How to Survive Promotion in the Middle Ages (7/11)
Please see Masterpost for fic headers and author's notes.
Back to Part Six
Chrétien didn't set much store by the tournaments at Carbonek. They meant more work for everyone and a lot of extra people wandering around the castle getting underfoot. Then again, they also kept the knights out of trouble. When there were no tournaments going on, the knights tended to get bored and decide that it would be a bit of fun to round up the servants and dress up in armour for mock battles. Considering the average training in arms that the servants received, this made for an exercise something akin to target practice.
So Chrétien was not, overall, averse to having regular tournaments to keep the knights busy. He only asked that no one try to make him take a practical interest beyond, say, reading up on the heraldry of the visiting knights. It was a useful task in itself, and helped ensure that nothing would happen as embarrassing as the time two families with a centuries-old blood feud had been seated side by side at dinner: they had had to take away all the knives on that side of the table and everyone had eaten their mutton with spoons, trying to glare each other to death.
His research also kept Chrétien out of the way of any knights who still weren't too busy to hit servants with training weapons.
There wasn't much to do by way of preparation for this tournament, though, because it was looking likely to be much less populated than last year's. Chrétien had personally written out some very nice invitations to be carried to the neighbouring kingdoms and baronies, but so far very few knights had responded (despite polite instructions to do so) and even fewer had actually turned up. It was true there was a rumour going around that Camelot was holding a grand tournament of its own to conclude some diplomatic negotiations, but the event hadn't even been formally announced. It showed a certain lack of consideration for the basic etiquette of tournament competition.
And yet even citizens of Carbonek - who by rights should have been flocking to the local entertainment - were streaming across the border in a gradual trickle that was only likely to increase over the next day or so. Anyone who owned a cart or a wagon could reach Camelot in three or four days at a good walk and many people were setting out early to establish their stalls on the first day.
The crowds who were gathering at Camelot to get their first look at the new King and Queen would provide rich opportunities for some of Carbonek's merchants, but Chrétien thought it seemed a little disloyal to their own King's importance. Not that it was entirely their fault if the new King of Camelot didn't know any better than to schedule his first event to conflict with the days when the tournament at Castle Corbin was held. If even the knights of Carbonek chose to display their prowess at Camelot, the commoners could scarcely be blamed for choosing to display their wares there as well.
Privately, Chrétien thought that this Lancelot fellow's presence was nothing more than the King's desperate bid to keep up the entertainment value in case no one at all decided to come next year. It was, perhaps, an extreme measure to offer up his daughter's hand in marriage as a prize, but it had created some interest in the proceedings.
Chrétien had managed to avoid so much of the preparations that he was taken by surprise at the actual dawning of the event. Everyone else seemed to be rushing around in a frenzy and he was nearly conscripted by the head cook, the chief armourer, and the stable master before he could escape.
He had provided himself with an excuse in advance by informing Pelles that some of the family archives required urgent maintenance. It was true enough in its own way. One of the brighter minds of an earlier generation had decided that the castle cellars, carved out as they were from damp, boggy ground, entirely useless for any important part of the fortifications, such as walls or buttresses, would do nicely to house some old bundles of parchment that no one wanted for anything.
Later, more frivolous generations had installed shelving in the cellar that at least preserved their own records from seasonal flooding, although it left the pages still exposed to the damp. Some of these documents were indeed in desperate need of repair, although it seemed likely that only a divine hand could save them from eventual disintegration. Chrétien's only idea for saving a select few was to smuggle them out singly to the nice safe, dry atmosphere of his own room.
The tournament had seemed the ideal chance to preserve a few more volumes from decay, when all the people who just didn't understand about books would be safely out of the way on the field outside, happily occupied by hitting each other with sharp, pointy things. In his foraging the other day for Pelles' favourite family histories, Chrétien had come across a promising romance in which two knights of the ancient Roman empire vied for the love of a virtuous maiden and, if his interpretation of the illustrations was correct, both died in an unrelated encounter with a giant.
Chrétien had already imagined retelling the tale and naming the two knights Sir William and Sir Sidney respectively. He also thought it might round out the narrative nicely if there were a third knight, named Sir Gregory, who also perished at the giant's hands. As soon as he had muddled out the bits of Latin he could understand, he would write a new and exciting version based on these improvements. There was nothing wrong with romances as a genre, Chrétien considered. It was simply that they so often failed to take into account the fact that most knights were a bunch of buffoons. He could correct that error.
What great masterpiece of literature he might have achieved on the topic, history may never know. He was intercepted on the way back to his room by Gregory, and stuffed the romance quickly under his tunic in case Gregory tried do something strange and terrible, like read it.
"Ho, you! Uh -" Gregory paused in deep contemplation.
"Chrétien," said Chrétien, a little impatiently, since the book concealed beneath his clothes was starting to slip.
"Yes, yes, I know who you are," said Gregory with a dismissive wave. "You do things with... with books and such for my father, don't you?"
Chrétien sighed and hitched the book up by way of an awkward shrug. One of its corners poked into his stomach. "Yes, I do 'things with books'," he agreed.
"Family chronicles?" Gregory pressed on. "You record important events of our family?"
"Er, yes, I suppose so," said Chrétien, who mostly took notes at meetings for Pelles so he didn't forget later who he was supposed to be at war with.
"Right, you're just the man I need, then," said Gregory heartily. "Someone ought to be there for the fight today, you know, record the event for posterity."
"You mean your sister's... marriage?" Chrétien asked tentatively. "You think this, uh, Lancelot is going to win, then?"
"Maybe, maybe. We'll see, won't we?" Gregory sounded very pleased with himself. "Maybe you could do some sort of poetry. I hear that's very popular in some of the courts hereabouts. Better yet, make it a song. The three trials of the sons of Pelles. With particular note of what happens in each and who comes out victorious in the end, all right?"
Chrétien shrugged again. "I was supposed to work on your father's library today..."
"Oh, that's just books," said Gregory airily. "Those'll keep, won't they? Can't miss the tournament, man, that's where the real history is written."
With a resigned nod, Chrétien promised to be down in the stands in a few minutes, and went to conceal his new-found treasure where no one, including he, would be able to get at it for the rest of the day. Then he trudged along to watch the tournament. It wasn't as if he was going to enjoy it.
Lancelot stepped out onto the field with a parade of advice marching through his head. The presence of the watching crowd barely registered through the crowding of his thoughts.
Feint to the left, Gregory had said, and Sidney was more likely to believe the move was genuine. Lancelot couldn't remember now why that should be. Was it some childhood injury? A hunting accident? And could he believe any advice given to him by Gregory about his own brother?
Elaine had suggested striking from below as much as possible, because Sidney favoured overhand blows and didn't anticipate the opposite from his opponents. It wouldn't do for Lancelot to lower his defenses, though, or he might end up with a lump on his head to twin the first that Sidney had fetched him.
Sidney was already waiting for Lancelot in front of the stands, sword in hand and helmet under one arm, waiting to salute him before the fight. Lancelot’s own armour - or rather Elaine's - rested oddly against his body. Not a bad fit, but then it had been made to measure for another and could never feel exactly right on anyone else, no matter how close a match. Or perhaps it was simply that Lancelot had grown so used to fighting without any armour at all, except the inadequate protection of whatever clothes he had on his back at the time, that no armour felt right anymore, constraining his muscles from their natural movement.
