[Fic] Days of old and days to be (pt. 1) - for anowlinsunshine
Title: Days of old and days to be
Author: rosemaryandrue
Recipient: anowlinsunshine
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin, background Gwen/Lancelot, Morgana, Mordred
Spoilers: Slight references up to 2:08
Rating: R
Word Count: 18135
Summary: Regency AU in which Arthur is the darling of the ton, Merlin is still a terrible valet, Mordred is a radical rabble-rouser, and Gwen's in love with a Light Dragoon.
Author's Note: Title from Tennyson's Morte D'Arthur. Prompted by this poem Many thanks to itachitachi for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
In the summer of 1819, many things were said of the young Marquess of Camelot: that he was the darling of the ton, the most eligible man in London; that he was almost as fine a man as his father, the Duke; that he was a notable whip, a fine shot and a good man in the ring; that his costume, though correct in every detail, never displayed a hint of over-extravagance; and that, to the sorrow of every ambitious mama in England, he was yet to show even the slightest inclination towards matrimony.
However, at the hour of 4am, as he meandered his way home from his club, only one thing could be said of the marquess with absolute certainty: Arthur Pendragon was thoroughly foxed.
It was a pleasant enough state, and as he turned onto St James Square, all he had in mind was the entertaining prospect of waking his valet out of his sleep. His manservant was a heavy sleeper, and his antics on being awoken at this hour were always amusing. Arthur still hadn't puzzled out the time the idiot had managed to put all of his clothes, including his boots, on inside-out without noticing.
The equalling befuddling effects of drink and Merlin perhaps explained why Arthur didn't react with any particular shock when he noticed someone climbing up the side of his building. Instead, he leaned back to watch appreciatively, almost slipping off the curb before he steadied himself. He was well aware that burglaries were common, but he'd never had the chance to foil one before, and it offered a slightly better end to the night than watching Merlin try to walk through closed doors again.
Then he registered the distinctly feminine curves of the would-be burglar and felt his heart sink. So much for a good brawl. He knew exactly who was trying to climb into his house.
As compensation, he kept watching. Shame he didn't have his opera glasses to hand, but there was just enough light for him to appreciate the view, especially as she had swapped her usual swishing skirts for tight breeches. Despite the rumours that circulated the ton, he was almost certain that she was not his natural-born sister and so he had no qualms about enjoying this, especially when she let out a distinctly unladylike oath when his window didn't open under her push.
“Having trouble, Morgana?” he asked pleasantly.
She froze and then looked down at him, managing to be haughty even half-dangling from a windowsill. “Have you just been standing there and watching?”
He grinned up at her.
She glared. “Well, then? Who is it? Who did you challenge?”
“Beg pardon?” Arthur said, tapping the side of his head. Had the drink gone to his ears?
She sniffed. “Well, no one would be foolish enough to demand satisfaction from you, so it must have been your fault. Who is it?”
“Have you taken a maggot in the brain?” Arthur demanded. “I haven't challenged anyone and I'm not intending to. Now, will you please get down from there?”
“When you let me in.”
“Damn it, Morgana. Someone will see you soon.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I was expecting you to be home at such an hour.”
“I have no idea why you would think something so absurd,” Arthur pointed out, but headed inside before she could answer back.
He found Merlin in the study, sprawled out in Arthur's favourite chair, legs stretched out in front of him and hair on end as he snuffled into his cravat, which was abominably crumpled. Arthur thought rapidly, discarding five or six plans before he crept up behind the chair. Then, grinning in anticipation, he grabbed the back of the chair and tipped it forward.
Merlin hit the floor with a startled shout, limbs flailing. “Ow! What did you do that for, you prat?”
“I believe you're talking nonsense in your sleep again, Merlin,” Arthur observed, his spirits lifting. “If you were awake, you would remember that you can't talk to me like that.”
“Oh, I'm awake,” Merlin grumbled. “What do you want?”
Arthur considered amusing himself for a little longer, but Morgana's reputation was, almost literally, hanging in the balance. “Go and let Morgana in.”
Merlin blinked at him. “You just got in yourself. Did you slam the door in her face?”
“She's on the windowsill.”
“You're drunk, aren't you?” Merlin asked, looking put upon. “Again.”
“Just open the window, Merlin.”
Merlin sighed heavily and trudged over to the window as Arthur righted the chair and slouched into it comfortably.
“This is just some ridiculous trick to make me look gullible, isn't it?” Merlin complained. “As if I'd really believe that Lady Morgana was trying to climb in...” His voice trailed off as he pulled the curtain back to the sight of Morgana's face glowering in. “Er.”
“Well, don't keep a lady waiting,” said Arthur.
Merlin pulled the window open without another word, though the expression on his face was something Arthur would cherish for days. Really, Morgana's latest flight of lunacy was prime entertainment.
Morgana climbed in elegantly. “Thank you, Merlin. I'm sorry for troubling you at such an hour.”
“You didn't apologise to me,” Arthur protested.
She swept past him with a sniff, dropping into the chair opposite. “I'm doing you a favour.”
He snorted. “If anyone saw you coming in the window, you'll be marrying me, and I don't consider that a favour.”
She shuddered. “I cannot think of anything more horrible.”
“Then why are you trying to compromise yourself by turning up here? Did you not even think to bring Guinevere as a lookout?”
“Gwen refused to come with me,” she said, a little sulkily. “I had to wait until she was asleep. And I'm trying to save your life, Arthur, so a little courtesy would not go amiss.”
“How exactly are you saving my life? Which I wasn't aware was in any danger, by the way, unless Merlin's planning to set fire to my bed again.”
“You know, that only happened once and it was only a little fire, so I really don't think it's fair of you to-”
“Shut up, Merlin. Morgana?”
She looked down, staring at her hands where they were clasped on her lap, and went quiet. Even with the curtains half-open the light in here was dim, shadows heavy in the corners of the room and the gilt lettering on the spines of the books barely glinting in the low firelight. When he looked closely, though, he could see the heavy shadows under her eyes. Heart sinking, he went over to the sideboard and poured her a drink.
She raised an eyebrow in surprise when he handed it to her. “Brandy?”
“You might be a termagant,” Arthur told her, dropping back into his own chair, “but you can hold your drink. Now, what possessed you to think I had taken up duelling?”
“I dreamed it,” she said, staring down at her drink as if she could divine truth from its dark surface. “The heath, at dawn, pistols, and blood, so much blood. I saw you hit, and then just blood.” She grabbed his sleeve, fingers digging in. “Arthur, promise you won't challenge anyone.”
“You had a nightmare?” Arthur protested, as Merlin swung round to face them, looking suddenly worried.
“It was true,” she said, flushing. “And I know how that sounds, but it's happened before.”
“She's right,” Merlin butted in. “You should listen to her, really.”
Arthur gave him a scathing look, but didn't say anything. He could only deal with one dearth of common sense at a time, and he needed to get Morgana calm and home before she was missed. “Pure coincidence, I promise. If it will make you happy, I'll promise not to challenge anyone, nor to accept any challenges that I might be offered. Happy?”
“Swear it,” Morgana said, leaning forward. “On your honour and your name.”
“On my honour,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes.
“And by your mother's memory.”
Arthur reflexively glanced at the portrait that hung over the fireplace. It was the only image he had of his mother: a fair solemn girl in an old-fashioned high-waisted gown, Miss Ygraine Wallis had been painted years before her father finally granted permission for her to marry the hero of the Peninsula. As far as Arthur knew, there were no other portraits extant - his father had burnt them all day after she had died. Sometimes, when he was tired, or had been clashing with his father's steely sense of duty, he wondered if the grave look in her eyes hinted that she had already guessed that within ten years she would be dead in childbirth, another tragic thread in the legend of the Iron Duke of Albion. Perhaps she had dreamed, as he assumed young girls did, of children and family and a comfortable home, but had been resigned to the fate of a younger sister with neither title or money to commend her. Instead, she had won a hero and an early death.
“Arthur?” Morgana said sharply.
“It's the wine,” Merlin said sagely. “It goes to his head and he nods off in the most unlikely of places. There was this one time when-”
Morgana looked thoroughly entertained, but Arthur stretched out a leg to kick Merlin hard in the shin. “I swear by my mother's memory that I will not partake in any duel. Satisfied?”
Morgana stood up. “It will have to do. I'll show myself out.”
“No, you bloody won't,” Arthur said. “Merlin, have my curricle brought round. I'll find you a coat, Morgana.”
“I'm quite capable of getting myself home. I came all the way here without taking any harm.”
“Well, you're having an escort home.” He held up his hand as she started to argue. “My father would skin me alive if he knew I was letting you romp around the streets of London unchaperoned.”
She sniffed. “Well, if you're poor-spirited enough to tell him.”
“He'll find out,” Arthur said darkly. “He always does. I want you home before I have to marry you.”
“Have somebody else in mind?” she asked, draining her glass with a quirk of her eyebrow.
“No!” he snapped and then turned to glare at her as she smirked at him. “I'm sorry - I thought you had already inconvenienced me enough for one night, but it seems you have neglected to interrogate me over my marriage prospects.”
“No need to get into such a high miff about it,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You have plenty of pretty chits throwing themselves at your feet. You might give at least one a second look.”
“I've no intention of getting leg-shackled,” he said, wishing she'd drop the subject. “And how many hearts have you ground into the dust this week?”
She waved her hand airily, “Only one more proposal. I shall be stretched to reach a full score by the end of the Season at this rate. I take it you are contenting yourself with Paphians and demi-reps, then?”
“Morgana!”
“Oh, please,” she said, yawning. “As if I'm some green schoolroom miss.”
“It's damn well not a subject for any respectable woman. And, for your information, no, I'm not. Now drop the subject.”
“You're so dull these days,” she complained, but rose to her feet. “Shall we go?”
Arthur held out his coat for her, turning the collar up to hide her hair and shadow her face. “I'll have that back from you once you're home safe.”
She fingered the folds wistfully. “Weston?”
“Who else? And you haven't the shoulders for it, so don't be tempted.”
“As if I'd want shoulders like yours,” she retorted and let him escort her out of the room.
Merlin was standing by the horses outside the front door. He sighed heavily as they came out. “If you've quite finished pulling caps with Morgana, perhaps you could get started before the town wakes up.”
“See,” Arthur said to Morgana. “I don't need a wife - I already have Merlin to nag me to an early grave.” He went to the horses' heads to steady them, and as he turned back to the carriage, he saw Morgana lean forward to speak to Merlin.
“Has he not remembered anything?” she murmured, voice so soft Arthur could scarcely hear her.
“Not yet,” Merlin said, and suddenly he looked much older than his years, and weary. “How much do you?”
“Pieces,” she answered. “When I dream, it's back as well as forwards. And it's true, isn't it? We've been here before.”
“Well, not precisely here,” Merlin said.
Arthur cleared his throat noisily. “If you've finished conspiring with my valet, Morgana?”
