuse Guinevere before the court."
"Good. And take care," said Lady Lavinia, "Arthur is sure to be angry."
"I can deal with Arthur," said Sir Rothby. "He's terribly predictable. He won't do anything while the presence of the delegation holds him in check. As soon as it is over, come to my chambers. We should exchange disguises as soon as possible in case we don't get another chance. I'm sure Merlin or some other lackey will be watching us."
"Then take care, sister. Until tomorrow," said Lady Lavinia.
"Until tomorrow," Sir Rothby repeated. "And then it will be done, come what may."
Elaine had found an empty old crate to perch on while Lancelot went through his solitary exercises in the practice yard. After the trial match against Gregory, Lancelot had been most careful to stay out of the rest of the family's way, so he could rest a little before the tournament instead of being dragged out to practice night and day.
His head rarely twinged now from the blow it had received, but he wouldn't have minded a few more days of rest to recover from it, either. He had even, shamefully, hidden behind the door when Gregory came to seek him out again later for a rematch. He hadn't made such a poor show of it the first time around, it was true, but he'd felt himself a little unsteady towards the end and yielded when he was forced back into a corner rather than trying to fight his way out of it.
Gregory had taken his surrender with good humour, and given him a great deal of friendly advice on his brothers' tactics before allowing Lancelot to go off and rest. Lancelot couldn't fathom why Gregory had suddenly become so keen on helping him. Elaine said he had probably decided that it would look better if Lancelot beat the others but not him, which didn't seem very fraternal to Lancelot, but he had given up on trying to extract logic from any of Pelles' family.
Pretending not to be in his rooms had worked with Gregory, who only pounded on the door and stuck his head in when there was no answer, and Lancelot had successfully avoided going a final round with any of Elaine's brothers. Elaine herself had been more difficult to avoid. Even after another late-night training session, she had turned up bright and cheery to drag him down to the yard this afternoon.
Dragging was a literal term in this case, since Lancelot had unsuccessfully attempted to hide under the low bed when she came in despite his protests and he had got a bit stuck. Lancelot had tried to cower farther out of her reach and only ended up wedged in tightly against the wall. Fortunately Elaine had a good grip and a strong arm and none of Lancelot's concern for avoiding bumps and bruises along the way.
As soon as he emerged, feet first, she had changed her hold on his ankle for one on his wrist and marched him down to the yard for more practice. Since she was unable to train with him in the daytime, she settled for observing his form and making cutting remarks every time he deviated from the proper posture for sword fighting, as laid down in The Arte of Combatte.
She also supplemented Gregory's instructions on how to beat William and Sidney with instructions on how to beat Gregory, and went at even greater length into some of the dirty tricks that William liked to pull. The first time she compared Lancelot's private parts to raisins he almost dropped his sword in alarm.
"You don't think William's going to hold back when it comes to naughty words, do you?" Elaine asked complacently. "Try again," she said, and proceeded to utter such a string of filth while he was going over his footwork that he finished the sequence flushed all the way down his neck.
"Oh, and Sidney's ticklish, though you'd never know it," she added as calmly as if she'd just been discoursing on the weather. "Not that it's likely to do you much good to actually reach in and try to tickle him, you'd probably just get your hand cut off, but it does make him a little extra defensive if you can get your sword near his underarm. He sort of... flinches, and that can do all sorts of things like weaken his grip or make him over-cautious."
She made Lancelot run through a series of moves that she said were particularly important if he didn't want Gregory to wear him down right away, because he liked to come on with very flashy, aggressive bladework in the early stages and if you didn't keep out of his way it could be lethal.
"He always catches Sid with that, because poor Sidney can't help trying to block every move, even when there's not much force behind it. William does better, but of course he always wants to show off too, so he ducks and weaves more than he needs to and does most of Greg's work wearing himself out all on his own. I wish Papa would let me have a go against them, I'd love to give Greg a taste of his own medicine."
Lancelot agreed that she probably would and made noises about retiring to bed. It was only the reminder that he would be facing Sidney soon after first light in the morning that dissuaded her from keeping him there until dusk so they could square off against each other again, and even so she pouted. It wasn't an attractive pout. She looked like a child that has had its toy taken away and is about to begin wailing at any moment. Lancelot made his escape while he could.
If he thought of anything when he retired to bed that night other than strategies and defenses for the morrow's combat, it was a passing wistful thought that things would have been so much more peaceful if only he had reached Camelot. After that, he was fast asleep and his only thought was of his pillow.
Part Six
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/63037.html at Dreamwidth.
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