He would have preferred, if possible, armour that could shield him from the collective gaze of the spectators. He had thought, after fighting before Hengist and his men, where the slightest slip could mean sudden, painful death, that he could not be fazed by any observers. The crowd here was something altogether different, though. There had been a murmur of conversation when he arrived that now died down to an expectant hush as Lancelot took his place.
This was no band of ruffians looking for a bit of tawdry amusement at their feast. Even the peasants weighed him with eyes that had watched dozens of royal tournaments at Carbonek and seen the best in knighthood that the kingdom had to offer.
Lancelot returned Sidney's salute and turned to face the royal stands. Pelles sat in the highest place, his daughter on one side and his elder sons on the other. For a moment, though, Lancelot imagined a different face - a different pair of faces - looking down on him, about to undergo this trial.
When Sidney turned back to face him for a final salute, Lancelot hesitated, then addressed the King.
"My lord, King Pelles," he said, "it is my honour to fight today in your daughter's name. But let it be known that I fight first and always for the honour of Camelot and in the name of its Queen, Guinevere, who stands for all that is good and honourable and just in a woman."
He bowed once more and returned to his place on the field feeling light-headed. Sidney, although he looked surprised by Lancelot's impromptu speech, returned his final salute and replaced his helmet without a word as the two prepared for battle.
In the stands, Chrétien found himself clutching excitedly at the sleeve of the person next to him. Gregory looked at him like he was a pesky insect and Chrétien removed his fingers hastily before Gregory could decide to swat him. Chrétien gripped the hem of his own tunic instead, unable to stave off his growing excitement.
All the spectators seemed to be watching in tense anticipation as the two swordsmen squared off against each other. Chrétien didn't understand the source of their suspense. It was clear to him, it had been clear to him from the moment that the man had strode towards the stands, sunlight flashing off his armour, that Lancelot would emerge the victor, whatever else might happen in the bout. And then that speech. Ordinary knights didn't talk like that, not the ones who rode around and knocked each other into mud puddles and then laughed about it. Here was a man who had devoted his soul to, to - what was it he had said? "Virtue and nobility and goodness?" No, that wasn't it. Oh, why did the events have to drag on so much when what Chrétien needed was to find parchment and quill and write down those words for the immortal ages.
Chrétien's heart glowed with an inner fire as he watched the match. He didn't understand what was happening. The world of combat was a closed book to him, although he vowed that from this day forward he would make a better study of it. The only certain knowledge he had about the fight was that every move of Sir Sidney's was ignorant and ungainly, that Lancelot's every move was studied perfection, that even when he seemed to falter, it was only a strategic retreat to bolster his position. Even when Lancelot staggered briefly under the weight of a blow from Sir Sidney, catching it on his shield so he was driven almost to his knees, Chrétien did not doubt that he would rise in a moment like Victory rising up out of Defeat.
His blossoming faith was justified at last when, to a mixture of shocked silence and tentative applause from the crowd, Lancelot rolled neatly beneath Sir Sidney's too-wide sweep of the blade and caught him a blow to the backs of his knees that made him stumble and fall heavily upon the ground. As Lancelot stood over his opponent's body and heard his surrender, Chrétien did not wait to be swept up in the general applause. He lept to his feet cheering the victor's name, heedless of how long it took the king to stand and add his approval, unleashing a gradual roar among the other observers.
Lancelot staggered off the field, sweating profusely, his muscles sore and his very core shaking at the after-shocks of the blows he had absorbed. Sidney followed a pace or two behind him, clinging to the support of his squire. Although Lancelot had been as careful as he could to catch him with the flat of his sword, not wishing to cut a hamstring or incapacitate the man, there would be no telling what the result had been until Sidney was examined by a physician. Lancelot felt he needed, at the least, a long bath and possibly a solid week of sleep before he picked up a sword again.
Before he could reach the castle, though, he was accosted by a roughly familiar face. It was one he had seen before, somewhere during the last few days - ah, yes, the king's servant who had looked so aloof when he handed over the sword. Now he seemed so excited he was dangerously near to taking flight under his own power. He spoke so quickly and indistinctly that Lancelot wasn't entirely certain what the words meant, except that they seemed to be, on the whole, a favourable reaction to the outcome of the first contest, and some form of congratulations.
"Yes, thank you," Lancelot said, and then when the servant's name came back to him, "Chrétien. I will see you at tomorrow's match then?"
Chrétien babbled something else, but by then the King was at his side and Lancelot seized gratefully on the excuse to leave. He was less thankful when he discovered that his victory had secured him an invitation - nay, a royal summons - to attend a banquet that very afternoon. Lancelot had hoped for, even depended on, the same polite neglect he had received from the castle at large since his arrival, but it seemed that the first match had attracted enough attention to warrant showing him off publicly at the high table.
Lost in the tide of the departing crowd as it flooded away from the tournament grounds, Chrétien's excitement burst, so far as that was possible, into even greater waves of delight. Lancelot had remembered his name! And spoken so kindly. Clearly he was indeed the gentlest and the best of knights.
Chrétien recollected the story of the Roman knights and the giant, which had captured his imagination so recently, and considered now how lacking it was in the true sense of heroism. Perhaps it would be better, after all, if the unworthy knights who failed against the monstrous creature were only the prologue, the forerunners, to a tale of even greater skill and courage. Their deaths would be succeeded by the story of the truly noble knight, Sir Lancelot, whose strength and virtue alone could vanquish the giant. His valiant task complete, he would then return to place the head of the giant before the feet of his Lady Guinevere, most noble Queen of Camelot.
Head filled with these bloodthirsty thoughts, Chrétien made his way in a daze back to his own rooms and began to write The Most Noble and Courageux Exploits of Sir Lancelot, only to leave off in the middle of a beautiful speech by Sir Lancelot because he remembered that he was supposed to be present at the feast to celebrate his new hero's victory. Besides, he had seen some mouthwatering chickens being prepared earlier in the day and it wouldn't do to arrive after they had all gone.
Merlin had not, strictly speaking, ever found a way to travel faster by magic than by ordinary means. He could slow down his perception of time, which allowed him to react to things happening so fast he wouldn't ordinarily be able to see them. He'd tried running like that once and ended up feeling like he was wading through a thick stew. Time, somehow, stuck. It stuck to his legs, making them feel heavy and slow; it stuck to his arms until they dragged like lead weights; and once, he was convinced, it had even stuck to his shoe and pulled it off because it couldn't keep up.
Arthur had laughed when Merlin returned half-shod and asked if Merlin needed lessons on tying his own shoes, but Merlin knew what was really to blame. Time was a bastard and a half to try to manipulate and it usually found a way of getting its own back.
Besides, there was Lancelot to think about this time. Merlin didn't think he could carry his friend all the way back to Camelot, which meant travelling by horse. Seeing as Merlin was... doubtful of his ability to make himself go faster using magic when it was just him, he didn't much fancy the idea of starting to experiment while on horseback.