She climbed into the carriage. “Let me take the horses.”
“Trust you with my greys?” Arthur said, genuinely horrified. “Absolutely not.”
Even as she turned to argue, he gathered up the ribbons and set them moving. The streets were quiet enough that they could move at a decent speed back towards Mayfair. He turned the corner onto Piccadilly with the horses in such perfect form that pride surged through him. He made sure to look nonchalant, of course, but this was the best start to a day he'd had in weeks, even if it did have Morgana in it.
London didn't stink so much at this hour, in this district. There was just enough bite in the air to sharpen his senses, but the morning held the promise of a hot day to come. The sun was already bright, washing the tall townhouses with a kindly light. This was when he loved his city most, before it filled up with noise and people and expectations.
In Curzon Street, he drew up in front of the house Morgana shared with the elderly cousin Uther had appointed as her chaperone. Before he had even stopped, the front door was open, and Gwen, Morgana's abigail, was peering out, her face frantic.
“Go,” Arthur said, nodding to Gwen. She was the only sensible person he knew and for that he would have braved Morgana's fury and married her years ago, if not for the fact that she had never showed the faintest interest in him. That, and it would give his father apoplexy.
With Morgana safely inside, he turned his horses and headed home with no intention of doing anything until noon except sleep soundly.
#
But he dreamed.
He was staggering through smoke, the sound of screams and striking swords all around him, though he could see only the shadows of the battle. Broken walls stretched out along the blackened earth, scarred with cobwebs of black cracks, still hot to the touch when he caught himself on one. There were men on the ground, red-clad bodies broken. The air tasted like ash and blood and death, and he could smell the thick foul hum of shredded guts.
That was enough to tell him this was not just a dream. This was real.
A horse came screaming out of the mist, eyes rolling and maddened, saddle reaved apart, the tatters tangling around its legs as it kicked and reared. Arthur threw himself out of its path as it came towards him, and his whole body flashed with pain as he rolled into shelter.
He was wounded. His shield was gone. His head was swimming - he had taken a blow there, not the first of this war.
The horse was still coming, and he wrenched his sword out of its scabbard, bracing himself against the steaming wall.
Then the fog began to stir, roiling back in a great surge of something relentless and unseen. It pressed the horse back against the earth until it began to scream, a shrill, desperate sound that no creature should ever have to make.
“Merlin,” Arthur breathed, clutching his sword in unsteady hands. “If you're coming back, now would be a good time.”
But he had lost Merlin a year ago, watched him bleed out in the shadow of a may tree in a forest far from here. There were only so many miracles one man can perform in a lifetime, and Arthur had stopped waiting for Merlin to come again.
The smoke parted, and a man stepped out of it, his hands extended before him, driving the air before him. His ragged druid's cloak was stiff with blood, but Arthur knew him, would always know him. Slowly, he stood and called, voice grim and rasping, “Mordred!”
The man turned to face him, and even now his eyes were wide, with the innocent wonder of a child or a madman, as if he was looking at something which Arthur could never quite see. He said nothing, but a quick, triumphant smile flashed across his face and Arthur knew, in the way of dreams, where and when he was.
This was Camlann.
“Arthur! Arthur!”
It was Merlin's voice, and there were hands on his shoulders, and suddenly the scene around him shook apart. He opened his eyes to find himself sitting up bolt upright in bed, his fists locked into Merlin's shirt and his heart pounding. Merlin was staring at him and, maybe it was the lingering sense of horror, but for a moment he didn't look foolish anymore. Sunlight was washing in through the half-closed curtains to light his face, making his eyes seem gold, and he was utterly focussed for once, all of his attention on Arthur.
“What did you see?” he asked.
“The end,” Arthur said, and he wasn't sure if he was quite awake yet, because he could feel the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders, destiny like chains.
For a moment, Merlin seemed lost in thought. Then he said, “You were dreaming.”
“I know that,” Arthur snapped.
Merlin shook himself, and then said, “Funny things, dreams. I once had one about a woman who ate dung for dinner and then there was-”
“Go away, Merlin,” Arthur said and flopped back against his pillows, dream already fading.
#
He went to Tattersalls that afternoon, not with any real intention of buying, but to enjoy the company and admire the horseflesh on offer. When he got there, however, he found the place full of red-coated cavalry officers, their laughter booming out across the yard. Arthur retreated to one side, trying to force back the sudden, unworthy twinge of envy. He had been riding as long as he had been walking, was as proficient with a pistol as a sword, had spent his childhood winters huddled over Caesar and Livy. The summer he had been thirteen, he had a tutor who was devoted to the Greek Ideal and they had happily lived according to the Nobler Spartan Principles, at least until September when he had gone back to school and Morgana had refused to sleep in a tent on her own.
In short, his greatest concern had been whether his father would give him a command of his own, or whether he would keep him underfoot for the first few years.
Then his father had come back from Waterloo, still flushed with victory, and told him that he would never countenance his only son risking his life on the battlefield.
Morgana had nice to him for six whole months, until he'd finally snapped and called her a bristle-browed, whey-faced milkcow. She'd promptly got her revenge by breaking the hearts of six of his closest friends, and all had returned to its normal equilibrium.
Even now, though, it still rankled to see fine red coats, and he had no wish to display a bitter face towards any of the ton that might be watching. Glumly, he glanced up between the trees to where his father's windows looked down upon the park, and wondered if his afternoon might not better be spent elsewhere. Of course, the Iron Duke was in Belgium, being feted for his past victories, but Arthur still felt ashamed to be frittering away his time in sight of his father's house.
“My lord?”
Arthur turned round, trying to place the voice. Then he saw who was standing before him in red coat and captain's insignia. “Lancelot!” he exclaimed, dragging him close by the shoulders, dignity forgotten. “What in damnation are you doing in town? I thought you were in India.”
“I had family business to attend to,” Lancelot said gravely, but a smile was starting on his face in response to Arthur. “I'll be returning to my regiment once my leave is over. I had hoped to enjoy the sights of London for a short time.”
“I'll make sure of it,” Arthur promised. “Damn, it's been, what? Five years?”
“Nearer six,” Lancelot said.
“Then I demand an afternoon. Unless you have plans already?”
“There was a horse I was looking at,” Lancelot said, face bright. “I'd welcome your opinion, of course.”
#
After a happy hour, they rode out into the park, their friendship renewed. Arthur had even found it in him to forgive Lancelot his captaincy, not least because Lancelot had talked himself almost hoarse in an attempt to describe elephants.
He was aware that they made a fine pair as they rode towards the Serpentine. The young ladies of the ton were beginning to gather, pale and pretty in their carriages or walking with their arms linked with their maids and chaperones. Many of them cast sly glances towards both Arthur and Lancelot, some of them whispering to each other behind their hands.
“We'll leave them behind if we ride on,” Arthur said, casting a wistful glance at the horizon. From here, the park looked like countryside, green and soft and open.
“I don't mind,” Lancelot said, absent-mindedly bestowing a smile on a yellow-haired miss and her startled governess.
“Give it time,” Arthur said, shuddering. “Women. You see them in the schoolroom and think they're sane. Then they grow up and learn to giggle and scheme and gossip. They draw up charts, Lancelot, I swear to you. They'll have a column for you by evening - a tick for fortune here, a cross for temperament there. Terrifying.”
“It would hardly be the first time we were compared,” Lancelot said, chuckling.
Arthur stared at him, puzzled.
“Will's father's scrumpy,” Lancelot clarified, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Arthur laughed, remembering. Ten years ago, and all six of them sprawled in the hayloft on the Lawrence farm, the air heavy with the golden, apple-warm scents of autumn. The cider had tasted thick and sweet on their tongues, even Morgana gawky and giggling. There had been a bonfire in the yard and the firelight had crept in just enough to wash them all with warm, soft light. Will, lazy and confident, had struggled up onto his elbow and said, smirking, “Well, ladies, which of our likely lads would you pick, given the choice?”
Morgana had simply cackled. Gwen had shaken her head, eyes full of quiet amusement. Merlin, already too sozzled to sit up, had said happily, “I'd take them both.”
It had been a good night, and they'd stayed up long after they'd smuggled the girls home, talking about things Arthur couldn't remember now, but which had seemed vital at the time.
“I remember the tanning old man Lawrence gave us the next morning,” he said wryly.
Lancelot winced. “You got off lightly.”
“You had the worst of it,” Arthur said, remembering how indignant he had been about that at the time.
“Damn right I did. And all the time, he was saying, 'And you a parson's son, Mr Lancelot. A parson's son.'”
Lancelot's sudden mimicry of old Lawrence had Arthur shouting with laughter, startling his horse, and Lancelot grinned at him, looking pleased with himself.
“So,” he said. “Made an honest woman of our Merlin yet?”
“I'll tell you,” Arthur said, grimacing. “Another season in town and I might be driven that far. The lengths these women will go to... You're lucky to be out of it.”
“Actually,” Lancelot said earnestly, “I'm looking for a wife.”
“Good God,” Arthur said in horror. “Have you suffered a recent head injury?”
Lancelot gave him a quick, amused smile. “Not for a few months. I need company out there - someone with the courage and honour to live in a world that's so strange to us.”
“But marriage!” Arthur protested.
“My sisters are all provided for, and I want a family of my own.” He glanced at Arthur and chuckled. “I'm older than you, my lord, don't forget.”
“Only by a few years,” Arthur retorted and shook himself. “Well, if that's what you want, let me introduce you around. Most of the girls I know are ninnyhammers, but there are a few sensible ones. Morgana will know 'em.”
“I couldn't presume-” Lancelot started.
Arthur looked at him in disbelief. “You're an officer. You're a gentleman. You might not be up to touch for a title, but the sensible girls don't have those.”
“I hadn't realised you were such an expert on sensible women, my lord.”
“Lancelot,” Arthur said sadly. “Lancelot, Lancelot. You don't even realise how much you are in need of my wisdom.”
#
He took Lancelot with him to Lady Worcester's ball, confident that any guest of Arthur Pendragon would be welcomed across the ton. The house was already humming when they arrived, so packed that there was barely room for the dancers to twirl and hop across the floor. The whole place was lit to the ceiling, the light from the chandeliers making jewels glitter around every smooth, elegant throat. The music was barely audible over the hum of conversation and hiss of whispered, scandalous gossip.
Lancelot looked rather wild-eyed but, man of honour and courage that he was, did not turn tail and run. Arthur, who had been forced to suffer years of this since he came of age, dragged him over towards a woman whose presence would normally have sent him urgently off to investigate the décor (a valid bit of curiosity and not, whatever Merlin might say, to be referred to as hiding behind a plant pot). Now, however, he had both a mission and a shield.
“Lady Banbury,” Arthur said, bowing to her as she blinked in shock. “And Miss Amabel, isn't it?”
“Amelia,” the rather sallow teenager squeaked from behind her mother's shoulder.
