How to Survive Promotion in the Middle Ages (10/11)
Please see Masterpost for fic headers and author's notes.
Back to Part Nine
The crowd was growing restless. It had been announced that the first challenge would be a trial by combat in defense of the Queen's virtue. Many of the townspeople claimed this was mere formality, a display orchestrated in her honour. Some whispered of an accusation, a show of support by the King. They said it was rumoured that the King himself was fighting as her champion. Others said, surely not, it would be a champion fighting in the King's name. That was how royalty worked; they did not take to the field themselves if they could find someone else to do it for them. Still others remembered the young Prince Arthur and did not doubt his willingness to put his own life on the line.
Speculation flew through the air, distorted and magnified by every hearer as they waited for the trumpet that would sound the opening of the events. Among the stands set aside for the nobility, the lesser courtiers were quiet, waiting to judge the tide of events. The seats reserved for the royal family were still empty.
Nearby, the delegation from Northumbria, nominally the celebrated guests for whose presence the tournament had been decreed, sat isolated amid the hubbub. Seats remained empty around them, avoided by cautious courtiers who did not want to risk an unwise show of support, should this go badly for Sir Rothby. Lady Lavinia sat imperturbable in the midst of it all, a faint enigmatic smile playing about her lips.
At last on an unseen signal the trumpet sounded and the two combatants made their way out onto the field in full armour. The buzz of the crowd died away to almost perfect silence as they approached each other. When they were standing almost close enough to touch, there was a rustle of movement among the nobility as the King and Queen made their way, arm in arm, to the very centre of the stands.
A general murmur of surprise greeted the King's presence. Part of the draw for this event had been the popular hope of seeing him compete again. Now, the disappointed spectators turned their attention to the mysterious Queen's champion.
Sir Rothby tore off his helmet and pointed his sword accusingly at the knight facing him on the field.
"You are not King Arthur," he exclaimed. "By what right do you stand against me here today?"
The other knight pointedly ignored the threat of the sword held up almost to his throat and removed his helmet with every appearance of casualness.
"By the best right I know," he said, when his face was revealed.
It was clear from the lack of response from most of the courtiers that he was unfamiliar to them, but there was one gasp among those in the stands. The Lady Lavinia had her hand over her mouth as she looked in dismay from the Queen to the Queen's champion.
"Do you not know who I am?" the champion demanded of Sir Rothby. "You should, since you claim to have seen me here at Camelot. Albeit your claim is already suspect, as I was many miles away at the time. My name is Sir Lancelot and I am the Queen's champion."
Sir Rothby lowered his sword slowly and took a step back, placatory. "I have no quarrel with you, sir. It seems we have both been the victim of a misunderstanding."
"No," Sir Lancelot said. "The time for words is passed. You had the chance to settle this with words of wisdom before and would not hear reason. Now the only judgment you deserve is that of an honest blade that cannot be turned aside by your treacherous tongue."
He replaced his helmet and made his salute. Sir Rothby turned uncertainly toward the stands, but found no help there.
"Surely you will agree," said the King, "that Sir Lancelot has as great a right as any man to champion the Queen's cause? Especially as, in doing so, he will uphold the integrity of his own name as well."
Sir Rothby was not looking at the King, however. His eyes had fixed on Lady Lavinia, who gave a short sharp shake of the head.
Unheard amidst the rising tide of murmuring from the stands, Merlin leaned in close to the Queen's ear so he could ask, "Is he actually a knight now? Because he wasn't when we were talking about ten minutes ago while he was getting dressed."
"It's all right," Gwen whispered back. "Arthur had a quick go at knighting him behind the tents just before he came out."
"Is that legal?" Merlin asked.
"He's been knighted before," Gwen pointed out. "Think of it as more of a... renewal of his license to be a knight."
"I didn't know those needed renewing," Merlin whispered. "Is there some sort of an exam to make sure candidates are still qualified? Haven't been banished from the kingdom since last application? Check..."
"Merlin?" Gwen said under her breath, clutching onto his arm.
"Yes?" he whispered back at her.
In answer she pointed to the field, where the knights were already facing off against each other, circling cautiously and taking the other's measure.
"Oh," said Merlin, and soon he was clutching at her sleeve as well.
"Very well," Sir Rothby said before he replaced his helmet. "If that is what you wish, let it be so. No one can say you were not warned."
He returned Lancelot's salute and then, almost before Lancelot had brought his own sword to the ready, he was upon him.
Lancelot parried a series of blows on sheer instinct, his arm moving to deflect each one before his eye could see the movement. He lifted his sword almost too late to block a crashing downward blow, and the resulting clash rang loudly across the field. Sir Rothby retreated after that and they circled each other warily.
Then Sir Rothby was attacking again, the same pattern almost exactly. At the last second, Lancelot dodged to the side, risking a deadly blow to the head if he was not fast enough, in order to catch Sir Rothby off guard as he struck from above. Sir Rothby's sword missed his head by inches, coming down on Lancelot's left shoulder instead with a screech where it hit his pauldron.
He ignored the pain as the force of the blow jarred his arm in its socket and brought his own sword around to hit Sir Rothby's left flank. It was only a glancing blow, but the man stumbled forward a step or two, off-balance, enough for Lancelot to land another, more devastating blow. His attention was caught, however, by something he saw slip out from beneath the collar of Sir Rothby's hauberk. It was nothing but a piece of string holding a scrap of bundled cloth, but it commanded Lancelot's attention long enough to give Sir Rothby the chance to recover himself, and Sir Rothby was securely back on his feet before Lancelot could press the brief advantage.
There was something about that string.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Lancelot had asked Elaine, or rather the simulacrum of himself that spoke with her voice.
"Of course." She - he - it was like looking into a mirror that acted on its own - nodded. "It would be a pretty silly thing to do on a whim. But it's the only way my father will ever allow me to fight in a tournament here, and I want to do that before I leave. I thought it'd be hard to talk you into leaving before the last round, but it seems you have your own reasons after all."
"See? And now there's no reason you can't come back with me right away," Merlin said happily. "Do you have anything you need to pack?"