Well, there were other ways of travelling long distances quickly. Merlin had read about them many times in his book of spells. It was true he had never exactly tested them before, because Gaius had frowned and done that severe thing with his eyebrows that happened whenever he thought an idea was more than usually stupid by Merlin's standards, and said things like, "only in cases of the greatest exigency" and "at least allow me to notify your mother in advance so she can prepare for your funeral."
That was all very well, but Gaius was somewhere off in the wild countries, studying magic and herbs with his one true love, so he wasn't in any position to give disparaging advice. If this wasn't "a case of the greatest exigency," Merlin didn't know what was.
The spell was another version of the one Merlin had used when he had gone to track down Lancelot and Gwaine after Arthur's coronation. It wouldn't have done for the newly appointed royal councillor to be too long absent from the king's side in those crucial early days, so Merlin had found a spell that let him make his own short-cuts between Camelot and distant kingdoms. Some might have called it cheating, but Merlin had been privately convinced that Arthur wouldn't be able to work out how to put on his new crown without help, never mind all those complicated velvet robes, and so the more quickly Merlin could summon their old friends and be back by his side, the better.
It was a spell to "bring me to there" - "there" being anywhere, presumably, you could see or were familiar enough to hit on the first try. If you could see a long way ahead of you on the road, you could sort of... nudge yourself a bit farther along. Merlin's initial attempts had gone smoothly enough, although he did tend to trip right afterwards and have to climb out of the inevitable ditch that resided beside the new patch of road.
Travelling to unfamiliar destinations was trickier, and something that Merlin had avoided after the first try. Fortunately the townspeople of Ulm had taken him for a harmless lunatic when they found him clinging to the branches of a fir tree and called off the dogs. He hadn't been on horseback then, of course. Long journeys on horseback had traditionally involved Arthur and those were not, in Merlin's experience, a good time to start experimenting with magic.
The new spell that Merlin had in mind worked on the same principle. At least, he thought it did, because the words were similar and it was in the same section of his magic book. It was supposed to open a bridge or a gateway or something to the place you were going, through which more than one person (or horse) could pass.
It translated more or less to "bring that which is there to here." With luck the magic wouldn't take that literally and fold the land together, creating unexpected mountains. Merlin had a feeling he might have some explaining to do if the geography of Camelot got radically altered overnight.
He rode normally while the daylight lasted. He wanted to be well out of sight of town, castle, and its citizenry before he started experimenting with potentially dramatic spells. There was also less chance of running into other travellers on the road after dark, or if he did, there was less chance of them recognizing the person waving his arms around and incanting strange magical words.
Once he was reasonably sure that no one was lurking nearby in the woods, waiting for him to display spontaneous acts of illegal magic, Merlin closed his eyes and pictured an inn on the very border of Camelot's territory with Carbonek. He had been there several times on border-patrol with Arthur and was quite confident that he would end up at a safe distance from the inn without any unintended meanderings along the way. He spoke the spell as confidently as he could and was reassured to find, when he opened his eyes again, that the road was now enclosed in a shining arch that led, presumably, to his chosen destination.
He spurred his horse on and headed straight for the sparkling, shimmering hoop of air before him. He couldn't help shutting his eyes again as it approached, not quite wanting to see what would happen if things went wrong.
There was a funny, twisty feeling that squirmed around in his chest for a moment, as if individual parts of his internal organs were arguing about which way to go. Merlin held his breath and hoped for the best.
When he peeked out at his new surroundings, he found himself sitting in an almost identical patch of woods to the one he had just left, but from which the familiar inn lights beckoned warmly. The only problem was the lack of horse to sit on. Merlin landed with a thump on the muddy ground and wondered dazedly why the horse hadn't come with him.
On the other side of the portal, the horse waited patiently. Horses were sensible creatures. They were willing to put up with a lot of gallivanting about the countryside, carrying impatient humans who dug their heels into the horses' flanks to impress upon them the relative importance of the stable they were going to over the one they had just left. The horses tried not to get philosophical about this, no matter how silly it might seem.
Horses also knew that when strange, unfamiliar things appeared out of nowhere dead ahead, the best plan was not to run headlong into them. Whatever foolish things humans did were their own problem. If this one didn't come back, it was no skin off the horse's nose. She knew her way home and there would be a bag of oats waiting for her whether or not the human came back with her.
Still, horses do have an inherent sense of decency, so it couldn't hurt to wait around a few minutes and see if the human survived his encounter with the big glow-y thing.
Merlin walked back through the portal imbued with a great deal more confidence and mud.
"Okay, listen here," he Merlin, in what he felt was a reasonable manner to take with a horse. "It's a two day ride getting to Castle Corbin, right? And two days getting back. That's a lot of running around, and I'm sure if I find it tiring to ride for that long, you must find it even more so, what with being the one actually doing the running part. On the other hand, here's this nice, glowy portal that takes us a day's ride along the road all at once, so you can spend the night in some comfortable stables instead of out in the open. You can't ask for better than that, could you?"
The horse gave him a sceptical look. Well, it flicked its ear, but Merlin felt sure it was a sceptical ear.
"Honestly, it's perfectly safe," he insisted. "You just saw me go through and come back, didn't you?"
The horse took a step or two nearer the glowing thing in the middle of the road and sniffed at it tentatively. Then it nudged at the actual shimmering part with its nuzzle, and sniffed again. It stumbled back again and sneezed.
"It's not that bad," said Merlin reassuringly. "It'll just take a second, and then you can be in a nice comfortable stable yard, with all the... the carrots and oats you could want to eat. And a nice warm blanket. You'll like that, won't you?"
The horse's ears had pricked up at the mention of oats. Humans can keep their strange ideas about the preferability of one locale over another. Horses understand that the most important thing is a warm stable and a reliable supply of oats. Home is the most reliable place for finding all of these, and thus creates an instinctual draw for animals of any intelligence at all. This particular horse was, however, willing to accept the premise that an unfamiliar place with oats is much better than a strange one without any. The horse went forward at a cautious walk.
Merlin followed on foot. He had no desire to get any more muddied or bruised than he already was.
The feasting carried on till midnight, with a short, purely perfunctory intermission to mark the gap between mid-day and evening meals. It seemed the tournament, which Lancelot had taken for a convenient fiction of Pelles', was in fact an established event in Carbonek and one for which a great deal of entertainment had been prepared. True, there were few participants this year besides himself and Pelles' sons, but the festivities were as lavish as ever.
Lancelot counted no fewer than eight minstrels wandering the Great Hall, vying for the attention of the noble guests, while jugglers and clowns held court farther down the hall among the commoners allowed temporary access to the indulgence of the castle. Lancelot wished several times he could join them. He would have been more comfortable there, he felt, than in a place of high honour that laid him open to universal scrutiny. Not to mention at the mercy of the servant who offered to refill his wine glass at every sip purely for the pleasure, it seemed, of bumping into his elbow.
Each of Elaine's brothers drank Lancelot's health with better or worse degrees of sincerity. Sidney was the one who, unexpectedly, seemed the most pleased with his fate in the first contest. It confused Lancelot to no end that he seemed more cheerful now than before his defeat, until the man leaned in during the lamentably bad performance of one minstrel to confide that he felt much better knowing Lancelot had finally got "his own fair knocks in" on Sidney in return for earlier favours.