“Amelia, of course. Forgive me. How are you enjoying the festivities, my lady?”
“They are, as always, magnificent,” Lady Banbury said, recovering herself. “Dear Honoria always excels at these affairs. I hadn't thought to see you tonight, my lord.”
“Couldn't miss it,” Arthur lied cheerfully. He had been planning to stay in and humiliate Merlin at chess again. “May I make known to you my old friend Captain DuLac?”
Lady Banbury's eyes lit up. No woman with six daughters to see off would turn up her nose at an officer, let alone one with influential friends. “The pleasure is all mine, my lord. Have you been long in town, captain?”
“I arrived only this morning, my lady,” Lancelot said, bowing over her hand. “I have been in India these three years.”
“Lancelot served with my father on the Continent,” Arthur butted in helpfully. “He's quite new to town. I was hoping Miss Amelia would be kind enough to honour him with her hand for a dance.”
He could see Lady Banbury hesitate, torn between entrusting her daughter to a stranger and granting a favour to a future duke. After a few moments, she said, “Amelia would be honoured.”
Arthur watched Lancelot lead the poor girl out into the dance. Her yellow dress clashed horribly with his uniform, she was shaking slightly and he was pretty sure she wouldn't get a complete sentence out before the end of the dance. He sincerely hoped Lancelot could remember how to dance or there would be hysterics before long.
“A schoolfriend of yours, my lord?”
“We were at Eton together, yes,” Arthur said, knowing exactly what she was asking. “But we have been friends far longer. Reverend DuLac held the living at Cadbury when we were children.”
“Ah,” said Lady Banbury, drawing the noise out with a little hint of disappointment. Then her face changed and she said, all charm, “And here is my second daughter. You do remember dear Elinor, I hope, my lord?”
Dear Elinor was currently gawping at them, a brimming glass of ratafia clutched in each hand. Her mother swiftly relieved her of them and hissed something at her which had Elinor jerking a curtsey and gasping, “My lord.”
She wasn't quite as sallow as her sister, so Arthur swallowed his sigh and did the proper thing. “Would you care to dance, Miss Elinor?”
“Oh, yes, please!” Elinor gasped, and Arthur offered her his arm, reflecting gloomily on the lengths he went to for his friends.
Of course, once the dance was done, he retreated to a quiet corner to watch the carnage. It was a blessed relief not to be the most popular freak in the sideshow, and this was hilarious. He'd read accounts of cavalry charges which were gentler than this.
“You are a wicked man, Arthur Pendragon,” Morgana said, appearing at his shoulder. “Poor Lancelot.”
“He wants a wife,” Arthur pointed out.
“Do not, on any account, announce that to the room. I am already contemplating a rescue sortie.”
“Nonsense,” said Arthur. “He has charmed them all.”
Morgana snorted inelegantly. “True. All that courtesy and innocence. The mammas wish to adopt him, the daughters want to swoon on his feet, and the widows-”
“Ah, the widows,” Arthur said appreciatively. “Do tell me what the widows want, Morgana.”
“To take him home and devour him, for a start,” Morgana suggested. “I cannot stand by. Let us rescue him.”
“Go ahead,” Arthur said, gesturing lazily at the floor. “If I go out there, they'll pull me down in his place.”
“I can hardly cut in on his dance, Arthur.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “Once the music ends, we'll approach from either side.” She swung round to face him, dark curls bouncing against her bare shoulder. “Well, any challenges yet?”
“Not a one.”
“Offended anyone?”
“I believe I stepped on Miss Devereaux's toe, but she did not complain.”
“Well, she has no brothers, so it's of no account.”
“I'm sure it's of some account to her.”
Morgana sniffed. “It serves her right. She bullies her chaperone.”
“I'll step on the other foot next time,” Arthur promised lightly, as the music ended. Morgana shot off into the crowd and he followed her.
They arrived at Lancelot's elbows at the same moment, even as the hovering crowd of young ladies began to surge forward. Lancelot looked like his horse had just been shot out from under him, wide-eyed and slightly twitchy. Possibly the joke was wearing thin.
“I believe you have not spoken to my father's ward Morgana for some years,” Arthur said hurriedly.
Lancelot swung round in relief. “Lady Morgana. I would have recognised you anywhere.”
“Dear Lancelot,” Morgana said, pitching her voice to carry across the surrounding crowds. “I am desperate to hear of your adventures. You must allow me to drag you away from the floor.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Lancelot said, and Arthur silently applauded him for not letting the relief show. Morgana swept the surrounding crowd with a cold glare which made them all fall back meekly. The two of them bundled Lancelot off to their corner as fast as they could.
“Now,” Morgana declared. “Since this is all your fault, Arthur, you can fetch me a drink while Lancelot tells me everything that has happened to him since he was last home.”
“How is it my fault?” Arthur protested, but she turned her back on him with a sniff. Rolling his eyes, he stomped off towards the drinks table. He got waylaid three times - once by a man who owed him money, once by a pretty bit of blonde treachery, newly widowed and chasing after old prey once more, and once by a friend of his father's, who wanted to know if he had heard from the Duke lately.
By the time he reached the table, his temper was ruffled, and he took his time looking for the flattest glass of lemonade available, more to give himself a respite than to irritate Morgana (he considered his need to annoy Morgana a purely instinctive matter, on a level with hunger, thirst and his preference for pears over apples).
He wasn't expecting to be interrupted by a cool murmur of, “Pendragon.”
“Mordred,” Arthur said flatly, without turning round. There were few people in the ton he disliked more than the youngest son of the Countess of Orkney, and not merely because the man featured so often in his nightmares. Both Morgana and Merlin had hated him from the moment they first saw him. Arthur might not entirely trust either of their judgement, but he listened when they agreed on something, especially when the object of their dislike sent shivers down his spine every time they met.
Besides that, Mordred FitzLothian was a rabble-rouser.
“The gallant captain has returned, I see,” Mordred said, staring at Arthur. “I'm surprised you trust him.”
“He is a man of honour,” Arthur said coldly. “I thought you were still in the North.”
“Others continue the good work,” Mordred said, eyes gleaming. “I have come to work among the poor of London.”
“You're not doing them any service,” Arthur said. “All your speeches and rallies do is incite violence and turn the charitable against the poor. You damage those you claim to help.”
“The poor do not crave charity,” Mordred said, stepping closer to him. “They want justice. Go down to the rookeries of London, Arthur Pendragon. You will find a hundred people in a single house, men, women and children alike living where the walls are coated in filth. There are families who live in cellars there and crawl forth through their cracked walls with the coming of the night. The girls of St Giles consider themselves blessed to have one ragged dress or coat to cover what modesty they still cling to.”
“St Giles is also a den of thieves and light-skirts,” Arthur said. “If you'll excuse me, I promised to attend a lady.”
Mordred seized his sleeve. “You were once a just man, Arthur Pendragon.”
Arthur pulled his arm away. “Good evening, FitzLothian. Don't trouble me with your rants again.”
“You have a destiny, Pendragon, that you can't escape.”
Arthur walked away, ignoring the covert stares and whispers from across the ballroom. His reputation could stand it and he didn't care a toss for Mordred's.
#
Later that evening, he was still irritated by the whole scene. They had made it back to his house and were sprawled out in the study, Lancelot on one chaise, Arthur on the other and Merlin, who had encroached, on the floor between them, passing the burgundy back and forth.
“I give plenty to the poor!” Arthur said indignantly. “How dare he imply otherwise? I have been commended for my generosity! I've had my name in sermons!”
“Of course, my lord,” Lancelot said, but there was more laughter than reassurance in his voice. He was draped across the chaise, his cravat hanging undone around his neck and his legs swinging, eyes a little vague and lips red from the wine. He reached down to take the bottle from Merlin's loose grip again and swigged straight from it before passing it over to Arthur.
“Sermons!” Arthur repeated, waving the bottle and inadvertently splashing Merlin.
“Hey!” Merlin said, and mopped the spilt wine up with his shirt tails. “I think he had a point. Not like your money makes a long term difference, does it?”
“It feeds people!”
“And when the money's gone, they're still hungry. Me, I'd rather have a job than a handout.”
“I thought you didn't like Mordred,” Arthur said, tipping wine into his mouth.
“Oh, I wish he'd never been born,” Merlin said, kneeling up. “But that doesn't mean he's wrong. Give me that.”
“It's my wine,” Arthur said, clinging to the bottle. “My very expensive wine.”
“Which you're pouring over your equally expensive carpet, you prat,” Merlin pointed out and tried to wrestle it off him. Arthur fought back, which ended up with him falling off the chaise, a lot more spilt wine and his inevitable victory. Shoving Merlin's face into the rug as he sat on his back, he smirked.
“Say 'Arthur Pendragon is the most generous man in London and I want nothing more than to lick the dung from his boots.'”
“Arthur Pendragon is the greatest prat in London,” Merlin started and Arthur rubbed his face in the carpet again. “Ow. Get off, you lump.”
“That should be 'Get off, my lord.'”
“My Lord Lump. Can we change the subject? See anyone you fancied, Lancelot?”
“I met many charming ladies,” Lancelot said stiffly, but then sighed. “Yet none have touched my heart.”
“Give it time,” Merlin assured him. “You'll find the right woman, I know it. We'll help.”
Lancelot sighed again, wincing slightly. Obviously he was desperate to marry. Surely he wasn't still a virgin?
“You should make a list,” Merlin said, squirming underneath Arthur. “Write down everything you want in a wife and then we'll all go looking for someone who fits.”
There was a moment of contemplative silence, before Lancelot said, voice strained,“Wouldn't you rather hear something about India?”
“Yes!” Merlin exclaimed.
Arthur deigned to roll off him, flapping his hand at Lancelot in permission. The chaise seemed too far away now, so he dropped his head against the small of Merlin's back and stretched his legs out across the floor. For such a sack of bones, Merlin was a surprisingly comfortable pillow.
Lancelot was rambling on about jungles and tigers, which Arthur had heard that afternoon. Bored, he stretched out his foot to nudge Lancelot's leg. “Tell us something they believe.”
“I want to hear about the tigers,” complained Merlin, but Lancelot stopped and pondered.
Then he said, “They believe that a man's soul lives through more than one life.”
Beneath Arthur's head, Merlin went very still.
“No heaven?” Arthur asked.
“Not exactly. Each life you live is a chance to come closer to perfection. The way you live your life determines what manner of creature you will be when you return - an ant, or a lion, or a king.”
“I think I'd remember if I'd ever been a lion,” Arthur said.
“Oh, you don't recall. Some souls are simply older than others.”
Merlin was as tense as a bowstring.
“Seems pointless,” Arthur said, yawning. “If you can't remember it makes no difference how old your soul might be.”
“Unless some people can remember,” Merlin said, voice so low and wretched that Arthur could barely hear him. “Unless some people live on and on, waiting for the ones they loved to come again, knowing it can never be the same. It would be like one hand living on without the other. We could all have known each other once before - you, me, Gwen, Morgana.” He paused and then added, with venom, “Mordred.”