Lancelot shook his head, still disoriented and confused. "I don't - everything I had for travelling is still in the stables. The armour and the sword aren't mine - in fact, they belong rightfully to her, I believe." He nodded toward the armour and weapon, still scattered where he had removed them after the morning's fight.
Elaine went and picked up the sword with a simple look of happiness. "When I was little I used to go and look at this in my father's rooms, sometimes. Once I got bigger I used to sneak in to see it on my own and pretend to fight dragons with it. Then one day he caught me, and yelled a lot about playing with sharp objects, and after that I wasn't allowed to do more than watch my brothers' training."
She set the sword back down with a sigh and gathered up the armour instead. "You could keep it," she said, "the sword. He did give it to you, after all."
"No, I don't think he did," Lancelot said. "He meant it to go with the armour. And he spent that whole conversation telling me about your ancestors who had owned it before you."
Elaine looked at him oddly, but added the sword to the pile in her arms.
"There's just one other thing," she said, hesitating. "I need... your hair."
Lancelot stared at her. "My hair...?" he asked incredulously. "What for?"
She produced a pair of scissors from somewhere in the pile of armour and said, "Just a little off the back? Dame B said just a pinch would do."
"You're going to make a charm?" Merlin asked with sudden interest.
He was up and poking at Elaine's face, which seemed an extremely hazardous pursuit in Lancelot's mind. Elaine was regarding the move with a sceptical look.
"Lancelot, look at this, her face doesn't change, it's an illusion. That's what you need the hair for, right?" Merlin asked her. "For the physical parts?"
Lancelot held a hand up to the nape of his neck, feeling a little defensive of his physical parts.
Elaine shrugged expressively and backed away from Merlin's curiously probing fingers. "Dame B just said I needed some of his hair for the charm. I didn't ask her why. Do you want to do it yourself?" she asked Lancelot. "I can probably get it from somewhere it won't be so obvious, if you're worried about the look of it."
"I'll get it," Merlin volunteered a little too eagerly for Lancelot's taste. "Is the charm made up yet? Can I see it?" he asked as he seized the scissors and snipped away a bit of hair from behind Lancelot's ear, none too carefully, Lancelot felt as the cold metal pressed close against his skin. There was a snick and then the scissors were removed without, thankfully, taking any of his ear with them.
Elaine indicated a tiny pouch that hung around her neck. Lancelot hadn't noticed it until she tugged it out farther from beneath the neck of her tunic. It was just a thin yellow string. Merlin sprinkled a few strands of cut hair into the pouch and something... changed. The illusion of Lancelot's body solidified around her, became indefinitely more present, more real.
Merlin prodded Elaine's nose and removed his hand quickly when she glared at him for it. "It's the same shape as it looks now," he confirmed.
"What shape was it before?" asked Lancelot, who was feeling the hair behind his ear trying to determine how strange it would look. He wasn't a vain man. He had cut his own hair often enough just to keep it from becoming a distraction, without worrying too much about the results. It was simply disconcerting to be looking at himself, that was all. It made him worry that perhaps if he looked in a mirror, he would not look as much like himself anymore.
Merlin had started some conversation with Elaine about how the charm was made, which Elaine knew very little about, and Lancelot had the impression that the only reason they were not paying a visit to interrogate the enchantress who had made it was the shortness of time. This was confirmed when Merlin dragged him out of the tower room, while the other Lancelot stayed behind in his place.
He felt the patch of slightly shorter hair behind his ear again as they rode away. Such a little thing, and suddenly he was someone else, or rather, someone else was him. Would anyone notice? he had wondered. Was he so easily replaceable?
Lancelot had only let his mind drift for a moment, but already Sir Rothby was pressing forward with another attack that had Lancelot stumbling back to maintain the distance between them. He slashed wildly just to give himself some room, not really expecting to hit anything, but to force Sir Rothby to back off a little. It worked, for a moment, and then Sir Rothby was back on the offensive.
It was enough time to let Lancelot regain his footing, though, and he fended off Sir Rothby's next round of attacks more easily, his remaining attention absorbed by the thin string that had snuck its way out of concealment and snagged on a link of armour. There was an idea half-formed in his mind, only half-formed because there was no pause in the trading of blows to consider it at any length. He could only act, and hope.
He let Sir Rothby back him up all the way to the boards surrounding the arena and then feigned disorientation, darting first one way then another to avoid Sir Rothby's attacks, letting himself almost be caught. At last he threw his helmet aside as if in frustration and ducked away at the last possible moment before Sir Rothby's blade came sailing through the air towards his head. With that accomplished, he put a safer amount of space between them, and waited.
It was a matter of honour that a knight should not retain an unfair advantage in combat, once he had forced his opponent to discard or otherwise lose the same protection. In a joust, both knights unsheathed their swords when one was knocked from his horse - if the knight who had been unseated still lived and could stand to fight on, of course. There was nothing honourable in striking a man down who was not equally equipped to defend himself. Sir Rothby would now be expected to even the scales.
Sir Rothby, pausing to nudge the discarded helmet with his foot, slowly drew off his own and tossed it aside. He gave every show of nonchalance at the act, but now his face was bare, Lancelot could see the wariness in his eyes at the move. So he was expecting a trap. Good. Let Sir Rothby think that Lancelot wanted his helmet off so he could crack his skull. It would make him focus his defense in all the wrong places.
Lancelot brought a series of bold, ambitious strokes raining down upon Sir Rothby's head, grasping his sword with both hands, foregoing the greater part of the protection of his shield in order to bring his full strength to bear. Sir Rothby warded off each blow with his shield, swiping low beneath Lancelot's reach whenever an opening allowed. Lancelot felt the sword slice through his tunic and skid along the mail over his chest, making him pay for his line of attack.
When he could risk no more to put Sir Rothby off his guard, Lancelot leapt back and brought his shield back down to cover himself. Then, with a wide turn of his shoulder, he lifted his sword up as if preparing to strike another over-handed blow.
While Sir Rothby's shield was high above his head, anticipating a blow that would never come, Sir Lancelot dropped to the ground and kicked his legs out from under him.