Gregory ignored Lancelot for the most part. He looked as if he were not quite sure his meal agreed with him, and spent most of his time staring down at his plate in deep contemplation, as if trying to determine by sight whether someone had poisoned the meat.
William smiled at Lancelot frequently and disarmingly as if he were mentally picturing the most efficient way of snapping off one of Lancelot's limbs, which was an uncomfortable look to be on the receiving end of. During an intermission in the entertainment, he slipped away with a comment about preparing for the morrow, pausing by Lancelot's side to whisper in his ear as he left.
"What did William say to you?" Elaine asked. She had been petulant throughout the meal and hardly spoken a word to him, although they were seated side by side at the table. Lancelot couldn't decide if he had offended her by declaring his loyalty to Camelot and Guinevere or whether she were sulking over not participating in the tournament herself.
"He told me, ah -" Lancelot cleared his throat "- that I had better make up my mind about which of them to lose to because if I beat them all and actually tried to marry you, your father would have me executed."
"Oh, nothing important then," said Elaine dismissively, and when Lancelot said it could very well turn out to be important to him, she added, "Father isn't keen on executions. William's probably made it all up just to throw you off tomorrow's contest. Really, it's not likely at all."
Lancelot would have preferred something a little more definitive.
The current minstrel's song finally came to a close, to desultory applause that turned genuine when it dawned on the assembly that he was really and truly finished. Lancelot spotted the king's servant, Chrétien, in close consultation with a very young performer who was that instant receiving a sheaf of pages and hurried instructions in an undertone while his predecessor took a final bow. Then the young performer was shoved forward towards the high table with a wide-eyed look of terror on his face to announce, "La Count of Sir Lancelot, and the Wagon, on Which His Lady was Abducted."
Lancelot listened with dawning horror to two verses in which his virtues were listed, somewhat mangled by the reader whose last-minute instruction had clearly failed him and who was mixing in portions of a French ballad out of desperation. When the reader arrived at a description of his "most noble thighs," Elaine spit out her soup and Lancelot took advantage of the distraction to flee.
Arthur was finding solace in hitting things. He had started out against his knights, but left them in Leon's hands after it became apparent to him that he was in no mood for teaching. He took himself off to practice hitting dummies instead, much to the relief of his opponents, who were already bruised enough by that point. When he tired of the dummies, he went to find Merlin.
Bursting into the royal councillor's chambers, he got as far as, "- slacking off just because you've got a fancy set of togs now -" before he realized that Merlin wasn't in them but that Guinevere, surprisingly, was.
Arthur quickly dismissed several choice epithets he had been planning to use.
"Guinevere, good, here you are," he said, coming forward and kissing her. "What a pleasant surprise. Why are you here, exactly?"
Gwen sighed. "I've been besieged all day by well-meaning ladies of the court who keep coming to tell me that they 'don't believe a word of it, of course, how scandalous, but this Lancelot, is he any, you know, any good?'"
Arthur made a face. "The knights aren't saying anything at all to me if they can help it. I suppose they've all heard by now about the trial by combat. I think you were right about that, by the way, Rothby looked positively smug when I challenged him."
Gwen's expression said, "I told you so," although her lips kindly refrained from forming the words.
"I just thought I'd better get some practice in before the fight," Arthur said, before he realized that bursting in clutching a sword in his hand was probably an adequate demonstration of this. "Have you seen Merlin, by the way? I thought he might want -" under duress, if necessary, he thought "- to get some practice in as well."
"Um," Gwen said and bit her lip. Her attention was suddenly absorbed by the wall, then the ceiling, then a fascinating bit of hay on his shirt that she removed with exquisite care.
"Guinevere," said Arthur, "is there something going on that I'm not going to like?"
It was a pretty fair bet that there was, whenever Merlin's name was mentioned and Gwen felt the need to hide it.
Gwen stared very hard at her hands, worried at her lip, and finally said, "All right, but please don't... you mustn't mind it. It isn't because we think you aren't just as good as- You're a very good swordsman, probably almost the best..." Gwen trailed off.
"Almost? I wasn't almost the best knight in Camelot," Arthur said. "I didn't almost win every tournament, I am not almost-"
"Er, yes," said Gwen, wincing, "but there was, uh, someone else who we thought might be better - just for this fight, I mean. Sort of symbolically."
"Symbolically," Arthur repeated. Gwen was still looking everywhere but at his face.
"Merlin'sgonetofetchLancelot," Gwen said at last, in a rush.
Arthur took a moment to untangle that, then said slowly, "Lancelot." Gwen nodded. "Lancelot, who in any case won't be here for four or five days, because he's participating in some tournament in Carbonek. That Lancelot."
"Merlin thought he could shave a little time off of that," Gwen said hesitantly. "You know, take a few short-cuts."
Arthur snorted. "Right, I'm sure he could get there in time by flying."
"No!" Gwen exclaimed. "I mean, I'm sure he isn't actually going to fly, at least I don't think so, I mean, how ridiculous!"
"Yes, it was a joke, Guinevere," Arthur said slowly. "Merlin can't actually fly. We both know that."
"Of course, that's what I meant." Gwen gave a forced laugh. "That's very funny, Arthur."
Arthur nodded at that, frowning. "Don't you think you'd better have a lie-down? I think the stress must be getting to you."
"No, no, it's fine," Gwen assured him. "Only, you should think about it. Letting Lancelot be the one to fight, I mean. Not just because you're the king and that's important, but because he's been slandered as much as I have. He should have the right to defend his own name too, shouldn't he? And if it is you Sir Rothby is after, it only makes sense to take his target away from him, doesn't it?"
"I suppose so," Arthur admitted. "And Lancelot would be the logical choice to take my place, if anyone did, but -" he added as Gwen started nodding a little too eagerly "- if he isn't here by then, I will fight Rothby myself. I won't let anyone say I had doubts about your honour."
He bowed, feeling a little self-conscious at the formality, and took her hand to kiss it. It was worth the foolish gesture though to hear a helpless giggle escape Guinevere before she could stop it, and to find her watching him from beneath her eyelashes when he straightened up.
"If it's true you are the greatest knight in Camelot-" Gwen began in a teasing voice.
"Which I am," Arthur agreed pleasantly.
"-at least for the moment," she amended, adding before he could object, "then do you really need to go back to training right away?"
She began to toy with the lacings of his shirt, loosening them so she could slip her hand gently underneath one edge and run her fingers lightly over his collarbone.
"Er, yes, on the other hand," said Arthur, his voice going suddenly wobbly. "On the other, ahem, ah, hand, I'm really very good at fighting already. I don't - hm! - need to go back out there right away or anything. Would you like-" he caught up Gwen's wandering hands to kiss, since they were getting very distracting, roaming over his chest like that "-to return to your chambers for a while, my lady?"
Gwen positively smirked. "You know, there is a bed in here."
"What?" Arthur maybe, possibly, yelped a bit at that. "But that's Merlin's bed. We can't just -"
"He won't know," said Gwen. "And we wouldn't have to dodge courtiers trying to interrupt us. No one comes to bother Merlin like that."
"I will know," objected Arthur. "I'll always know. I'll think about it the next time I see his face. I don't want to think about that sort of thing when I -" his rant was cut off by Gwen's lips, pressed insistently against his own.
After that he stopped worrying about whose bed it was, so long as the sheets were soft.