Lancelot laughed. “Speak for yourself, my friend. I'm sure I'm a new-minted soul.”
Merlin laughed hollowly, and Arthur poked him in the side. “I won't waste good burgundy on you again, if it makes you rattle on like this.”
“I'm not rattling on.”
“Merlin, you rattle like a baby is shaking you by the ankles.”
“I'm serious.”
“You're an idiot.”
They were interrupted by a faint snore. Up on the chaise, Lancelot was fast asleep.
“Huh,” Merlin whispered. “He still does that?”
“Thought he'd hold his drink better now he's a soldier,” Arthur whispered back.
“We're not going to get him home tonight, are we?”
“I don't even know where he lives.”
“Better find him a blanket,” Merlin suggested and tried to stagger to his feet. He fell over twice on the way to the door, so Arthur trailed after him towards his own room. Merlin managed to get as far as the bed before he stopped, looking bemused. Arthur sighed and pushed him over onto the mattress, kneeling down to get a blanket out of the drawer himself.
“This isn't my bed.”
“Your bed's up two flights of stairs and you can't walk on the flat right now,” Arthur pointed out. “You can stay there.”
“You're not so bad, after all.”
Arthur ignored him to stagger to the study and cover Lancelot up. He blew out the candles and wandered back towards his bed. Merlin had managed to get his boots off and was curled up on top of Arthur's blankets, grinning to himself.
“Keep to your own side of the bed this time,” Arthur warned him. “Or you will be on the floor.”
“I promise,” Merlin said, eyes big and sincere.
#
Arthur woke some hours later with a pounding head and Merlin draped along his side, snuffling into his neck. He pushed the idiot away, dragged the blankets over his head, and went back to sleep.
The second time he woke, his head had cleared a little, but Merlin was whimpering into the back of his neck, one arm slung over Arthur's side.
“Shut up, Merlin,” he said, not quite awake.
“My head. Ow, ow, ow.”
“Take it like a man,” Arthur advised and pushed him away again.
He couldn't sleep any more, though, especially not when he was aware of the ball of hangover-flavoured misery just behind him. Propping himself up on his elbow, he said, “Have you ever been to a rookery?”
“No. Don't talk. It hurts.”
“Serves you right,” Arthur said. “You have some really foul and disreputable clothes that I could borrow, don't you?”
There was a pained silence, before Merlin said, “No.”
Arthur turned over to see his idiot manservant glaring out at him from under the blankets, eyes bloodshot and reproachful. He grinned at him, and Merlin's glare intensified. “No, you are not going to the rookery in disguise.”
“What a marvellous idea, Merlin,” Arthur said heartily. “I would never have dreamt of such a thing if you hadn't suggested it.”
“You can't.”
“I think you're getting confused again, Merlin. You don't tell me what to do.”
Merlin looked panicked for a moment, but then announced triumphantly, “You promised to call on Morgana this morning.”
“Then I'll visit the rookery later,” Arthur said, sinking back against his pillows. “I might take Lancelot.”
“You'll take me,” Merlin said grumpily.
“You?” Arthur scoffed.
“Yes,” Merlin muttered. “Me. Lucky old me.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and burrowed under the covers again. There was something very comforting about sleeping with Merlin's bad mood in the background, that lulling stream of grumbling that had followed him ever since they were all children, when it didn't matter so much whose father was a general, or a parson, or who had no father at all.
He was on the verge of sleep when a sudden thought occurred to him. “Merlin?”
He got a loud unconvincing snore in reply.
Arthur kicked back. “You're not asleep. What time did I say I'd call on Morgana?”
“Eleven.”
Arthur rolled over and looked at the clock.
Damn.
#
Twenty minutes later, they had retrieved a bleary-eyed Lancelot from the study and were jammed into one seat, Lancelot driving as Arthur tried to tie his cravat without knocking Merlin into the road.
“Give that here,” Merlin said at last and tied it with a quick twist.
“That had better be decent,” Arthur said, fingering it and eyeing the mess around Merlin's own throat dubiously.
“Easier to do someone else's. Why am I here?”
Arthur tried not to look shifty. “I thought you'd like the opportunity to see Guinevere.”
“You're going to find a way to make Morgana think it's my fault we're late, aren't you?”
“That's what you're here for, Merlin,” Arthur pointed out and Merlin sighed as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Lancelot was grinning to himself as he drove.
“What's so funny?” Arthur demanded.
“I'm just remembering why you haven't taken a wife, my lord.”
Arthur snorted and did his best to ignore them both.
Morgana's sitting room was pale green and full of precise, breakable things which could not be moved from their places without a glower which turned her guests' spines to ice. Even her chairs were upholstered in a delicate shade of cream which would be ruined by the slightest hint of a muddy boot. Arthur generally preferred to stay standing when he visited her.
Of course, Morgana herself was wearing red, much to the visible distress of her chaperone. Luckily for Arthur, she was ignoring him in favour of delicately interrogating Lancelot about every woman he had danced with the night before.
“Arthur will organise a dinner party,” she announced. “We'll invite your five favourites and some dullards to even the numbers out. You cannot truly judge a woman's character in a single dance.”
“My lady,” Lancelot started, eyes a little frantic, but she talked over him.
“Perhaps we could prevail upon my guardian to host a house party. Country weekends always lead to engagements.”
Lancelot sent Arthur a pleading glance, which Arthur ignored. The man wanted a wife, didn't he, and who better than Morgana to find him one?
The door opened and Merlin bounced in, followed by Gwen. Arthur smiled at her. He'd known her since she was nothing more than the blacksmith's daughter, and she had always brought calm with her. She was honour and comfort and quiet grace and he was always glad to see her.
Then she stopped dead, her eyes widening in shock as she brought her hands to her mouth. Puzzled, Arthur followed her gaze in time to see Lancelot rising to his feet, looking as if the breath had been knocked out of him.
“Guinevere,” he said, and it was as if he could no longer see anyone else in the room.
“Lancelot,” Gwen breathed, taking a shaky step forward. There was a new bright joy in her eyes.
Morgana, suddenly silent, surged to her feet and darted towards Arthur, babbling, “Did I tell you I bought a new horse. You must see him, right now, immediately, I mean. My stables-”
“Right,” Arthur said and they both grabbed Merlin's sleeves and towed him out of the room, letting the door slam closed behind him. They got halfway down the corridor before Morgana dropped onto a chair, covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
Merlin fell to his knees in front of her, curling his hands around her knees. “It's good. They're happy together. Always.”
“I know,” Morgana choked as Arthur put a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “But I'm going to miss her. I'm going to miss her so much.”
Merlin lunged up to wrap her in a wholly inappropriate, yet somehow unsurprising, hug. “It will be better this time. They'll be happy.”
“I always lose her,” Morgana gasped. “Every time, I lose her.”
“You won't lose any of us,” Merlin swore, sincere in a way that unnerved Arthur. “Not this time. Not again.”
Arthur took a step away. He should be dragging Merlin away, shouting up a scandal, but all his instincts rebelled against it. They looked like siblings, pale and intense, sharing some knowledge he didn't understand. Tentatively, not sure if the ground underfoot was safe enough to bear him, he said, “So, dinner party cancelled, then?”
Morgana managed a sniffly laugh, but shook her head. “No. Throw it for me, instead.”
“I like Lancelot more than you,” Arthur said and didn't wince at all when she pinched him.
#
Later that day, following Merlin through the dark but respectable streets of Soho, he couldn't shake off the strangeness of it. Yes, Lancelot had been gone for year, but he and Gwen had grown up together. How could you walk into a room and see somebody you had known forever and just fall like that?
“They only looked at each other,” he said.
“Maybe it was destiny,” Merlin said, lifting the torch a little higher.
Arthur conveyed his opinion of that in a look, which Merlin failed to notice.
“Really,” Merlin said. “Maybe they just finally recognised that they belonged together. I think it's great. Brilliant.”
“Brilliant,” Arthur repeated.
“You don't think so?” Merlin swung round, looking suddenly panicky. “You're not angry, are you? You don't feel betrayed?”
“What are you on about?” Arthur snapped. “Of course I'm happy for them. I just don't like the idea of destiny.”
“Okay,” Merlin said cheerfully. “I was never very good at the whole obedience to fate thing, either. What are we going to do in St Giles? Just look around for a bit, right?”
“We could talk to some people,” Arthur suggested.
“Or we could not. You open your mouth in there and you'll be stabbed for your purse.”
“I can defend myself.”
Merlin gave him a completely unwarranted sceptical look. Around them, the walls were closing in as the road grew narrower. Overhead, the buildings were tangled and battered, windows and rooms jutting out. There was a stink in the air, of shit and rot and filth. Underfoot, the cobbles were becoming stained, rags and rotting scraps heaped against the walls and a black, stinking stream smearing along the middle of the road. Cries echoed from above, screams of rage and shrieks of pleasure, howling babies and whimpering voices sobbing dryly.
“Mercy, sir,” a voice whispered by his knees and he jumped, looking down to see a woman dragging herself up from a cellar. She was gaunt, her hair matted with dirt, and all she wore was a ragged coat, hanging open to expose her shrivelled breasts and protruding ribs.
“Mercy,” she wailed. “Mercy, please, sir. Please.” She reached out to cling to his knees, her fingers brittle and cold through the thin cloth.
“Go home,” Merlin said to her, pulling Arthur away. Then, very softly, he breathed, “Slæp hleowe.”
Her fingers slid from Arthur's knee and she crawled away, head bowed.
“What did you say?” Arthur demanded harshly.
“It was just a, y'know, a thing,” Merlin said. “A blessing.”
Arthur wasn't convinced, but there were more desperate creatures stirring in the shadows, crowding forward to wail and plead with him. He kept walking, though his heart was breaking. These were the poor his father dismissed as a burden and plague on society. These were the people of Britain, that ancient Albion whose generosity and greatness poets praised.
Something wet hit his face and he looked up to see lines strung across the street, heavy with ragged clothing. Pigeons clung to the sagging eaves, roosting. The windows were broken or empty, or filled in with brown paper, straw and old felt. The plaster had flaked off the walls, leaving the pitted and sooty bricks below exposed. Doors hung loosely off rotting frames and in the dim spaces behind he could see further passages, full of huddled and hollow cheeked forms.
On the corner ahead of them, light and noise spilled out of a low building. A woman was slumped by the door, legs lolling as she laughed shrilly., her hair hanging in ragged hanks. Within, Arthur could glimpse a tight press of heaving bodies, rough clay tankards being passed back and forth in a tumult of shouting and quarrelling.
“Seen enough yet?” Merlin asked.
“No,” Arthur snapped, though he was beginning to believe all Mordred's wildest stories. Still, he had come here to learn the truth, and felt that he had a duty to these people; that he must learn the true horror of their lives. Ignoring Merlin's huff of dismay, he pushed forward into the tavern.