Sir Rothby fell gracefully, even caught off guard, controlling his descent from the moment he lost his balance. His back hit the dirt with a quiet whumph, raising a cloud of dust around him. His sword flew out of his hand so his arm could break his fall and Lancelot stepped hard on his shoulder to prevent him recovering it.
Sir Rothby's hand scrabbled in the dirt. In a moment he would have his sword in his hand again and then the leg pinning him to the ground would be an easy target. Lancelot prodded at the edge of Sir Rothby's hauberk, where he could see the faint line of the string entwined around the neck hole. The sword was an instrument not designed for such work and he came nearer to cutting Sir Rothby's throat than anything else. He managed to work the tip of it between the string and a loop of mail just as Sir Rothby's fingertips found the hilt they sought, and Lancelot jerked his sword abruptly to try to slice through the string, nearly catching the underside of Sir Rothby's jaw in the process. It snagged, then gave beneath the edge of the blade, and then the point of Lancelot's sword was free of it.
He thought for a moment that he had failed, that he had left the string intact, or worse, that snapping it had no effect. Sir Rothby had already got hold of his sword and Lancelot was forced to remove his foot from the man's shoulder and step hastily out of range before he could retaliate.
Lancelot watched Sir Rothby re-compose himself with a sinking feeling. He had been wrong, then. Or worse, he had been right, but he had missed his one chance to prove it. Sir Rothby would be on his guard now and would not likely fall for the same trick again.
Sir Rothby rose up onto his knees with a furious expression on his face, but as he moved to stand a shift came over his features. At first it was nothing very noticeable, a wavering or shimmering as if water were pouring down his face, bending the light in strange subtle ways across the skin. He scrambled to his feet, leaning briefly on his shield, and immediately swung out with an angry, sweeping blow aimed at Lancelot's ribs.
Lancelot stepped back, quickly. He did it again and again, his sword lowered and his shield at his side, staying out of the way, but keeping Sir Rothby in sight. The crowds began to jeer their disapproval. Watching one man chase another around the ring was no sort of entertainment, not after the spectacular fall of a minute before. Lancelot had no doubt this change in tactics looked like sudden cowardice, but it did not matter. As he watched his opponent's face, the shift became more and more obvious.
The whole of Sir Rothby's visage began to flicker and change. It was as if the features were reforming themselves, clay or molten glass remolding itself across a different surface. The structure of the bones was changing, shrinking and elongating until the face resolved into a new pattern altogether. There were changes in the hair as well; it lightened, grew, and tumbled out at greater length. The knight's body was shrinking ever so slightly as well, becoming lighter, quicker, less heavily muscled and more loose-limbed. The armour no longer fit quite right.
By now Lancelot's opponent had noticed what was happening, and so had the people in the stands. The jeering of the crowd fell into a stunned silence. One or two gasps ran around the edge of the arena. Into the hush, someone whispered "magic!"
The woman - for it was a woman Lancelot was facing now, no doubt about that - glared at him murderously. Her eyes glowed golden for an instant and Lancelot moved instinctively to cover himself with his shield as she began intoning words in an ancient tongue he could not understand. He doubted a mere physical shield would do anything to defend him against magical attack. He turned his head, searching the stands in desperation for Merlin's face, hoping there was something his friend could do to protect him. He was mouthing the name, "Merlin!" when a noise like a thunderclap burst out from where the woman stood.
A whirlwind of light and sound descended upon them, rendering Lancelot blind and deaf for an instant, his senses lost in the confusion of what he was facing. When it cleared he was standing alone on the field, cowering beneath his useless shield from an enemy that was no longer there.
His eyes raking across the crowds once more, he saw an array of shocked faces, forming every emotion from bewilderment to terror. Half the people in the stands had risen to their feet, whether to flee or to intercede they would never know.
Among those who looked less shocked than the others were Arthur and Guinevere, both wide-eyed but not looking wholly surprised, and Merlin, whose arm was halfway raised to intervene. And there, amid the otherwise motionless tableau of spectators, a single person was moving slowly but surely away from her place at the edge of the stands, trying to slip away before anyone else could react to the events.
Lancelot raised his arm to point. It was trembling.
"Guards!" he said. It came out in a choked whisper, but the movement was enough to draw the attention of the scores of people whose eyes had been fixed upon him in the otherwise empty arena. There was sudden chaos in the stands as people near the fleeing woman moved as if to intercept her but drew back when they got too close.
There were cries for guards and a hubbub of voices rose up in confusion, crying "Stop her!" and "Sorcery!" and making incoherent pleas for protection. Lancelot saw one swift, sure figure dart out from the stands on the other side and noticed without surprise that Merlin was now missing from the Queen's side. Lancelot silently wished him luck catching up with anyone in the general chaos that had erupted across the grounds.
Merlin ran, flapping in the sleeves of his ridiculous new councillor's robes across the castle grounds. He cursed the formality of court protocols. It would have been a lot easier to chase someone down in a shirt and trousers. At least Lady Lavinia would be equally encumbered by formal dress. Merlin tore off his official councillor's hat and tossed it aside, just on principle.
The grounds had been mostly bare when he ran out after Lady Lavinia; everyone who could be at the tournament had been there to watch the spectacle. Now, though, the cries from the perturbed crowds had attracted the notice of the castle guards, and some of the people from the tournament grounds were streaming out in aimless worried curiosity.
Merlin kept his eyes on the fleeing figure who was beating a hasty retreat towards the castle. He hoped none of the guards would try to stop her themselves; the last thing this day needed was more violence, and he doubted she would agree to go quietly.
That, and he wanted to face her alone, just in case he needed to use any slightly unorthodox means.
He lost sight of his quarry turning a corner into the main courtyard, but spotted her again running up the steps to the castle's main entrance. He was near enough to hear her say in a haughty voice to one of the sentries, "Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to pursue the sorcerer?"
The guards let her pass in a state of perplexity, not sure who they were being ordered to pursue, or by whom. They had put hands to their weapons by the time Merlin reached them, and were looking around in a state of high, if confused, alert, for any signs of a fleeing sorcerer.
Merlin told them rather breathlessly to stay where they were. Everything was perfectly all right, or it would be very soon, and there was no reason for them to leave their post.