Part Eight
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/63554.html at Dreamwidth.
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Chrétien didn't set much store by the tournaments at Carbonek. They meant more work for everyone and a lot of extra people wandering around the castle getting underfoot. Then again, they also kept the knights out of trouble. When there were no tournaments going on, the knights tended to get bored and decide that it would be a bit of fun to round up the servants and dress up in armour for mock battles. Considering the average training in arms that the servants received, this made for an exercise something akin to target practice.
So Chrétien was not, overall, averse to having regular tournaments to keep the knights busy. He only asked that no one try to make him take a practical interest beyond, say, reading up on the heraldry of the visiting knights. It was a useful task in itself, and helped ensure that nothing would happen as embarrassing as the time two families with a centuries-old blood feud had been seated side by side at dinner: they had had to take away all the knives on that side of the table and everyone had eaten their mutton with spoons, trying to glare each other to death.
His research also kept Chrétien out of the way of any knights who still weren't too busy to hit servants with training weapons.
There wasn't much to do by way of preparation for this tournament, though, because it was looking likely to be much less populated than last year's. Chrétien had personally written out some very nice invitations to be carried to the neighbouring kingdoms and baronies, but so far very few knights had responded (despite polite instructions to do so) and even fewer had actually turned up. It was true there was a rumour going around that Camelot was holding a grand tournament of its own to conclude some diplomatic negotiations, but the event hadn't even been formally announced. It showed a certain lack of consideration for the basic etiquette of tournament competition.
And yet even citizens of Carbonek - who by rights should have been flocking to the local entertainment - were streaming across the border in a gradual trickle that was only likely to increase over the next day or so. Anyone who owned a cart or a wagon could reach Camelot in three or four days at a good walk and many people were setting out early to establish their stalls on the first day.
The crowds who were gathering at Camelot to get their first look at the new King and Queen would provide rich opportunities for some of Carbonek's merchants, but Chrétien thought it seemed a little disloyal to their own King's importance. Not that it was entirely their fault if the new King of Camelot didn't know any better than to schedule his first event to conflict with the days when the tournament at Castle Corbin was held. If even the knights of Carbonek chose to display their prowess at Camelot, the commoners could scarcely be blamed for choosing to display their wares there as well.
Privately, Chrétien thought that this Lancelot fellow's presence was nothing more than the King's desperate bid to keep up the entertainment value in case no one at all decided to come next year. It was, perhaps, an extreme measure to offer up his daughter's hand in marriage as a prize, but it had created some interest in the proceedings.
Chrétien had managed to avoid so much of the preparations that he was taken by surprise at the actual dawning of the event. Everyone else seemed to be rushing around in a frenzy and he was nearly conscripted by the head cook, the chief armourer, and the stable master before he could escape.
He had provided himself with an excuse in advance by informing Pelles that some of the family archives required urgent maintenance. It was true enough in its own way. One of the brighter minds of an earlier generation had decided that the castle cellars, carved out as they were from damp, boggy ground, entirely useless for any important part of the fortifications, such as walls or buttresses, would do nicely to house some old bundles of parchment that no one wanted for anything.
Later, more frivolous generations had installed shelving in the cellar that at least preserved their own records from seasonal flooding, although it left the pages still exposed to the damp. Some of these documents were indeed in desperate need of repair, although it seemed likely that only a divine hand could save them from eventual disintegration. Chrétien's only idea for saving a select few was to smuggle them out singly to the nice safe, dry atmosphere of his own room.
The tournament had seemed the ideal chance to preserve a few more volumes from decay, when all the people who just didn't understand about books would be safely out of the way on the field outside, happily occupied by hitting each other with sharp, pointy things. In his foraging the other day for Pelles' favourite family histories, Chrétien had come across a promising romance in which two knights of the ancient Roman empire vied for the love of a virtuous maiden and, if his interpretation of the illustrations was correct, both died in an unrelated encounter with a giant.
Chrétien had already imagined retelling the tale and naming the two knights Sir William and Sir Sidney respectively. He also thought it might round out the narrative nicely if there were a third knight, named Sir Gregory, who also perished at the giant's hands. As soon as he had muddled out the bits of Latin he could understand, he would write a new and exciting version based on these improvements. There was nothing wrong with romances as a genre, Chrétien considered. It was simply that they so often failed to take into account the fact that most knights were a bunch of buffoons. He could correct that error.
What great masterpiece of literature he might have achieved on the topic, history may never know. He was intercepted on the way back to his room by Gregory, and stuffed the romance quickly under his tunic in case Gregory tried do something strange and terrible, like read it.
"Ho, you! Uh -" Gregory paused in deep contemplation.
"Chrétien," said Chrétien, a little impatiently, since the book concealed beneath his clothes was starting to slip.
"Yes, yes, I know who you are," said Gregory with a dismissive wave. "You do things with... with books and such for my father, don't you?"
Chrétien sighed and hitched the book up by way of an awkward shrug. One of its corners poked into his stomach. "Yes, I do 'things with books'," he agreed.
"Family chronicles?" Gregory pressed on. "You record important events of our family?"
"Er, yes, I suppose so," said Chrétien, who mostly took notes at meetings for Pelles so he didn't forget later who he was supposed to be at war with.
"Right, you're just the man I need, then," said Gregory heartily. "Someone ought to be there for the fight today, you know, record the event for posterity."
"You mean your sister's... marriage?" Chrétien asked tentatively. "You think this, uh, Lancelot is going to win, then?"
"Maybe, maybe. We'll see, won't we?" Gregory sounded very pleased with himself. "Maybe you could do some sort of poetry. I hear that's very popular in some of the courts hereabouts. Better yet, make it a song. The three trials of the sons of Pelles. With particular note of what happens in each and who comes out victorious in the end, all right?"
Chrétien shrugged again. "I was supposed to work on your father's library today..."
"Oh, that's just books," said Gregory airily. "Those'll keep, won't they? Can't miss the tournament, man, that's where the real history is written."
With a resigned nod, Chrétien promised to be down in the stands in a few minutes, and went to conceal his new-found treasure where no one, including he, would be able to get at it for the rest of the day. Then he trudged along to watch the tournament. It wasn't as if he was going to enjoy it.
Lancelot stepped out onto the field with a parade of advice marching through his head. The presence of the watching crowd barely registered through the crowding of his thoughts.
Feint to the left, Gregory had said, and Sidney was more likely to believe the move was genuine. Lancelot couldn't remember now why that should be. Was it some childhood injury? A hunting accident? And could he believe any advice given to him by Gregory about his own brother?
Elaine had suggested striking from below as much as possible, because Sidney favoured overhand blows and didn't anticipate the opposite from his opponents. It wouldn't do for Lancelot to lower his defenses, though, or he might end up with a lump on his head to twin the first that Sidney had fetched him.
Sidney was already waiting for Lancelot in front of the stands, sword in hand and helmet under one arm, waiting to salute him before the fight. Lancelot’s own armour - or rather Elaine's - rested oddly against his body. Not a bad fit, but then it had been made to measure for another and could never feel exactly right on anyone else, no matter how close a match. Or perhaps it was simply that Lancelot had grown so used to fighting without any armour at all, except the inadequate protection of whatever clothes he had on his back at the time, that no armour felt right anymore, constraining his muscles from their natural movement.