[Part Two]
Author: rosemaryandrue
Recipient: anowlinsunshine
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin, background Gwen/Lancelot, Morgana, Mordred
Spoilers: Slight references up to 2:08
Rating: R
Word Count: 18135
Summary: Regency AU in which Arthur is the darling of the ton, Merlin is still a terrible valet, Mordred is a radical rabble-rouser, and Gwen's in love with a Light Dragoon.
Author's Note: Title from Tennyson's Morte D'Arthur. Prompted by this poem Many thanks to itachitachi for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
In the summer of 1819, many things were said of the young Marquess of Camelot: that he was the darling of the ton, the most eligible man in London; that he was almost as fine a man as his father, the Duke; that he was a notable whip, a fine shot and a good man in the ring; that his costume, though correct in every detail, never displayed a hint of over-extravagance; and that, to the sorrow of every ambitious mama in England, he was yet to show even the slightest inclination towards matrimony.
However, at the hour of 4am, as he meandered his way home from his club, only one thing could be said of the marquess with absolute certainty: Arthur Pendragon was thoroughly foxed.
It was a pleasant enough state, and as he turned onto St James Square, all he had in mind was the entertaining prospect of waking his valet out of his sleep. His manservant was a heavy sleeper, and his antics on being awoken at this hour were always amusing. Arthur still hadn't puzzled out the time the idiot had managed to put all of his clothes, including his boots, on inside-out without noticing.
The equalling befuddling effects of drink and Merlin perhaps explained why Arthur didn't react with any particular shock when he noticed someone climbing up the side of his building. Instead, he leaned back to watch appreciatively, almost slipping off the curb before he steadied himself. He was well aware that burglaries were common, but he'd never had the chance to foil one before, and it offered a slightly better end to the night than watching Merlin try to walk through closed doors again.
Then he registered the distinctly feminine curves of the would-be burglar and felt his heart sink. So much for a good brawl. He knew exactly who was trying to climb into his house.
As compensation, he kept watching. Shame he didn't have his opera glasses to hand, but there was just enough light for him to appreciate the view, especially as she had swapped her usual swishing skirts for tight breeches. Despite the rumours that circulated the ton, he was almost certain that she was not his natural-born sister and so he had no qualms about enjoying this, especially when she let out a distinctly unladylike oath when his window didn't open under her push.
“Having trouble, Morgana?” he asked pleasantly.
She froze and then looked down at him, managing to be haughty even half-dangling from a windowsill. “Have you just been standing there and watching?”
He grinned up at her.
She glared. “Well, then? Who is it? Who did you challenge?”
“Beg pardon?” Arthur said, tapping the side of his head. Had the drink gone to his ears?
She sniffed. “Well, no one would be foolish enough to demand satisfaction from you, so it must have been your fault. Who is it?”
“Have you taken a maggot in the brain?” Arthur demanded. “I haven't challenged anyone and I'm not intending to. Now, will you please get down from there?”
“When you let me in.”
“Damn it, Morgana. Someone will see you soon.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I was expecting you to be home at such an hour.”
“I have no idea why you would think something so absurd,” Arthur pointed out, but headed inside before she could answer back.
He found Merlin in the study, sprawled out in Arthur's favourite chair, legs stretched out in front of him and hair on end as he snuffled into his cravat, which was abominably crumpled. Arthur thought rapidly, discarding five or six plans before he crept up behind the chair. Then, grinning in anticipation, he grabbed the back of the chair and tipped it forward.
Merlin hit the floor with a startled shout, limbs flailing. “Ow! What did you do that for, you prat?”
“I believe you're talking nonsense in your sleep again, Merlin,” Arthur observed, his spirits lifting. “If you were awake, you would remember that you can't talk to me like that.”
“Oh, I'm awake,” Merlin grumbled. “What do you want?”
Arthur considered amusing himself for a little longer, but Morgana's reputation was, almost literally, hanging in the balance. “Go and let Morgana in.”
Merlin blinked at him. “You just got in yourself. Did you slam the door in her face?”
“She's on the windowsill.”
“You're drunk, aren't you?” Merlin asked, looking put upon. “Again.”
“Just open the window, Merlin.”
Merlin sighed heavily and trudged over to the window as Arthur righted the chair and slouched into it comfortably.
“This is just some ridiculous trick to make me look gullible, isn't it?” Merlin complained. “As if I'd really believe that Lady Morgana was trying to climb in...” His voice trailed off as he pulled the curtain back to the sight of Morgana's face glowering in. “Er.”
“Well, don't keep a lady waiting,” said Arthur.
Merlin pulled the window open without another word, though the expression on his face was something Arthur would cherish for days. Really, Morgana's latest flight of lunacy was prime entertainment.
Morgana climbed in elegantly. “Thank you, Merlin. I'm sorry for troubling you at such an hour.”
“You didn't apologise to me,” Arthur protested.
She swept past him with a sniff, dropping into the chair opposite. “I'm doing you a favour.”
He snorted. “If anyone saw you coming in the window, you'll be marrying me, and I don't consider that a favour.”
She shuddered. “I cannot think of anything more horrible.”
“Then why are you trying to compromise yourself by turning up here? Did you not even think to bring Guinevere as a lookout?”
“Gwen refused to come with me,” she said, a little sulkily. “I had to wait until she was asleep. And I'm trying to save your life, Arthur, so a little courtesy would not go amiss.”
“How exactly are you saving my life? Which I wasn't aware was in any danger, by the way, unless Merlin's planning to set fire to my bed again.”
“You know, that only happened once and it was only a little fire, so I really don't think it's fair of you to-”
“Shut up, Merlin. Morgana?”
She looked down, staring at her hands where they were clasped on her lap, and went quiet. Even with the curtains half-open the light in here was dim, shadows heavy in the corners of the room and the gilt lettering on the spines of the books barely glinting in the low firelight. When he looked closely, though, he could see the heavy shadows under her eyes. Heart sinking, he went over to the sideboard and poured her a drink.
She raised an eyebrow in surprise when he handed it to her. “Brandy?”
“You might be a termagant,” Arthur told her, dropping back into his own chair, “but you can hold your drink. Now, what possessed you to think I had taken up duelling?”
“I dreamed it,” she said, staring down at her drink as if she could divine truth from its dark surface. “The heath, at dawn, pistols, and blood, so much blood. I saw you hit, and then just blood.” She grabbed his sleeve, fingers digging in. “Arthur, promise you won't challenge anyone.”
“You had a nightmare?” Arthur protested, as Merlin swung round to face them, looking suddenly worried.
“It was true,” she said, flushing. “And I know how that sounds, but it's happened before.”
“She's right,” Merlin butted in. “You should listen to her, really.”
Arthur gave him a scathing look, but didn't say anything. He could only deal with one dearth of common sense at a time, and he needed to get Morgana calm and home before she was missed. “Pure coincidence, I promise. If it will make you happy, I'll promise not to challenge anyone, nor to accept any challenges that I might be offered. Happy?”
“Swear it,” Morgana said, leaning forward. “On your honour and your name.”
“On my honour,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes.
“And by your mother's memory.”
Arthur reflexively glanced at the portrait that hung over the fireplace. It was the only image he had of his mother: a fair solemn girl in an old-fashioned high-waisted gown, Miss Ygraine Wallis had been painted years before her father finally granted permission for her to marry the hero of the Peninsula. As far as Arthur knew, there were no other portraits extant - his father had burnt them all day after she had died. Sometimes, when he was tired, or had been clashing with his father's steely sense of duty, he wondered if the grave look in her eyes hinted that she had already guessed that within ten years she would be dead in childbirth, another tragic thread in the legend of the Iron Duke of Albion. Perhaps she had dreamed, as he assumed young girls did, of children and family and a comfortable home, but had been resigned to the fate of a younger sister with neither title or money to commend her. Instead, she had won a hero and an early death.
“Arthur?” Morgana said sharply.
“It's the wine,” Merlin said sagely. “It goes to his head and he nods off in the most unlikely of places. There was this one time when-”
Morgana looked thoroughly entertained, but Arthur stretched out a leg to kick Merlin hard in the shin. “I swear by my mother's memory that I will not partake in any duel. Satisfied?”
Morgana stood up. “It will have to do. I'll show myself out.”
“No, you bloody won't,” Arthur said. “Merlin, have my curricle brought round. I'll find you a coat, Morgana.”
“I'm quite capable of getting myself home. I came all the way here without taking any harm.”
“Well, you're having an escort home.” He held up his hand as she started to argue. “My father would skin me alive if he knew I was letting you romp around the streets of London unchaperoned.”
She sniffed. “Well, if you're poor-spirited enough to tell him.”
“He'll find out,” Arthur said darkly. “He always does. I want you home before I have to marry you.”
“Have somebody else in mind?” she asked, draining her glass with a quirk of her eyebrow.
“No!” he snapped and then turned to glare at her as she smirked at him. “I'm sorry - I thought you had already inconvenienced me enough for one night, but it seems you have neglected to interrogate me over my marriage prospects.”
“No need to get into such a high miff about it,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You have plenty of pretty chits throwing themselves at your feet. You might give at least one a second look.”
“I've no intention of getting leg-shackled,” he said, wishing she'd drop the subject. “And how many hearts have you ground into the dust this week?”
She waved her hand airily, “Only one more proposal. I shall be stretched to reach a full score by the end of the Season at this rate. I take it you are contenting yourself with Paphians and demi-reps, then?”
“Morgana!”
“Oh, please,” she said, yawning. “As if I'm some green schoolroom miss.”
“It's damn well not a subject for any respectable woman. And, for your information, no, I'm not. Now drop the subject.”
“You're so dull these days,” she complained, but rose to her feet. “Shall we go?”
Arthur held out his coat for her, turning the collar up to hide her hair and shadow her face. “I'll have that back from you once you're home safe.”
She fingered the folds wistfully. “Weston?”
“Who else? And you haven't the shoulders for it, so don't be tempted.”
“As if I'd want shoulders like yours,” she retorted and let him escort her out of the room.
Merlin was standing by the horses outside the front door. He sighed heavily as they came out. “If you've quite finished pulling caps with Morgana, perhaps you could get started before the town wakes up.”
“See,” Arthur said to Morgana. “I don't need a wife - I already have Merlin to nag me to an early grave.” He went to the horses' heads to steady them, and as he turned back to the carriage, he saw Morgana lean forward to speak to Merlin.
“Has he not remembered anything?” she murmured, voice so soft Arthur could scarcely hear her.
“Not yet,” Merlin said, and suddenly he looked much older than his years, and weary. “How much do you?”
“Pieces,” she answered. “When I dream, it's back as well as forwards. And it's true, isn't it? We've been here before.”
“Well, not precisely here,” Merlin said.
Arthur cleared his throat noisily. “If you've finished conspiring with my valet, Morgana?”
She climbed into the carriage. “Let me take the horses.”