The guards looked relieved to have the responsibility taken off their shoulders, but Merlin didn't have time to worry about whether they would obey his instructions, so he muttered a spell under his breath as he passed by that would stop anyone trying to enter or exit by that doorway for the next few minutes.
Merlin knew all too well, however, that not all the castle exits were so well guarded. The train of Lady Lavinia's skirt was just whicking around the end of a long corridor, and Merlin jogged to catch up.
She was headed straight for the dungeons. It could have been a foolish error from a noblewoman unfamiliar with the layout of the castle, but Merlin didn't think so. If Morgause had been here, in disguise as one of the Northumbrian nobles, there was only one person who was her likely accomplice - and she certainly knew all the secret ways out of the castle.
She was almost at the dungeon entrance when he spotted her again. Another minute and she would be down the stairs and facing a handful of guards, but Merlin didn't fancy their chances against her. Merlin skidded to a halt and extended his hand toward the looming door to the dungeons. It slammed shut in front of her, bringing her up short.
Still unaware of anyone behind her, she pushed at the doors as if trying to dislodge someone on the other side. The heavy oak rattled violently, metal chains and bars shaking, but the barrier held. She cursed and spoke a spell for opening, loudly but to no avail.
"It's no use, Morgana," Merlin said as evenly as he could manage.
She whipped around, finally aware of him. There was a look of such undisguised anger and loathing on her face when she recognized him that it left him in no doubt, now, as to who she was.
"Get out of my way, serving boy," she spat. She strode toward him menacingly and it was all Merlin could do not to flinch and step aside reflexively.
"You know I can't do that," he said. "I know what you've been trying to do, and if I let you go this time you're just going to come back and try to do it again."
"You really think you can stop me, Merlin?" she asked scornfully. "Do you have any idea of the things I'm capable of?"
"Yeah, I think I've got a pretty good idea," said Merlin. "I know you're capable of leading an army against your own brother on the very day of your father's funeral. I know you're capable of accusing someone who was once your loyal friend of adultery and putting her life in danger just to manipulate one honourable man. And that you'd have let Morgause kill another honourable man today, just for interfering with your plans."
"Unlike you, of course," Morgana snapped back at him. "You never attacked a friend, did you, Merlin? Or does it not count if you poison them?"
"Haven't you got tired of being Morgause's puppet yet?" Merlin asked.
"You're one to talk." Morgana said laughed, bitterly. "You don't understand anything about me, Merlin. You never did."
"I thought I did, once," said Merlin, "even thought we maybe had some things in common."
"Well, you were wrong about that, weren't you?" Morgana sneered. "I've never been anything like you."
"I also thought you were capable of mercy and compassion," Merlin said. "Was I wrong about that, too? We can still end this without anyone else getting hurt, if you haven't forgotten how to do that."
"Camelot's the wrong place for mercy," said Morgana. "Be thankful I haven't killed you yet. That's already more compassion than you deserve for being Uther's little puppet."
"I was never-" Merlin said, "I serve Arthur - I've always served Arthur."
"It doesn't make any difference. You think Uther's son is any better? You think because you've got new clothes and a new title now that anything else has changed?"
"What, and things would be so much better under you?" Merlin asked incredulously.
"Yes," Morgana said fervently. "So many things are going to change, Merlin. There are so many things that have been wrong at the heart of this kingdom, so many people who have been hurt. I wish no one had to die, but Uther was a bloody tyrant, and there's only one way I can make sure that doesn't happen all over again. If you want a chance of surviving your master, you'll stand aside now."
"We can't do that," said a sad voice from somewhere behind Merlin.
"Gwen." Morgana froze. "You shouldn't be here, this has nothing to do with you."
"It has everything to do with us," said Gwen, coming to stand by Merlin's side. "You don't really think you can do this? Attack someone we love - attack us to get to him - and expect us not to care - not to do everything we can to stop you?"
"You don't understand," Morgana said, "I never wanted to hurt you, Gwen, it was just -"
"I just got in the way, right?" Gwen asked. "That's what happens to anyone who gets in your way, after all, isn't it? They get hurt, and you feel sorry about it, but you keep on doing the same things anyway."
Her fingers slipped into Merlin's hand, and he squeezed them once in wordless comfort.
"It's not like that," Morgana said pleadingly, "sometimes there's just no other way -"
"There's always another way," said Gwen, still sadly but with a touch of anger now. "It's just that it isn't always easy. Do you think it's easy being Queen?"
"I don't know what you-" Morgana started.
Gwen ignored her. "Even if you get everything you want, there will still be compromises, and things you have to do because it's expected of you, because it's part of the job. If you're so sure this is what you want, go ahead. Kill me. You wanted a crown, right? Take mine, it will probably fit you."
She took off her crown and tossed it at Morgana's feet. Merlin could feel her hand trembling against his, but her voice didn't waver.
"There, I won't even fight you for it," she said. "You'll have to kill Merlin, too, of course. He'll probably still try to stop you whatever I say. And then there are the castle guards, and the knights, and Arthur, and by the time you've been crowned there won't be much of a court left to follow you, but never mind that. After all, if there were another way you'd have thought of it by now, wouldn't you?"
"Gwen-" Morgana choked out. She hadn't moved to pick up the crown. She was standing staring down at it in horrified fascination, as if at a serpent poised to attack. She lifted her eyes when Gwen was finished, tried to meet her gaze, but couldn't hold it. "What else can I do? Other than run away and start this all over again... It's too late to come back."
"I don't know," said Gwen, "but maybe we could talk about it. Before anyone else gets hurt. Including you," she added softly.
Morgana looked at her properly at last, searching Gwen's face. "If I agree, what's to stop Arthur having me executed at dawn?" she asked.
"I am," Gwen promised. "I won't let that happen." She held out her hand and slowly, tentatively, Morgana reached out and took it.
"At the very least," Gwen added with a small smile, "I'll make sure your execution is set for the day after tomorrow, so you have plenty of time to escape."
Morgana uttered something between a laugh and a sob and let Gwen lead her away, back towards the guest quarters. Merlin followed cautiously in their wake, half expecting Morgana to break away at a run at any moment, but she went along docilely enough.
Merlin wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but he was willing to bet there was no spell in the world to accomplish it.