He would have preferred, if possible, armour that could shield him from the collective gaze of the spectators. He had thought, after fighting before Hengist and his men, where the slightest slip could mean sudden, painful death, that he could not be fazed by any observers. The crowd here was something altogether different, though. There had been a murmur of conversation when he arrived that now died down to an expectant hush as Lancelot took his place.
This was no band of ruffians looking for a bit of tawdry amusement at their feast. Even the peasants weighed him with eyes that had watched dozens of royal tournaments at Carbonek and seen the best in knighthood that the kingdom had to offer.
Lancelot returned Sidney's salute and turned to face the royal stands. Pelles sat in the highest place, his daughter on one side and his elder sons on the other. For a moment, though, Lancelot imagined a different face - a different pair of faces - looking down on him, about to undergo this trial.
When Sidney turned back to face him for a final salute, Lancelot hesitated, then addressed the King.
"My lord, King Pelles," he said, "it is my honour to fight today in your daughter's name. But let it be known that I fight first and always for the honour of Camelot and in the name of its Queen, Guinevere, who stands for all that is good and honourable and just in a woman."
He bowed once more and returned to his place on the field feeling light-headed. Sidney, although he looked surprised by Lancelot's impromptu speech, returned his final salute and replaced his helmet without a word as the two prepared for battle.
In the stands, Chrétien found himself clutching excitedly at the sleeve of the person next to him. Gregory looked at him like he was a pesky insect and Chrétien removed his fingers hastily before Gregory could decide to swat him. Chrétien gripped the hem of his own tunic instead, unable to stave off his growing excitement.
All the spectators seemed to be watching in tense anticipation as the two swordsmen squared off against each other. Chrétien didn't understand the source of their suspense. It was clear to him, it had been clear to him from the moment that the man had strode towards the stands, sunlight flashing off his armour, that Lancelot would emerge the victor, whatever else might happen in the bout. And then that speech. Ordinary knights didn't talk like that, not the ones who rode around and knocked each other into mud puddles and then laughed about it. Here was a man who had devoted his soul to, to - what was it he had said? "Virtue and nobility and goodness?" No, that wasn't it. Oh, why did the events have to drag on so much when what Chrétien needed was to find parchment and quill and write down those words for the immortal ages.
Chrétien's heart glowed with an inner fire as he watched the match. He didn't understand what was happening. The world of combat was a closed book to him, although he vowed that from this day forward he would make a better study of it. The only certain knowledge he had about the fight was that every move of Sir Sidney's was ignorant and ungainly, that Lancelot's every move was studied perfection, that even when he seemed to falter, it was only a strategic retreat to bolster his position. Even when Lancelot staggered briefly under the weight of a blow from Sir Sidney, catching it on his shield so he was driven almost to his knees, Chrétien did not doubt that he would rise in a moment like Victory rising up out of Defeat.
His blossoming faith was justified at last when, to a mixture of shocked silence and tentative applause from the crowd, Lancelot rolled neatly beneath Sir Sidney's too-wide sweep of the blade and caught him a blow to the backs of his knees that made him stumble and fall heavily upon the ground. As Lancelot stood over his opponent's body and heard his surrender, Chrétien did not wait to be swept up in the general applause. He lept to his feet cheering the victor's name, heedless of how long it took the king to stand and add his approval, unleashing a gradual roar among the other observers.
Lancelot staggered off the field, sweating profusely, his muscles sore and his very core shaking at the after-shocks of the blows he had absorbed. Sidney followed a pace or two behind him, clinging to the support of his squire. Although Lancelot had been as careful as he could to catch him with the flat of his sword, not wishing to cut a hamstring or incapacitate the man, there would be no telling what the result had been until Sidney was examined by a physician. Lancelot felt he needed, at the least, a long bath and possibly a solid week of sleep before he picked up a sword again.
Before he could reach the castle, though, he was accosted by a roughly familiar face. It was one he had seen before, somewhere during the last few days - ah, yes, the king's servant who had looked so aloof when he handed over the sword. Now he seemed so excited he was dangerously near to taking flight under his own power. He spoke so quickly and indistinctly that Lancelot wasn't entirely certain what the words meant, except that they seemed to be, on the whole, a favourable reaction to the outcome of the first contest, and some form of congratulations.
"Yes, thank you," Lancelot said, and then when the servant's name came back to him, "Chrétien. I will see you at tomorrow's match then?"
Chrétien babbled something else, but by then the King was at his side and Lancelot seized gratefully on the excuse to leave. He was less thankful when he discovered that his victory had secured him an invitation - nay, a royal summons - to attend a banquet that very afternoon. Lancelot had hoped for, even depended on, the same polite neglect he had received from the castle at large since his arrival, but it seemed that the first match had attracted enough attention to warrant showing him off publicly at the high table.
Lost in the tide of the departing crowd as it flooded away from the tournament grounds, Chrétien's excitement burst, so far as that was possible, into even greater waves of delight. Lancelot had remembered his name! And spoken so kindly. Clearly he was indeed the gentlest and the best of knights.
Chrétien recollected the story of the Roman knights and the giant, which had captured his imagination so recently, and considered now how lacking it was in the true sense of heroism. Perhaps it would be better, after all, if the unworthy knights who failed against the monstrous creature were only the prologue, the forerunners, to a tale of even greater skill and courage. Their deaths would be succeeded by the story of the truly noble knight, Sir Lancelot, whose strength and virtue alone could vanquish the giant. His valiant task complete, he would then return to place the head of the giant before the feet of his Lady Guinevere, most noble Queen of Camelot.
Head filled with these bloodthirsty thoughts, Chrétien made his way in a daze back to his own rooms and began to write The Most Noble and Courageux Exploits of Sir Lancelot, only to leave off in the middle of a beautiful speech by Sir Lancelot because he remembered that he was supposed to be present at the feast to celebrate his new hero's victory. Besides, he had seen some mouthwatering chickens being prepared earlier in the day and it wouldn't do to arrive after they had all gone.
Merlin had not, strictly speaking, ever found a way to travel faster by magic than by ordinary means. He could slow down his perception of time, which allowed him to react to things happening so fast he wouldn't ordinarily be able to see them. He'd tried running like that once and ended up feeling like he was wading through a thick stew. Time, somehow, stuck. It stuck to his legs, making them feel heavy and slow; it stuck to his arms until they dragged like lead weights; and once, he was convinced, it had even stuck to his shoe and pulled it off because it couldn't keep up.
Arthur had laughed when Merlin returned half-shod and asked if Merlin needed lessons on tying his own shoes, but Merlin knew what was really to blame. Time was a bastard and a half to try to manipulate and it usually found a way of getting its own back.
Besides, there was Lancelot to think about this time. Merlin didn't think he could carry his friend all the way back to Camelot, which meant travelling by horse. Seeing as Merlin was... doubtful of his ability to make himself go faster using magic when it was just him, he didn't much fancy the idea of starting to experiment while on horseback.
Well, there were other ways of travelling long distances quickly. Merlin had read about them many times in his book of spells. It was true he had never exactly tested them before, because Gaius had frowned and done that severe thing with his eyebrows that happened whenever he thought an idea was more than usually stupid by Merlin's standards, and said things like, "only in cases of the greatest exigency" and "at least allow me to notify your mother in advance so she can prepare for your funeral."