“Trust you with my greys?” Arthur said, genuinely horrified. “Absolutely not.”
Even as she turned to argue, he gathered up the ribbons and set them moving. The streets were quiet enough that they could move at a decent speed back towards Mayfair. He turned the corner onto Piccadilly with the horses in such perfect form that pride surged through him. He made sure to look nonchalant, of course, but this was the best start to a day he'd had in weeks, even if it did have Morgana in it.
London didn't stink so much at this hour, in this district. There was just enough bite in the air to sharpen his senses, but the morning held the promise of a hot day to come. The sun was already bright, washing the tall townhouses with a kindly light. This was when he loved his city most, before it filled up with noise and people and expectations.
In Curzon Street, he drew up in front of the house Morgana shared with the elderly cousin Uther had appointed as her chaperone. Before he had even stopped, the front door was open, and Gwen, Morgana's abigail, was peering out, her face frantic.
“Go,” Arthur said, nodding to Gwen. She was the only sensible person he knew and for that he would have braved Morgana's fury and married her years ago, if not for the fact that she had never showed the faintest interest in him. That, and it would give his father apoplexy.
With Morgana safely inside, he turned his horses and headed home with no intention of doing anything until noon except sleep soundly.
#
But he dreamed.
He was staggering through smoke, the sound of screams and striking swords all around him, though he could see only the shadows of the battle. Broken walls stretched out along the blackened earth, scarred with cobwebs of black cracks, still hot to the touch when he caught himself on one. There were men on the ground, red-clad bodies broken. The air tasted like ash and blood and death, and he could smell the thick foul hum of shredded guts.
That was enough to tell him this was not just a dream. This was real.
A horse came screaming out of the mist, eyes rolling and maddened, saddle reaved apart, the tatters tangling around its legs as it kicked and reared. Arthur threw himself out of its path as it came towards him, and his whole body flashed with pain as he rolled into shelter.
He was wounded. His shield was gone. His head was swimming - he had taken a blow there, not the first of this war.
The horse was still coming, and he wrenched his sword out of its scabbard, bracing himself against the steaming wall.
Then the fog began to stir, roiling back in a great surge of something relentless and unseen. It pressed the horse back against the earth until it began to scream, a shrill, desperate sound that no creature should ever have to make.
“Merlin,” Arthur breathed, clutching his sword in unsteady hands. “If you're coming back, now would be a good time.”
But he had lost Merlin a year ago, watched him bleed out in the shadow of a may tree in a forest far from here. There were only so many miracles one man can perform in a lifetime, and Arthur had stopped waiting for Merlin to come again.
The smoke parted, and a man stepped out of it, his hands extended before him, driving the air before him. His ragged druid's cloak was stiff with blood, but Arthur knew him, would always know him. Slowly, he stood and called, voice grim and rasping, “Mordred!”
The man turned to face him, and even now his eyes were wide, with the innocent wonder of a child or a madman, as if he was looking at something which Arthur could never quite see. He said nothing, but a quick, triumphant smile flashed across his face and Arthur knew, in the way of dreams, where and when he was.
This was Camlann.
“Arthur! Arthur!”
It was Merlin's voice, and there were hands on his shoulders, and suddenly the scene around him shook apart. He opened his eyes to find himself sitting up bolt upright in bed, his fists locked into Merlin's shirt and his heart pounding. Merlin was staring at him and, maybe it was the lingering sense of horror, but for a moment he didn't look foolish anymore. Sunlight was washing in through the half-closed curtains to light his face, making his eyes seem gold, and he was utterly focussed for once, all of his attention on Arthur.
“What did you see?” he asked.
“The end,” Arthur said, and he wasn't sure if he was quite awake yet, because he could feel the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders, destiny like chains.
For a moment, Merlin seemed lost in thought. Then he said, “You were dreaming.”
“I know that,” Arthur snapped.
Merlin shook himself, and then said, “Funny things, dreams. I once had one about a woman who ate dung for dinner and then there was-”
“Go away, Merlin,” Arthur said and flopped back against his pillows, dream already fading.
#
He went to Tattersalls that afternoon, not with any real intention of buying, but to enjoy the company and admire the horseflesh on offer. When he got there, however, he found the place full of red-coated cavalry officers, their laughter booming out across the yard. Arthur retreated to one side, trying to force back the sudden, unworthy twinge of envy. He had been riding as long as he had been walking, was as proficient with a pistol as a sword, had spent his childhood winters huddled over Caesar and Livy. The summer he had been thirteen, he had a tutor who was devoted to the Greek Ideal and they had happily lived according to the Nobler Spartan Principles, at least until September when he had gone back to school and Morgana had refused to sleep in a tent on her own.
In short, his greatest concern had been whether his father would give him a command of his own, or whether he would keep him underfoot for the first few years.
Then his father had come back from Waterloo, still flushed with victory, and told him that he would never countenance his only son risking his life on the battlefield.
Morgana had nice to him for six whole months, until he'd finally snapped and called her a bristle-browed, whey-faced milkcow. She'd promptly got her revenge by breaking the hearts of six of his closest friends, and all had returned to its normal equilibrium.
Even now, though, it still rankled to see fine red coats, and he had no wish to display a bitter face towards any of the ton that might be watching. Glumly, he glanced up between the trees to where his father's windows looked down upon the park, and wondered if his afternoon might not better be spent elsewhere. Of course, the Iron Duke was in Belgium, being feted for his past victories, but Arthur still felt ashamed to be frittering away his time in sight of his father's house.
“My lord?”
Arthur turned round, trying to place the voice. Then he saw who was standing before him in red coat and captain's insignia. “Lancelot!” he exclaimed, dragging him close by the shoulders, dignity forgotten. “What in damnation are you doing in town? I thought you were in India.”
“I had family business to attend to,” Lancelot said gravely, but a smile was starting on his face in response to Arthur. “I'll be returning to my regiment once my leave is over. I had hoped to enjoy the sights of London for a short time.”
“I'll make sure of it,” Arthur promised. “Damn, it's been, what? Five years?”
“Nearer six,” Lancelot said.
“Then I demand an afternoon. Unless you have plans already?”
“There was a horse I was looking at,” Lancelot said, face bright. “I'd welcome your opinion, of course.”
#
After a happy hour, they rode out into the park, their friendship renewed. Arthur had even found it in him to forgive Lancelot his captaincy, not least because Lancelot had talked himself almost hoarse in an attempt to describe elephants.
He was aware that they made a fine pair as they rode towards the Serpentine. The young ladies of the ton were beginning to gather, pale and pretty in their carriages or walking with their arms linked with their maids and chaperones. Many of them cast sly glances towards both Arthur and Lancelot, some of them whispering to each other behind their hands.
“We'll leave them behind if we ride on,” Arthur said, casting a wistful glance at the horizon. From here, the park looked like countryside, green and soft and open.
“I don't mind,” Lancelot said, absent-mindedly bestowing a smile on a yellow-haired miss and her startled governess.
“Give it time,” Arthur said, shuddering. “Women. You see them in the schoolroom and think they're sane. Then they grow up and learn to giggle and scheme and gossip. They draw up charts, Lancelot, I swear to you. They'll have a column for you by evening - a tick for fortune here, a cross for temperament there. Terrifying.”
“It would hardly be the first time we were compared,” Lancelot said, chuckling.
Arthur stared at him, puzzled.
“Will's father's scrumpy,” Lancelot clarified, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Arthur laughed, remembering. Ten years ago, and all six of them sprawled in the hayloft on the Lawrence farm, the air heavy with the golden, apple-warm scents of autumn. The cider had tasted thick and sweet on their tongues, even Morgana gawky and giggling. There had been a bonfire in the yard and the firelight had crept in just enough to wash them all with warm, soft light. Will, lazy and confident, had struggled up onto his elbow and said, smirking, “Well, ladies, which of our likely lads would you pick, given the choice?”
Morgana had simply cackled. Gwen had shaken her head, eyes full of quiet amusement. Merlin, already too sozzled to sit up, had said happily, “I'd take them both.”
It had been a good night, and they'd stayed up long after they'd smuggled the girls home, talking about things Arthur couldn't remember now, but which had seemed vital at the time.
“I remember the tanning old man Lawrence gave us the next morning,” he said wryly.
Lancelot winced. “You got off lightly.”
“You had the worst of it,” Arthur said, remembering how indignant he had been about that at the time.
“Damn right I did. And all the time, he was saying, 'And you a parson's son, Mr Lancelot. A parson's son.'”
Lancelot's sudden mimicry of old Lawrence had Arthur shouting with laughter, startling his horse, and Lancelot grinned at him, looking pleased with himself.
“So,” he said. “Made an honest woman of our Merlin yet?”
“I'll tell you,” Arthur said, grimacing. “Another season in town and I might be driven that far. The lengths these women will go to... You're lucky to be out of it.”
“Actually,” Lancelot said earnestly, “I'm looking for a wife.”
“Good God,” Arthur said in horror. “Have you suffered a recent head injury?”
Lancelot gave him a quick, amused smile. “Not for a few months. I need company out there - someone with the courage and honour to live in a world that's so strange to us.”
“But marriage!” Arthur protested.
“My sisters are all provided for, and I want a family of my own.” He glanced at Arthur and chuckled. “I'm older than you, my lord, don't forget.”
“Only by a few years,” Arthur retorted and shook himself. “Well, if that's what you want, let me introduce you around. Most of the girls I know are ninnyhammers, but there are a few sensible ones. Morgana will know 'em.”
“I couldn't presume-” Lancelot started.
Arthur looked at him in disbelief. “You're an officer. You're a gentleman. You might not be up to touch for a title, but the sensible girls don't have those.”
“I hadn't realised you were such an expert on sensible women, my lord.”
“Lancelot,” Arthur said sadly. “Lancelot, Lancelot. You don't even realise how much you are in need of my wisdom.”
#
He took Lancelot with him to Lady Worcester's ball, confident that any guest of Arthur Pendragon would be welcomed across the ton. The house was already humming when they arrived, so packed that there was barely room for the dancers to twirl and hop across the floor. The whole place was lit to the ceiling, the light from the chandeliers making jewels glitter around every smooth, elegant throat. The music was barely audible over the hum of conversation and hiss of whispered, scandalous gossip.
Lancelot looked rather wild-eyed but, man of honour and courage that he was, did not turn tail and run. Arthur, who had been forced to suffer years of this since he came of age, dragged him over towards a woman whose presence would normally have sent him urgently off to investigate the décor (a valid bit of curiosity and not, whatever Merlin might say, to be referred to as hiding behind a plant pot). Now, however, he had both a mission and a shield.
“Lady Banbury,” Arthur said, bowing to her as she blinked in shock. “And Miss Amabel, isn't it?”
“Amelia,” the rather sallow teenager squeaked from behind her mother's shoulder.
“Amelia, of course. Forgive me. How are you enjoying the festivities, my lady?”