Part Eleven
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/64405.html at Dreamwidth.
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The crowd was growing restless. It had been announced that the first challenge would be a trial by combat in defense of the Queen's virtue. Many of the townspeople claimed this was mere formality, a display orchestrated in her honour. Some whispered of an accusation, a show of support by the King. They said it was rumoured that the King himself was fighting as her champion. Others said, surely not, it would be a champion fighting in the King's name. That was how royalty worked; they did not take to the field themselves if they could find someone else to do it for them. Still others remembered the young Prince Arthur and did not doubt his willingness to put his own life on the line.
Speculation flew through the air, distorted and magnified by every hearer as they waited for the trumpet that would sound the opening of the events. Among the stands set aside for the nobility, the lesser courtiers were quiet, waiting to judge the tide of events. The seats reserved for the royal family were still empty.
Nearby, the delegation from Northumbria, nominally the celebrated guests for whose presence the tournament had been decreed, sat isolated amid the hubbub. Seats remained empty around them, avoided by cautious courtiers who did not want to risk an unwise show of support, should this go badly for Sir Rothby. Lady Lavinia sat imperturbable in the midst of it all, a faint enigmatic smile playing about her lips.
At last on an unseen signal the trumpet sounded and the two combatants made their way out onto the field in full armour. The buzz of the crowd died away to almost perfect silence as they approached each other. When they were standing almost close enough to touch, there was a rustle of movement among the nobility as the King and Queen made their way, arm in arm, to the very centre of the stands.
A general murmur of surprise greeted the King's presence. Part of the draw for this event had been the popular hope of seeing him compete again. Now, the disappointed spectators turned their attention to the mysterious Queen's champion.
Sir Rothby tore off his helmet and pointed his sword accusingly at the knight facing him on the field.
"You are not King Arthur," he exclaimed. "By what right do you stand against me here today?"
The other knight pointedly ignored the threat of the sword held up almost to his throat and removed his helmet with every appearance of casualness.
"By the best right I know," he said, when his face was revealed.
It was clear from the lack of response from most of the courtiers that he was unfamiliar to them, but there was one gasp among those in the stands. The Lady Lavinia had her hand over her mouth as she looked in dismay from the Queen to the Queen's champion.
"Do you not know who I am?" the champion demanded of Sir Rothby. "You should, since you claim to have seen me here at Camelot. Albeit your claim is already suspect, as I was many miles away at the time. My name is Sir Lancelot and I am the Queen's champion."
Sir Rothby lowered his sword slowly and took a step back, placatory. "I have no quarrel with you, sir. It seems we have both been the victim of a misunderstanding."
"No," Sir Lancelot said. "The time for words is passed. You had the chance to settle this with words of wisdom before and would not hear reason. Now the only judgment you deserve is that of an honest blade that cannot be turned aside by your treacherous tongue."
He replaced his helmet and made his salute. Sir Rothby turned uncertainly toward the stands, but found no help there.
"Surely you will agree," said the King, "that Sir Lancelot has as great a right as any man to champion the Queen's cause? Especially as, in doing so, he will uphold the integrity of his own name as well."
Sir Rothby was not looking at the King, however. His eyes had fixed on Lady Lavinia, who gave a short sharp shake of the head.
Unheard amidst the rising tide of murmuring from the stands, Merlin leaned in close to the Queen's ear so he could ask, "Is he actually a knight now? Because he wasn't when we were talking about ten minutes ago while he was getting dressed."
"It's all right," Gwen whispered back. "Arthur had a quick go at knighting him behind the tents just before he came out."
"Is that legal?" Merlin asked.
"He's been knighted before," Gwen pointed out. "Think of it as more of a... renewal of his license to be a knight."
"I didn't know those needed renewing," Merlin whispered. "Is there some sort of an exam to make sure candidates are still qualified? Haven't been banished from the kingdom since last application? Check..."
"Merlin?" Gwen said under her breath, clutching onto his arm.
"Yes?" he whispered back at her.
In answer she pointed to the field, where the knights were already facing off against each other, circling cautiously and taking the other's measure.
"Oh," said Merlin, and soon he was clutching at her sleeve as well.
"Very well," Sir Rothby said before he replaced his helmet. "If that is what you wish, let it be so. No one can say you were not warned."
He returned Lancelot's salute and then, almost before Lancelot had brought his own sword to the ready, he was upon him.
Lancelot parried a series of blows on sheer instinct, his arm moving to deflect each one before his eye could see the movement. He lifted his sword almost too late to block a crashing downward blow, and the resulting clash rang loudly across the field. Sir Rothby retreated after that and they circled each other warily.
Then Sir Rothby was attacking again, the same pattern almost exactly. At the last second, Lancelot dodged to the side, risking a deadly blow to the head if he was not fast enough, in order to catch Sir Rothby off guard as he struck from above. Sir Rothby's sword missed his head by inches, coming down on Lancelot's left shoulder instead with a screech where it hit his pauldron.
He ignored the pain as the force of the blow jarred his arm in its socket and brought his own sword around to hit Sir Rothby's left flank. It was only a glancing blow, but the man stumbled forward a step or two, off-balance, enough for Lancelot to land another, more devastating blow. His attention was caught, however, by something he saw slip out from beneath the collar of Sir Rothby's hauberk. It was nothing but a piece of string holding a scrap of bundled cloth, but it commanded Lancelot's attention long enough to give Sir Rothby the chance to recover himself, and Sir Rothby was securely back on his feet before Lancelot could press the brief advantage.
There was something about that string.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Lancelot had asked Elaine, or rather the simulacrum of himself that spoke with her voice.
"Of course." She - he - it was like looking into a mirror that acted on its own - nodded. "It would be a pretty silly thing to do on a whim. But it's the only way my father will ever allow me to fight in a tournament here, and I want to do that before I leave. I thought it'd be hard to talk you into leaving before the last round, but it seems you have your own reasons after all."
"See? And now there's no reason you can't come back with me right away," Merlin said happily. "Do you have anything you need to pack?"
Lancelot shook his head, still disoriented and confused. "I don't - everything I had for travelling is still in the stables. The armour and the sword aren't mine - in fact, they belong rightfully to her, I believe." He nodded toward the armour and weapon, still scattered where he had removed them after the morning's fight.