That was all very well, but Gaius was somewhere off in the wild countries, studying magic and herbs with his one true love, so he wasn't in any position to give disparaging advice. If this wasn't "a case of the greatest exigency," Merlin didn't know what was.
The spell was another version of the one Merlin had used when he had gone to track down Lancelot and Gwaine after Arthur's coronation. It wouldn't have done for the newly appointed royal councillor to be too long absent from the king's side in those crucial early days, so Merlin had found a spell that let him make his own short-cuts between Camelot and distant kingdoms. Some might have called it cheating, but Merlin had been privately convinced that Arthur wouldn't be able to work out how to put on his new crown without help, never mind all those complicated velvet robes, and so the more quickly Merlin could summon their old friends and be back by his side, the better.
It was a spell to "bring me to there" - "there" being anywhere, presumably, you could see or were familiar enough to hit on the first try. If you could see a long way ahead of you on the road, you could sort of... nudge yourself a bit farther along. Merlin's initial attempts had gone smoothly enough, although he did tend to trip right afterwards and have to climb out of the inevitable ditch that resided beside the new patch of road.
Travelling to unfamiliar destinations was trickier, and something that Merlin had avoided after the first try. Fortunately the townspeople of Ulm had taken him for a harmless lunatic when they found him clinging to the branches of a fir tree and called off the dogs. He hadn't been on horseback then, of course. Long journeys on horseback had traditionally involved Arthur and those were not, in Merlin's experience, a good time to start experimenting with magic.
The new spell that Merlin had in mind worked on the same principle. At least, he thought it did, because the words were similar and it was in the same section of his magic book. It was supposed to open a bridge or a gateway or something to the place you were going, through which more than one person (or horse) could pass.
It translated more or less to "bring that which is there to here." With luck the magic wouldn't take that literally and fold the land together, creating unexpected mountains. Merlin had a feeling he might have some explaining to do if the geography of Camelot got radically altered overnight.
He rode normally while the daylight lasted. He wanted to be well out of sight of town, castle, and its citizenry before he started experimenting with potentially dramatic spells. There was also less chance of running into other travellers on the road after dark, or if he did, there was less chance of them recognizing the person waving his arms around and incanting strange magical words.
Once he was reasonably sure that no one was lurking nearby in the woods, waiting for him to display spontaneous acts of illegal magic, Merlin closed his eyes and pictured an inn on the very border of Camelot's territory with Carbonek. He had been there several times on border-patrol with Arthur and was quite confident that he would end up at a safe distance from the inn without any unintended meanderings along the way. He spoke the spell as confidently as he could and was reassured to find, when he opened his eyes again, that the road was now enclosed in a shining arch that led, presumably, to his chosen destination.
He spurred his horse on and headed straight for the sparkling, shimmering hoop of air before him. He couldn't help shutting his eyes again as it approached, not quite wanting to see what would happen if things went wrong.
There was a funny, twisty feeling that squirmed around in his chest for a moment, as if individual parts of his internal organs were arguing about which way to go. Merlin held his breath and hoped for the best.
When he peeked out at his new surroundings, he found himself sitting in an almost identical patch of woods to the one he had just left, but from which the familiar inn lights beckoned warmly. The only problem was the lack of horse to sit on. Merlin landed with a thump on the muddy ground and wondered dazedly why the horse hadn't come with him.
On the other side of the portal, the horse waited patiently. Horses were sensible creatures. They were willing to put up with a lot of gallivanting about the countryside, carrying impatient humans who dug their heels into the horses' flanks to impress upon them the relative importance of the stable they were going to over the one they had just left. The horses tried not to get philosophical about this, no matter how silly it might seem.
Horses also knew that when strange, unfamiliar things appeared out of nowhere dead ahead, the best plan was not to run headlong into them. Whatever foolish things humans did were their own problem. If this one didn't come back, it was no skin off the horse's nose. She knew her way home and there would be a bag of oats waiting for her whether or not the human came back with her.
Still, horses do have an inherent sense of decency, so it couldn't hurt to wait around a few minutes and see if the human survived his encounter with the big glow-y thing.
Merlin walked back through the portal imbued with a great deal more confidence and mud.
"Okay, listen here," he Merlin, in what he felt was a reasonable manner to take with a horse. "It's a two day ride getting to Castle Corbin, right? And two days getting back. That's a lot of running around, and I'm sure if I find it tiring to ride for that long, you must find it even more so, what with being the one actually doing the running part. On the other hand, here's this nice, glowy portal that takes us a day's ride along the road all at once, so you can spend the night in some comfortable stables instead of out in the open. You can't ask for better than that, could you?"
The horse gave him a sceptical look. Well, it flicked its ear, but Merlin felt sure it was a sceptical ear.
"Honestly, it's perfectly safe," he insisted. "You just saw me go through and come back, didn't you?"
The horse took a step or two nearer the glowing thing in the middle of the road and sniffed at it tentatively. Then it nudged at the actual shimmering part with its nuzzle, and sniffed again. It stumbled back again and sneezed.
"It's not that bad," said Merlin reassuringly. "It'll just take a second, and then you can be in a nice comfortable stable yard, with all the... the carrots and oats you could want to eat. And a nice warm blanket. You'll like that, won't you?"
The horse's ears had pricked up at the mention of oats. Humans can keep their strange ideas about the preferability of one locale over another. Horses understand that the most important thing is a warm stable and a reliable supply of oats. Home is the most reliable place for finding all of these, and thus creates an instinctual draw for animals of any intelligence at all. This particular horse was, however, willing to accept the premise that an unfamiliar place with oats is much better than a strange one without any. The horse went forward at a cautious walk.
Merlin followed on foot. He had no desire to get any more muddied or bruised than he already was.
The feasting carried on till midnight, with a short, purely perfunctory intermission to mark the gap between mid-day and evening meals. It seemed the tournament, which Lancelot had taken for a convenient fiction of Pelles', was in fact an established event in Carbonek and one for which a great deal of entertainment had been prepared. True, there were few participants this year besides himself and Pelles' sons, but the festivities were as lavish as ever.
Lancelot counted no fewer than eight minstrels wandering the Great Hall, vying for the attention of the noble guests, while jugglers and clowns held court farther down the hall among the commoners allowed temporary access to the indulgence of the castle. Lancelot wished several times he could join them. He would have been more comfortable there, he felt, than in a place of high honour that laid him open to universal scrutiny. Not to mention at the mercy of the servant who offered to refill his wine glass at every sip purely for the pleasure, it seemed, of bumping into his elbow.
Each of Elaine's brothers drank Lancelot's health with better or worse degrees of sincerity. Sidney was the one who, unexpectedly, seemed the most pleased with his fate in the first contest. It confused Lancelot to no end that he seemed more cheerful now than before his defeat, until the man leaned in during the lamentably bad performance of one minstrel to confide that he felt much better knowing Lancelot had finally got "his own fair knocks in" on Sidney in return for earlier favours.
Gregory ignored Lancelot for the most part. He looked as if he were not quite sure his meal agreed with him, and spent most of his time staring down at his plate in deep contemplation, as if trying to determine by sight whether someone had poisoned the meat.