“They are, as always, magnificent,” Lady Banbury said, recovering herself. “Dear Honoria always excels at these affairs. I hadn't thought to see you tonight, my lord.”
“Couldn't miss it,” Arthur lied cheerfully. He had been planning to stay in and humiliate Merlin at chess again. “May I make known to you my old friend Captain DuLac?”
Lady Banbury's eyes lit up. No woman with six daughters to see off would turn up her nose at an officer, let alone one with influential friends. “The pleasure is all mine, my lord. Have you been long in town, captain?”
“I arrived only this morning, my lady,” Lancelot said, bowing over her hand. “I have been in India these three years.”
“Lancelot served with my father on the Continent,” Arthur butted in helpfully. “He's quite new to town. I was hoping Miss Amelia would be kind enough to honour him with her hand for a dance.”
He could see Lady Banbury hesitate, torn between entrusting her daughter to a stranger and granting a favour to a future duke. After a few moments, she said, “Amelia would be honoured.”
Arthur watched Lancelot lead the poor girl out into the dance. Her yellow dress clashed horribly with his uniform, she was shaking slightly and he was pretty sure she wouldn't get a complete sentence out before the end of the dance. He sincerely hoped Lancelot could remember how to dance or there would be hysterics before long.
“A schoolfriend of yours, my lord?”
“We were at Eton together, yes,” Arthur said, knowing exactly what she was asking. “But we have been friends far longer. Reverend DuLac held the living at Cadbury when we were children.”
“Ah,” said Lady Banbury, drawing the noise out with a little hint of disappointment. Then her face changed and she said, all charm, “And here is my second daughter. You do remember dear Elinor, I hope, my lord?”
Dear Elinor was currently gawping at them, a brimming glass of ratafia clutched in each hand. Her mother swiftly relieved her of them and hissed something at her which had Elinor jerking a curtsey and gasping, “My lord.”
She wasn't quite as sallow as her sister, so Arthur swallowed his sigh and did the proper thing. “Would you care to dance, Miss Elinor?”
“Oh, yes, please!” Elinor gasped, and Arthur offered her his arm, reflecting gloomily on the lengths he went to for his friends.
Of course, once the dance was done, he retreated to a quiet corner to watch the carnage. It was a blessed relief not to be the most popular freak in the sideshow, and this was hilarious. He'd read accounts of cavalry charges which were gentler than this.
“You are a wicked man, Arthur Pendragon,” Morgana said, appearing at his shoulder. “Poor Lancelot.”
“He wants a wife,” Arthur pointed out.
“Do not, on any account, announce that to the room. I am already contemplating a rescue sortie.”
“Nonsense,” said Arthur. “He has charmed them all.”
Morgana snorted inelegantly. “True. All that courtesy and innocence. The mammas wish to adopt him, the daughters want to swoon on his feet, and the widows-”
“Ah, the widows,” Arthur said appreciatively. “Do tell me what the widows want, Morgana.”
“To take him home and devour him, for a start,” Morgana suggested. “I cannot stand by. Let us rescue him.”
“Go ahead,” Arthur said, gesturing lazily at the floor. “If I go out there, they'll pull me down in his place.”
“I can hardly cut in on his dance, Arthur.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “Once the music ends, we'll approach from either side.” She swung round to face him, dark curls bouncing against her bare shoulder. “Well, any challenges yet?”
“Not a one.”
“Offended anyone?”
“I believe I stepped on Miss Devereaux's toe, but she did not complain.”
“Well, she has no brothers, so it's of no account.”
“I'm sure it's of some account to her.”
Morgana sniffed. “It serves her right. She bullies her chaperone.”
“I'll step on the other foot next time,” Arthur promised lightly, as the music ended. Morgana shot off into the crowd and he followed her.
They arrived at Lancelot's elbows at the same moment, even as the hovering crowd of young ladies began to surge forward. Lancelot looked like his horse had just been shot out from under him, wide-eyed and slightly twitchy. Possibly the joke was wearing thin.
“I believe you have not spoken to my father's ward Morgana for some years,” Arthur said hurriedly.
Lancelot swung round in relief. “Lady Morgana. I would have recognised you anywhere.”
“Dear Lancelot,” Morgana said, pitching her voice to carry across the surrounding crowds. “I am desperate to hear of your adventures. You must allow me to drag you away from the floor.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Lancelot said, and Arthur silently applauded him for not letting the relief show. Morgana swept the surrounding crowd with a cold glare which made them all fall back meekly. The two of them bundled Lancelot off to their corner as fast as they could.
“Now,” Morgana declared. “Since this is all your fault, Arthur, you can fetch me a drink while Lancelot tells me everything that has happened to him since he was last home.”
“How is it my fault?” Arthur protested, but she turned her back on him with a sniff. Rolling his eyes, he stomped off towards the drinks table. He got waylaid three times - once by a man who owed him money, once by a pretty bit of blonde treachery, newly widowed and chasing after old prey once more, and once by a friend of his father's, who wanted to know if he had heard from the Duke lately.
By the time he reached the table, his temper was ruffled, and he took his time looking for the flattest glass of lemonade available, more to give himself a respite than to irritate Morgana (he considered his need to annoy Morgana a purely instinctive matter, on a level with hunger, thirst and his preference for pears over apples).
He wasn't expecting to be interrupted by a cool murmur of, “Pendragon.”
“Mordred,” Arthur said flatly, without turning round. There were few people in the ton he disliked more than the youngest son of the Countess of Orkney, and not merely because the man featured so often in his nightmares. Both Morgana and Merlin had hated him from the moment they first saw him. Arthur might not entirely trust either of their judgement, but he listened when they agreed on something, especially when the object of their dislike sent shivers down his spine every time they met.
Besides that, Mordred FitzLothian was a rabble-rouser.
“The gallant captain has returned, I see,” Mordred said, staring at Arthur. “I'm surprised you trust him.”
“He is a man of honour,” Arthur said coldly. “I thought you were still in the North.”
“Others continue the good work,” Mordred said, eyes gleaming. “I have come to work among the poor of London.”
“You're not doing them any service,” Arthur said. “All your speeches and rallies do is incite violence and turn the charitable against the poor. You damage those you claim to help.”
“The poor do not crave charity,” Mordred said, stepping closer to him. “They want justice. Go down to the rookeries of London, Arthur Pendragon. You will find a hundred people in a single house, men, women and children alike living where the walls are coated in filth. There are families who live in cellars there and crawl forth through their cracked walls with the coming of the night. The girls of St Giles consider themselves blessed to have one ragged dress or coat to cover what modesty they still cling to.”
“St Giles is also a den of thieves and light-skirts,” Arthur said. “If you'll excuse me, I promised to attend a lady.”
Mordred seized his sleeve. “You were once a just man, Arthur Pendragon.”
Arthur pulled his arm away. “Good evening, FitzLothian. Don't trouble me with your rants again.”
“You have a destiny, Pendragon, that you can't escape.”
Arthur walked away, ignoring the covert stares and whispers from across the ballroom. His reputation could stand it and he didn't care a toss for Mordred's.
#
Later that evening, he was still irritated by the whole scene. They had made it back to his house and were sprawled out in the study, Lancelot on one chaise, Arthur on the other and Merlin, who had encroached, on the floor between them, passing the burgundy back and forth.
“I give plenty to the poor!” Arthur said indignantly. “How dare he imply otherwise? I have been commended for my generosity! I've had my name in sermons!”
“Of course, my lord,” Lancelot said, but there was more laughter than reassurance in his voice. He was draped across the chaise, his cravat hanging undone around his neck and his legs swinging, eyes a little vague and lips red from the wine. He reached down to take the bottle from Merlin's loose grip again and swigged straight from it before passing it over to Arthur.
“Sermons!” Arthur repeated, waving the bottle and inadvertently splashing Merlin.
“Hey!” Merlin said, and mopped the spilt wine up with his shirt tails. “I think he had a point. Not like your money makes a long term difference, does it?”
“It feeds people!”
“And when the money's gone, they're still hungry. Me, I'd rather have a job than a handout.”
“I thought you didn't like Mordred,” Arthur said, tipping wine into his mouth.
“Oh, I wish he'd never been born,” Merlin said, kneeling up. “But that doesn't mean he's wrong. Give me that.”
“It's my wine,” Arthur said, clinging to the bottle. “My very expensive wine.”
“Which you're pouring over your equally expensive carpet, you prat,” Merlin pointed out and tried to wrestle it off him. Arthur fought back, which ended up with him falling off the chaise, a lot more spilt wine and his inevitable victory. Shoving Merlin's face into the rug as he sat on his back, he smirked.
“Say 'Arthur Pendragon is the most generous man in London and I want nothing more than to lick the dung from his boots.'”
“Arthur Pendragon is the greatest prat in London,” Merlin started and Arthur rubbed his face in the carpet again. “Ow. Get off, you lump.”
“That should be 'Get off, my lord.'”
“My Lord Lump. Can we change the subject? See anyone you fancied, Lancelot?”
“I met many charming ladies,” Lancelot said stiffly, but then sighed. “Yet none have touched my heart.”
“Give it time,” Merlin assured him. “You'll find the right woman, I know it. We'll help.”
Lancelot sighed again, wincing slightly. Obviously he was desperate to marry. Surely he wasn't still a virgin?
“You should make a list,” Merlin said, squirming underneath Arthur. “Write down everything you want in a wife and then we'll all go looking for someone who fits.”
There was a moment of contemplative silence, before Lancelot said, voice strained,“Wouldn't you rather hear something about India?”
“Yes!” Merlin exclaimed.
Arthur deigned to roll off him, flapping his hand at Lancelot in permission. The chaise seemed too far away now, so he dropped his head against the small of Merlin's back and stretched his legs out across the floor. For such a sack of bones, Merlin was a surprisingly comfortable pillow.
Lancelot was rambling on about jungles and tigers, which Arthur had heard that afternoon. Bored, he stretched out his foot to nudge Lancelot's leg. “Tell us something they believe.”
“I want to hear about the tigers,” complained Merlin, but Lancelot stopped and pondered.
Then he said, “They believe that a man's soul lives through more than one life.”
Beneath Arthur's head, Merlin went very still.
“No heaven?” Arthur asked.
“Not exactly. Each life you live is a chance to come closer to perfection. The way you live your life determines what manner of creature you will be when you return - an ant, or a lion, or a king.”
“I think I'd remember if I'd ever been a lion,” Arthur said.
“Oh, you don't recall. Some souls are simply older than others.”
Merlin was as tense as a bowstring.
“Seems pointless,” Arthur said, yawning. “If you can't remember it makes no difference how old your soul might be.”
“Unless some people can remember,” Merlin said, voice so low and wretched that Arthur could barely hear him. “Unless some people live on and on, waiting for the ones they loved to come again, knowing it can never be the same. It would be like one hand living on without the other. We could all have known each other once before - you, me, Gwen, Morgana.” He paused and then added, with venom, “Mordred.”