Elaine went and picked up the sword with a simple look of happiness. "When I was little I used to go and look at this in my father's rooms, sometimes. Once I got bigger I used to sneak in to see it on my own and pretend to fight dragons with it. Then one day he caught me, and yelled a lot about playing with sharp objects, and after that I wasn't allowed to do more than watch my brothers' training."
She set the sword back down with a sigh and gathered up the armour instead. "You could keep it," she said, "the sword. He did give it to you, after all."
"No, I don't think he did," Lancelot said. "He meant it to go with the armour. And he spent that whole conversation telling me about your ancestors who had owned it before you."
Elaine looked at him oddly, but added the sword to the pile in her arms.
"There's just one other thing," she said, hesitating. "I need... your hair."
Lancelot stared at her. "My hair...?" he asked incredulously. "What for?"
She produced a pair of scissors from somewhere in the pile of armour and said, "Just a little off the back? Dame B said just a pinch would do."
"You're going to make a charm?" Merlin asked with sudden interest.
He was up and poking at Elaine's face, which seemed an extremely hazardous pursuit in Lancelot's mind. Elaine was regarding the move with a sceptical look.
"Lancelot, look at this, her face doesn't change, it's an illusion. That's what you need the hair for, right?" Merlin asked her. "For the physical parts?"
Lancelot held a hand up to the nape of his neck, feeling a little defensive of his physical parts.
Elaine shrugged expressively and backed away from Merlin's curiously probing fingers. "Dame B just said I needed some of his hair for the charm. I didn't ask her why. Do you want to do it yourself?" she asked Lancelot. "I can probably get it from somewhere it won't be so obvious, if you're worried about the look of it."
"I'll get it," Merlin volunteered a little too eagerly for Lancelot's taste. "Is the charm made up yet? Can I see it?" he asked as he seized the scissors and snipped away a bit of hair from behind Lancelot's ear, none too carefully, Lancelot felt as the cold metal pressed close against his skin. There was a snick and then the scissors were removed without, thankfully, taking any of his ear with them.
Elaine indicated a tiny pouch that hung around her neck. Lancelot hadn't noticed it until she tugged it out farther from beneath the neck of her tunic. It was just a thin yellow string. Merlin sprinkled a few strands of cut hair into the pouch and something... changed. The illusion of Lancelot's body solidified around her, became indefinitely more present, more real.
Merlin prodded Elaine's nose and removed his hand quickly when she glared at him for it. "It's the same shape as it looks now," he confirmed.
"What shape was it before?" asked Lancelot, who was feeling the hair behind his ear trying to determine how strange it would look. He wasn't a vain man. He had cut his own hair often enough just to keep it from becoming a distraction, without worrying too much about the results. It was simply disconcerting to be looking at himself, that was all. It made him worry that perhaps if he looked in a mirror, he would not look as much like himself anymore.
Merlin had started some conversation with Elaine about how the charm was made, which Elaine knew very little about, and Lancelot had the impression that the only reason they were not paying a visit to interrogate the enchantress who had made it was the shortness of time. This was confirmed when Merlin dragged him out of the tower room, while the other Lancelot stayed behind in his place.
He felt the patch of slightly shorter hair behind his ear again as they rode away. Such a little thing, and suddenly he was someone else, or rather, someone else was him. Would anyone notice? he had wondered. Was he so easily replaceable?
Lancelot had only let his mind drift for a moment, but already Sir Rothby was pressing forward with another attack that had Lancelot stumbling back to maintain the distance between them. He slashed wildly just to give himself some room, not really expecting to hit anything, but to force Sir Rothby to back off a little. It worked, for a moment, and then Sir Rothby was back on the offensive.
It was enough time to let Lancelot regain his footing, though, and he fended off Sir Rothby's next round of attacks more easily, his remaining attention absorbed by the thin string that had snuck its way out of concealment and snagged on a link of armour. There was an idea half-formed in his mind, only half-formed because there was no pause in the trading of blows to consider it at any length. He could only act, and hope.
He let Sir Rothby back him up all the way to the boards surrounding the arena and then feigned disorientation, darting first one way then another to avoid Sir Rothby's attacks, letting himself almost be caught. At last he threw his helmet aside as if in frustration and ducked away at the last possible moment before Sir Rothby's blade came sailing through the air towards his head. With that accomplished, he put a safer amount of space between them, and waited.
It was a matter of honour that a knight should not retain an unfair advantage in combat, once he had forced his opponent to discard or otherwise lose the same protection. In a joust, both knights unsheathed their swords when one was knocked from his horse - if the knight who had been unseated still lived and could stand to fight on, of course. There was nothing honourable in striking a man down who was not equally equipped to defend himself. Sir Rothby would now be expected to even the scales.
Sir Rothby, pausing to nudge the discarded helmet with his foot, slowly drew off his own and tossed it aside. He gave every show of nonchalance at the act, but now his face was bare, Lancelot could see the wariness in his eyes at the move. So he was expecting a trap. Good. Let Sir Rothby think that Lancelot wanted his helmet off so he could crack his skull. It would make him focus his defense in all the wrong places.
Lancelot brought a series of bold, ambitious strokes raining down upon Sir Rothby's head, grasping his sword with both hands, foregoing the greater part of the protection of his shield in order to bring his full strength to bear. Sir Rothby warded off each blow with his shield, swiping low beneath Lancelot's reach whenever an opening allowed. Lancelot felt the sword slice through his tunic and skid along the mail over his chest, making him pay for his line of attack.
When he could risk no more to put Sir Rothby off his guard, Lancelot leapt back and brought his shield back down to cover himself. Then, with a wide turn of his shoulder, he lifted his sword up as if preparing to strike another over-handed blow.
While Sir Rothby's shield was high above his head, anticipating a blow that would never come, Sir Lancelot dropped to the ground and kicked his legs out from under him.
Sir Rothby fell gracefully, even caught off guard, controlling his descent from the moment he lost his balance. His back hit the dirt with a quiet whumph, raising a cloud of dust around him. His sword flew out of his hand so his arm could break his fall and Lancelot stepped hard on his shoulder to prevent him recovering it.