William smiled at Lancelot frequently and disarmingly as if he were mentally picturing the most efficient way of snapping off one of Lancelot's limbs, which was an uncomfortable look to be on the receiving end of. During an intermission in the entertainment, he slipped away with a comment about preparing for the morrow, pausing by Lancelot's side to whisper in his ear as he left.
"What did William say to you?" Elaine asked. She had been petulant throughout the meal and hardly spoken a word to him, although they were seated side by side at the table. Lancelot couldn't decide if he had offended her by declaring his loyalty to Camelot and Guinevere or whether she were sulking over not participating in the tournament herself.
"He told me, ah -" Lancelot cleared his throat "- that I had better make up my mind about which of them to lose to because if I beat them all and actually tried to marry you, your father would have me executed."
"Oh, nothing important then," said Elaine dismissively, and when Lancelot said it could very well turn out to be important to him, she added, "Father isn't keen on executions. William's probably made it all up just to throw you off tomorrow's contest. Really, it's not likely at all."
Lancelot would have preferred something a little more definitive.
The current minstrel's song finally came to a close, to desultory applause that turned genuine when it dawned on the assembly that he was really and truly finished. Lancelot spotted the king's servant, Chrétien, in close consultation with a very young performer who was that instant receiving a sheaf of pages and hurried instructions in an undertone while his predecessor took a final bow. Then the young performer was shoved forward towards the high table with a wide-eyed look of terror on his face to announce, "La Count of Sir Lancelot, and the Wagon, on Which His Lady was Abducted."
Lancelot listened with dawning horror to two verses in which his virtues were listed, somewhat mangled by the reader whose last-minute instruction had clearly failed him and who was mixing in portions of a French ballad out of desperation. When the reader arrived at a description of his "most noble thighs," Elaine spit out her soup and Lancelot took advantage of the distraction to flee.
Arthur was finding solace in hitting things. He had started out against his knights, but left them in Leon's hands after it became apparent to him that he was in no mood for teaching. He took himself off to practice hitting dummies instead, much to the relief of his opponents, who were already bruised enough by that point. When he tired of the dummies, he went to find Merlin.
Bursting into the royal councillor's chambers, he got as far as, "- slacking off just because you've got a fancy set of togs now -" before he realized that Merlin wasn't in them but that Guinevere, surprisingly, was.
Arthur quickly dismissed several choice epithets he had been planning to use.
"Guinevere, good, here you are," he said, coming forward and kissing her. "What a pleasant surprise. Why are you here, exactly?"
Gwen sighed. "I've been besieged all day by well-meaning ladies of the court who keep coming to tell me that they 'don't believe a word of it, of course, how scandalous, but this Lancelot, is he any, you know, any good?'"
Arthur made a face. "The knights aren't saying anything at all to me if they can help it. I suppose they've all heard by now about the trial by combat. I think you were right about that, by the way, Rothby looked positively smug when I challenged him."
Gwen's expression said, "I told you so," although her lips kindly refrained from forming the words.
"I just thought I'd better get some practice in before the fight," Arthur said, before he realized that bursting in clutching a sword in his hand was probably an adequate demonstration of this. "Have you seen Merlin, by the way? I thought he might want -" under duress, if necessary, he thought "- to get some practice in as well."
"Um," Gwen said and bit her lip. Her attention was suddenly absorbed by the wall, then the ceiling, then a fascinating bit of hay on his shirt that she removed with exquisite care.
"Guinevere," said Arthur, "is there something going on that I'm not going to like?"
It was a pretty fair bet that there was, whenever Merlin's name was mentioned and Gwen felt the need to hide it.
Gwen stared very hard at her hands, worried at her lip, and finally said, "All right, but please don't... you mustn't mind it. It isn't because we think you aren't just as good as- You're a very good swordsman, probably almost the best..." Gwen trailed off.
"Almost? I wasn't almost the best knight in Camelot," Arthur said. "I didn't almost win every tournament, I am not almost-"
"Er, yes," said Gwen, wincing, "but there was, uh, someone else who we thought might be better - just for this fight, I mean. Sort of symbolically."
"Symbolically," Arthur repeated. Gwen was still looking everywhere but at his face.
"Merlin'sgonetofetchLancelot," Gwen said at last, in a rush.
Arthur took a moment to untangle that, then said slowly, "Lancelot." Gwen nodded. "Lancelot, who in any case won't be here for four or five days, because he's participating in some tournament in Carbonek. That Lancelot."
"Merlin thought he could shave a little time off of that," Gwen said hesitantly. "You know, take a few short-cuts."
Arthur snorted. "Right, I'm sure he could get there in time by flying."
"No!" Gwen exclaimed. "I mean, I'm sure he isn't actually going to fly, at least I don't think so, I mean, how ridiculous!"
"Yes, it was a joke, Guinevere," Arthur said slowly. "Merlin can't actually fly. We both know that."
"Of course, that's what I meant." Gwen gave a forced laugh. "That's very funny, Arthur."
Arthur nodded at that, frowning. "Don't you think you'd better have a lie-down? I think the stress must be getting to you."
"No, no, it's fine," Gwen assured him. "Only, you should think about it. Letting Lancelot be the one to fight, I mean. Not just because you're the king and that's important, but because he's been slandered as much as I have. He should have the right to defend his own name too, shouldn't he? And if it is you Sir Rothby is after, it only makes sense to take his target away from him, doesn't it?"
"I suppose so," Arthur admitted. "And Lancelot would be the logical choice to take my place, if anyone did, but -" he added as Gwen started nodding a little too eagerly "- if he isn't here by then, I will fight Rothby myself. I won't let anyone say I had doubts about your honour."
He bowed, feeling a little self-conscious at the formality, and took her hand to kiss it. It was worth the foolish gesture though to hear a helpless giggle escape Guinevere before she could stop it, and to find her watching him from beneath her eyelashes when he straightened up.
"If it's true you are the greatest knight in Camelot-" Gwen began in a teasing voice.
"Which I am," Arthur agreed pleasantly.
"-at least for the moment," she amended, adding before he could object, "then do you really need to go back to training right away?"
She began to toy with the lacings of his shirt, loosening them so she could slip her hand gently underneath one edge and run her fingers lightly over his collarbone.
"Er, yes, on the other hand," said Arthur, his voice going suddenly wobbly. "On the other, ahem, ah, hand, I'm really very good at fighting already. I don't - hm! - need to go back out there right away or anything. Would you like-" he caught up Gwen's wandering hands to kiss, since they were getting very distracting, roaming over his chest like that "-to return to your chambers for a while, my lady?"
Gwen positively smirked. "You know, there is a bed in here."
"What?" Arthur maybe, possibly, yelped a bit at that. "But that's Merlin's bed. We can't just -"
"He won't know," said Gwen. "And we wouldn't have to dodge courtiers trying to interrupt us. No one comes to bother Merlin like that."
"I will know," objected Arthur. "I'll always know. I'll think about it the next time I see his face. I don't want to think about that sort of thing when I -" his rant was cut off by Gwen's lips, pressed insistently against his own.
After that he stopped worrying about whose bed it was, so long as the sheets were soft.
Part Eight
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/63554.html at Dreamwidth.
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