Lancelot laughed. “Speak for yourself, my friend. I'm sure I'm a new-minted soul.”
Merlin laughed hollowly, and Arthur poked him in the side. “I won't waste good burgundy on you again, if it makes you rattle on like this.”
“I'm not rattling on.”
“Merlin, you rattle like a baby is shaking you by the ankles.”
“I'm serious.”
“You're an idiot.”
They were interrupted by a faint snore. Up on the chaise, Lancelot was fast asleep.
“Huh,” Merlin whispered. “He still does that?”
“Thought he'd hold his drink better now he's a soldier,” Arthur whispered back.
“We're not going to get him home tonight, are we?”
“I don't even know where he lives.”
“Better find him a blanket,” Merlin suggested and tried to stagger to his feet. He fell over twice on the way to the door, so Arthur trailed after him towards his own room. Merlin managed to get as far as the bed before he stopped, looking bemused. Arthur sighed and pushed him over onto the mattress, kneeling down to get a blanket out of the drawer himself.
“This isn't my bed.”
“Your bed's up two flights of stairs and you can't walk on the flat right now,” Arthur pointed out. “You can stay there.”
“You're not so bad, after all.”
Arthur ignored him to stagger to the study and cover Lancelot up. He blew out the candles and wandered back towards his bed. Merlin had managed to get his boots off and was curled up on top of Arthur's blankets, grinning to himself.
“Keep to your own side of the bed this time,” Arthur warned him. “Or you will be on the floor.”
“I promise,” Merlin said, eyes big and sincere.
#
Arthur woke some hours later with a pounding head and Merlin draped along his side, snuffling into his neck. He pushed the idiot away, dragged the blankets over his head, and went back to sleep.
The second time he woke, his head had cleared a little, but Merlin was whimpering into the back of his neck, one arm slung over Arthur's side.
“Shut up, Merlin,” he said, not quite awake.
“My head. Ow, ow, ow.”
“Take it like a man,” Arthur advised and pushed him away again.
He couldn't sleep any more, though, especially not when he was aware of the ball of hangover-flavoured misery just behind him. Propping himself up on his elbow, he said, “Have you ever been to a rookery?”
“No. Don't talk. It hurts.”
“Serves you right,” Arthur said. “You have some really foul and disreputable clothes that I could borrow, don't you?”
There was a pained silence, before Merlin said, “No.”
Arthur turned over to see his idiot manservant glaring out at him from under the blankets, eyes bloodshot and reproachful. He grinned at him, and Merlin's glare intensified. “No, you are not going to the rookery in disguise.”
“What a marvellous idea, Merlin,” Arthur said heartily. “I would never have dreamt of such a thing if you hadn't suggested it.”
“You can't.”
“I think you're getting confused again, Merlin. You don't tell me what to do.”
Merlin looked panicked for a moment, but then announced triumphantly, “You promised to call on Morgana this morning.”
“Then I'll visit the rookery later,” Arthur said, sinking back against his pillows. “I might take Lancelot.”
“You'll take me,” Merlin said grumpily.
“You?” Arthur scoffed.
“Yes,” Merlin muttered. “Me. Lucky old me.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and burrowed under the covers again. There was something very comforting about sleeping with Merlin's bad mood in the background, that lulling stream of grumbling that had followed him ever since they were all children, when it didn't matter so much whose father was a general, or a parson, or who had no father at all.
He was on the verge of sleep when a sudden thought occurred to him. “Merlin?”
He got a loud unconvincing snore in reply.
Arthur kicked back. “You're not asleep. What time did I say I'd call on Morgana?”
“Eleven.”
Arthur rolled over and looked at the clock.
Damn.
#
Twenty minutes later, they had retrieved a bleary-eyed Lancelot from the study and were jammed into one seat, Lancelot driving as Arthur tried to tie his cravat without knocking Merlin into the road.
“Give that here,” Merlin said at last and tied it with a quick twist.
“That had better be decent,” Arthur said, fingering it and eyeing the mess around Merlin's own throat dubiously.
“Easier to do someone else's. Why am I here?”
Arthur tried not to look shifty. “I thought you'd like the opportunity to see Guinevere.”
“You're going to find a way to make Morgana think it's my fault we're late, aren't you?”
“That's what you're here for, Merlin,” Arthur pointed out and Merlin sighed as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Lancelot was grinning to himself as he drove.
“What's so funny?” Arthur demanded.
“I'm just remembering why you haven't taken a wife, my lord.”
Arthur snorted and did his best to ignore them both.
Morgana's sitting room was pale green and full of precise, breakable things which could not be moved from their places without a glower which turned her guests' spines to ice. Even her chairs were upholstered in a delicate shade of cream which would be ruined by the slightest hint of a muddy boot. Arthur generally preferred to stay standing when he visited her.
Of course, Morgana herself was wearing red, much to the visible distress of her chaperone. Luckily for Arthur, she was ignoring him in favour of delicately interrogating Lancelot about every woman he had danced with the night before.
“Arthur will organise a dinner party,” she announced. “We'll invite your five favourites and some dullards to even the numbers out. You cannot truly judge a woman's character in a single dance.”
“My lady,” Lancelot started, eyes a little frantic, but she talked over him.
“Perhaps we could prevail upon my guardian to host a house party. Country weekends always lead to engagements.”
Lancelot sent Arthur a pleading glance, which Arthur ignored. The man wanted a wife, didn't he, and who better than Morgana to find him one?
The door opened and Merlin bounced in, followed by Gwen. Arthur smiled at her. He'd known her since she was nothing more than the blacksmith's daughter, and she had always brought calm with her. She was honour and comfort and quiet grace and he was always glad to see her.
Then she stopped dead, her eyes widening in shock as she brought her hands to her mouth. Puzzled, Arthur followed her gaze in time to see Lancelot rising to his feet, looking as if the breath had been knocked out of him.
“Guinevere,” he said, and it was as if he could no longer see anyone else in the room.
“Lancelot,” Gwen breathed, taking a shaky step forward. There was a new bright joy in her eyes.
Morgana, suddenly silent, surged to her feet and darted towards Arthur, babbling, “Did I tell you I bought a new horse. You must see him, right now, immediately, I mean. My stables-”
“Right,” Arthur said and they both grabbed Merlin's sleeves and towed him out of the room, letting the door slam closed behind him. They got halfway down the corridor before Morgana dropped onto a chair, covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
Merlin fell to his knees in front of her, curling his hands around her knees. “It's good. They're happy together. Always.”
“I know,” Morgana choked as Arthur put a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “But I'm going to miss her. I'm going to miss her so much.”
Merlin lunged up to wrap her in a wholly inappropriate, yet somehow unsurprising, hug. “It will be better this time. They'll be happy.”
“I always lose her,” Morgana gasped. “Every time, I lose her.”
“You won't lose any of us,” Merlin swore, sincere in a way that unnerved Arthur. “Not this time. Not again.”
Arthur took a step away. He should be dragging Merlin away, shouting up a scandal, but all his instincts rebelled against it. They looked like siblings, pale and intense, sharing some knowledge he didn't understand. Tentatively, not sure if the ground underfoot was safe enough to bear him, he said, “So, dinner party cancelled, then?”
Morgana managed a sniffly laugh, but shook her head. “No. Throw it for me, instead.”
“I like Lancelot more than you,” Arthur said and didn't wince at all when she pinched him.
#
Later that day, following Merlin through the dark but respectable streets of Soho, he couldn't shake off the strangeness of it. Yes, Lancelot had been gone for year, but he and Gwen had grown up together. How could you walk into a room and see somebody you had known forever and just fall like that?
“They only looked at each other,” he said.
“Maybe it was destiny,” Merlin said, lifting the torch a little higher.
Arthur conveyed his opinion of that in a look, which Merlin failed to notice.
“Really,” Merlin said. “Maybe they just finally recognised that they belonged together. I think it's great. Brilliant.”
“Brilliant,” Arthur repeated.
“You don't think so?” Merlin swung round, looking suddenly panicky. “You're not angry, are you? You don't feel betrayed?”
“What are you on about?” Arthur snapped. “Of course I'm happy for them. I just don't like the idea of destiny.”
“Okay,” Merlin said cheerfully. “I was never very good at the whole obedience to fate thing, either. What are we going to do in St Giles? Just look around for a bit, right?”
“We could talk to some people,” Arthur suggested.
“Or we could not. You open your mouth in there and you'll be stabbed for your purse.”
“I can defend myself.”
Merlin gave him a completely unwarranted sceptical look. Around them, the walls were closing in as the road grew narrower. Overhead, the buildings were tangled and battered, windows and rooms jutting out. There was a stink in the air, of shit and rot and filth. Underfoot, the cobbles were becoming stained, rags and rotting scraps heaped against the walls and a black, stinking stream smearing along the middle of the road. Cries echoed from above, screams of rage and shrieks of pleasure, howling babies and whimpering voices sobbing dryly.
“Mercy, sir,” a voice whispered by his knees and he jumped, looking down to see a woman dragging herself up from a cellar. She was gaunt, her hair matted with dirt, and all she wore was a ragged coat, hanging open to expose her shrivelled breasts and protruding ribs.
“Mercy,” she wailed. “Mercy, please, sir. Please.” She reached out to cling to his knees, her fingers brittle and cold through the thin cloth.
“Go home,” Merlin said to her, pulling Arthur away. Then, very softly, he breathed, “Slæp hleowe.”
Her fingers slid from Arthur's knee and she crawled away, head bowed.
“What did you say?” Arthur demanded harshly.
“It was just a, y'know, a thing,” Merlin said. “A blessing.”
Arthur wasn't convinced, but there were more desperate creatures stirring in the shadows, crowding forward to wail and plead with him. He kept walking, though his heart was breaking. These were the poor his father dismissed as a burden and plague on society. These were the people of Britain, that ancient Albion whose generosity and greatness poets praised.
Something wet hit his face and he looked up to see lines strung across the street, heavy with ragged clothing. Pigeons clung to the sagging eaves, roosting. The windows were broken or empty, or filled in with brown paper, straw and old felt. The plaster had flaked off the walls, leaving the pitted and sooty bricks below exposed. Doors hung loosely off rotting frames and in the dim spaces behind he could see further passages, full of huddled and hollow cheeked forms.
On the corner ahead of them, light and noise spilled out of a low building. A woman was slumped by the door, legs lolling as she laughed shrilly., her hair hanging in ragged hanks. Within, Arthur could glimpse a tight press of heaving bodies, rough clay tankards being passed back and forth in a tumult of shouting and quarrelling.
“Seen enough yet?” Merlin asked.
“No,” Arthur snapped, though he was beginning to believe all Mordred's wildest stories. Still, he had come here to learn the truth, and felt that he had a duty to these people; that he must learn the true horror of their lives. Ignoring Merlin's huff of dismay, he pushed forward into the tavern.
[Part Two]