Sir Rothby's hand scrabbled in the dirt. In a moment he would have his sword in his hand again and then the leg pinning him to the ground would be an easy target. Lancelot prodded at the edge of Sir Rothby's hauberk, where he could see the faint line of the string entwined around the neck hole. The sword was an instrument not designed for such work and he came nearer to cutting Sir Rothby's throat than anything else. He managed to work the tip of it between the string and a loop of mail just as Sir Rothby's fingertips found the hilt they sought, and Lancelot jerked his sword abruptly to try to slice through the string, nearly catching the underside of Sir Rothby's jaw in the process. It snagged, then gave beneath the edge of the blade, and then the point of Lancelot's sword was free of it.
He thought for a moment that he had failed, that he had left the string intact, or worse, that snapping it had no effect. Sir Rothby had already got hold of his sword and Lancelot was forced to remove his foot from the man's shoulder and step hastily out of range before he could retaliate.
Lancelot watched Sir Rothby re-compose himself with a sinking feeling. He had been wrong, then. Or worse, he had been right, but he had missed his one chance to prove it. Sir Rothby would be on his guard now and would not likely fall for the same trick again.
Sir Rothby rose up onto his knees with a furious expression on his face, but as he moved to stand a shift came over his features. At first it was nothing very noticeable, a wavering or shimmering as if water were pouring down his face, bending the light in strange subtle ways across the skin. He scrambled to his feet, leaning briefly on his shield, and immediately swung out with an angry, sweeping blow aimed at Lancelot's ribs.
Lancelot stepped back, quickly. He did it again and again, his sword lowered and his shield at his side, staying out of the way, but keeping Sir Rothby in sight. The crowds began to jeer their disapproval. Watching one man chase another around the ring was no sort of entertainment, not after the spectacular fall of a minute before. Lancelot had no doubt this change in tactics looked like sudden cowardice, but it did not matter. As he watched his opponent's face, the shift became more and more obvious.
The whole of Sir Rothby's visage began to flicker and change. It was as if the features were reforming themselves, clay or molten glass remolding itself across a different surface. The structure of the bones was changing, shrinking and elongating until the face resolved into a new pattern altogether. There were changes in the hair as well; it lightened, grew, and tumbled out at greater length. The knight's body was shrinking ever so slightly as well, becoming lighter, quicker, less heavily muscled and more loose-limbed. The armour no longer fit quite right.
By now Lancelot's opponent had noticed what was happening, and so had the people in the stands. The jeering of the crowd fell into a stunned silence. One or two gasps ran around the edge of the arena. Into the hush, someone whispered "magic!"
The woman - for it was a woman Lancelot was facing now, no doubt about that - glared at him murderously. Her eyes glowed golden for an instant and Lancelot moved instinctively to cover himself with his shield as she began intoning words in an ancient tongue he could not understand. He doubted a mere physical shield would do anything to defend him against magical attack. He turned his head, searching the stands in desperation for Merlin's face, hoping there was something his friend could do to protect him. He was mouthing the name, "Merlin!" when a noise like a thunderclap burst out from where the woman stood.
A whirlwind of light and sound descended upon them, rendering Lancelot blind and deaf for an instant, his senses lost in the confusion of what he was facing. When it cleared he was standing alone on the field, cowering beneath his useless shield from an enemy that was no longer there.
His eyes raking across the crowds once more, he saw an array of shocked faces, forming every emotion from bewilderment to terror. Half the people in the stands had risen to their feet, whether to flee or to intercede they would never know.
Among those who looked less shocked than the others were Arthur and Guinevere, both wide-eyed but not looking wholly surprised, and Merlin, whose arm was halfway raised to intervene. And there, amid the otherwise motionless tableau of spectators, a single person was moving slowly but surely away from her place at the edge of the stands, trying to slip away before anyone else could react to the events.
Lancelot raised his arm to point. It was trembling.
"Guards!" he said. It came out in a choked whisper, but the movement was enough to draw the attention of the scores of people whose eyes had been fixed upon him in the otherwise empty arena. There was sudden chaos in the stands as people near the fleeing woman moved as if to intercept her but drew back when they got too close.
There were cries for guards and a hubbub of voices rose up in confusion, crying "Stop her!" and "Sorcery!" and making incoherent pleas for protection. Lancelot saw one swift, sure figure dart out from the stands on the other side and noticed without surprise that Merlin was now missing from the Queen's side. Lancelot silently wished him luck catching up with anyone in the general chaos that had erupted across the grounds.
Merlin ran, flapping in the sleeves of his ridiculous new councillor's robes across the castle grounds. He cursed the formality of court protocols. It would have been a lot easier to chase someone down in a shirt and trousers. At least Lady Lavinia would be equally encumbered by formal dress. Merlin tore off his official councillor's hat and tossed it aside, just on principle.
The grounds had been mostly bare when he ran out after Lady Lavinia; everyone who could be at the tournament had been there to watch the spectacle. Now, though, the cries from the perturbed crowds had attracted the notice of the castle guards, and some of the people from the tournament grounds were streaming out in aimless worried curiosity.
Merlin kept his eyes on the fleeing figure who was beating a hasty retreat towards the castle. He hoped none of the guards would try to stop her themselves; the last thing this day needed was more violence, and he doubted she would agree to go quietly.
That, and he wanted to face her alone, just in case he needed to use any slightly unorthodox means.
He lost sight of his quarry turning a corner into the main courtyard, but spotted her again running up the steps to the castle's main entrance. He was near enough to hear her say in a haughty voice to one of the sentries, "Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to pursue the sorcerer?"
The guards let her pass in a state of perplexity, not sure who they were being ordered to pursue, or by whom. They had put hands to their weapons by the time Merlin reached them, and were looking around in a state of high, if confused, alert, for any signs of a fleeing sorcerer.
Merlin told them rather breathlessly to stay where they were. Everything was perfectly all right, or it would be very soon, and there was no reason for them to leave their post.
The guards looked relieved to have the responsibility taken off their shoulders, but Merlin didn't have time to worry about whether they would obey his instructions, so he muttered a spell under his breath as he passed by that would stop anyone trying to enter or exit by that doorway for the next few minutes.
Merlin knew all too well, however, that not all the castle exits were so well guarded. The train of Lady Lavinia's skirt was just whicking around the end of a long corridor, and Merlin jogged to catch up.
She was headed straight for the dungeons. It could have been a foolish error from a noblewoman unfamiliar with the layout of the castle, but Merlin didn't think so. If Morgause had been here, in disguise as one of the Northumbrian nobles, there was only one person who was her likely accomplice - and she certainly knew all the secret ways out of the castle.
She was almost at the dungeon entrance when he spotted her again. Another minute and she would be down the stairs and facing a handful of guards, but Merlin didn't fancy their chances against her. Merlin skidded to a halt and extended his hand toward the looming door to the dungeons. It slammed shut in front of her, bringing her up short.
Still unaware of anyone behind her, she pushed at the doors as if trying to dislodge someone on the other side. The heavy oak rattled violently, metal chains and bars shaking, but the barrier held. She cursed and spoke a spell for opening, loudly but to no avail.
"It's no use, Morgana," Merlin said as evenly as he could manage.
She whipped around, finally aware of him. There was a look of such undisguised anger and loathing on her face when she recognized him that it left him in no doubt, now, as to who she was.
"Get out of my way, serving boy," she spat. She strode toward him menacingly and it was all Merlin could do not to flinch and step aside reflexively.
"You know I can't do that," he said. "I know what you've been trying to do, and if I let you go this time you're just going to come back and try to do it again."
"You really think you can stop me, Merlin?" she asked scornfully. "Do you have any idea of the things I'm capable of?"
"Yeah, I think I've got a pretty good idea," said Merlin. "I know you're capable of leading an army against your own brother on the very day of your father's funeral. I know you're capable of accusing someone who was once your loyal friend of adultery and putting her life in danger just to manipulate one honourable man. And that you'd have let Morgause kill another honourable man today, just for interfering with your plans."
"Unlike you, of course," Morgana snapped back at him. "You never attacked a friend, did you, Merlin? Or does it not count if you poison them?"
"Haven't you got tired of being Morgause's puppet yet?" Merlin asked.
"You're one to talk." Morgana said laughed, bitterly. "You don't understand anything about me, Merlin. You never did."
"I thought I did, once," said Merlin, "even thought we maybe had some things in common."
"Well, you were wrong about that, weren't you?" Morgana sneered. "I've never been anything like you."
"I also thought you were capable of mercy and compassion," Merlin said. "Was I wrong about that, too? We can still end this without anyone else getting hurt, if you haven't forgotten how to do that."
"Camelot's the wrong place for mercy," said Morgana. "Be thankful I haven't killed you yet. That's already more compassion than you deserve for being Uther's little puppet."
"I was never-" Merlin said, "I serve Arthur - I've always served Arthur."
"It doesn't make any difference. You think Uther's son is any better? You think because you've got new clothes and a new title now that anything else has changed?"
"What, and things would be so much better under you?" Merlin asked incredulously.
"Yes," Morgana said fervently. "So many things are going to change, Merlin. There are so many things that have been wrong at the heart of this kingdom, so many people who have been hurt. I wish no one had to die, but Uther was a bloody tyrant, and there's only one way I can make sure that doesn't happen all over again. If you want a chance of surviving your master, you'll stand aside now."
"We can't do that," said a sad voice from somewhere behind Merlin.
"Gwen." Morgana froze. "You shouldn't be here, this has nothing to do with you."
"It has everything to do with us," said Gwen, coming to stand by Merlin's side. "You don't really think you can do this? Attack someone we love - attack us to get to him - and expect us not to care - not to do everything we can to stop you?"
"You don't understand," Morgana said, "I never wanted to hurt you, Gwen, it was just -"
"I just got in the way, right?" Gwen asked. "That's what happens to anyone who gets in your way, after all, isn't it? They get hurt, and you feel sorry about it, but you keep on doing the same things anyway."
Her fingers slipped into Merlin's hand, and he squeezed them once in wordless comfort.
"It's not like that," Morgana said pleadingly, "sometimes there's just no other way -"
"There's always another way," said Gwen, still sadly but with a touch of anger now. "It's just that it isn't always easy. Do you think it's easy being Queen?"
"I don't know what you-" Morgana started.
Gwen ignored her. "Even if you get everything you want, there will still be compromises, and things you have to do because it's expected of you, because it's part of the job. If you're so sure this is what you want, go ahead. Kill me. You wanted a crown, right? Take mine, it will probably fit you."
She took off her crown and tossed it at Morgana's feet. Merlin could feel her hand trembling against his, but her voice didn't waver.
"There, I won't even fight you for it," she said. "You'll have to kill Merlin, too, of course. He'll probably still try to stop you whatever I say. And then there are the castle guards, and the knights, and Arthur, and by the time you've been crowned there won't be much of a court left to follow you, but never mind that. After all, if there were another way you'd have thought of it by now, wouldn't you?"
"Gwen-" Morgana choked out. She hadn't moved to pick up the crown. She was standing staring down at it in horrified fascination, as if at a serpent poised to attack. She lifted her eyes when Gwen was finished, tried to meet her gaze, but couldn't hold it. "What else can I do? Other than run away and start this all over again... It's too late to come back."
"I don't know," said Gwen, "but maybe we could talk about it. Before anyone else gets hurt. Including you," she added softly.
Morgana looked at her properly at last, searching Gwen's face. "If I agree, what's to stop Arthur having me executed at dawn?" she asked.
"I am," Gwen promised. "I won't let that happen." She held out her hand and slowly, tentatively, Morgana reached out and took it.
"At the very least," Gwen added with a small smile, "I'll make sure your execution is set for the day after tomorrow, so you have plenty of time to escape."
Morgana uttered something between a laugh and a sob and let Gwen lead her away, back towards the guest quarters. Merlin followed cautiously in their wake, half expecting Morgana to break away at a run at any moment, but she went along docilely enough.
Merlin wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but he was willing to bet there was no spell in the world to accomplish it.
Part Eleven
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/64405.html at Dreamwidth.
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