The Mettle of Merlin - Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen, Chapter Nineteen, Chapter Twenty, Twenty-One, Chapter Twenty-Two, Chapter Twenty-Three, Chapter Twenty-Four, Chapter Twenty-Five, Chapter Twenty-Six, Chapter Twenty-Seven, Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The maystryes of Merlyn mony has taken…
Nothing about Camelot seemed to have changed, with the exception of Arthur’s bountiful facial hair. Rose found it almost surreal to be in the grand castle again, surrounded by the verdant evidence of the kingdom’s wealth and merry knights and ladies, as if nothing of import had happened.
The Doctor had carried Gawain from the TARDIS before waking him, leaving the knight with no recollection of his time aboard the ship. Gawain had asked after the green girdle and the Doctor had blithely handed over what Rose assumed was a careful replica, informing him that its magic was spent and that it was now nothing more or less than a woman’s token. Gawain had nodded, as if he had expected nothing less, his reply some reference to Delilah’s self-serving betrayal. After that, the Doctor had disappeared, intent on conversing with the palace bard, while Gawain had gone in search of a hunt, to fire his blood and purge his heart. Rose was left alone with Guinevere and her ladies to prepare herself for the splendid banquet ahead.
For the queen and her ladies in waiting, Rose was an unsurpassed guest, a curiosity to be feted no longer merely for her affiliation with Merlin but also for her direct involvement in Gawain’s exciting quest. Arthur had, in their absence, been free with his judgement that she was Nimue, a fact about which Rose could not help being grateful since it seemed to absolve her from the scandal of her prolonged sequestering with Merlin and Gawain. As a priestess and as a magical being who had emerged from the lake bearing Arthur’s royal sword, the morality of the court was not applied to her. Indeed, her refusal of Gawain’s advances, and her mysterious sleeping arrangements with Merlin were regarded as inevitable, the incomprehensible actions of a being not like them and, therefore, bound by different laws. And so it was that Guinevere’s own handmaiden was directed to dress Rose’s hair, while her most talented seamstresses were charged with clothing her in a gown befitting her exceptional status.
Still bruised by the Doctor’s aggressive displeasure with her and wrong-footed by his subsequent mercurial good humour, Rose suffered the ministrations without comment. Around her, the ladies giggled and speculated, requiring little from her but the occasional nod and the odd muttered affirmative or denial. At some point she must have mentioned the dangerous encounter with the wolf and Gawain’s precipitous slaying of it, for soon the incident had gained almost mythic status and simpering girls were clutching their breasts at the mental image of Gawain, sword aloft, confronting the fearsome creature. It was a relief when Guinevere announced it time to retire to the banqueting hall.
She had to admit, as far as she could tell in the imperfect mirror, Guinevere’s ladies had done a good job on her. A veil of fine silk, embroidered with gold around the edges, cascaded down her back from a delicately wrought headband, while her dress was a rich green, in honour of the Green Knight, and also embroidered with gold thread. The slippers on her feet were silk and exquisitely soft - they would, however, be no use for running and Rose hoped that a quick exit would not be necessary. If the worst came to the worst, though, the path to the TARDIS was largely soft meadow grass this time and not icy mud, so she could probably manage it bare foot if she had to.
The ladies in waiting were all also dressed in various shades of green - only Guinevere was in another colour, choosing a red and gold ensemble, with flashes of green at her sleeves and hem. Together, they made quite a procession as they trooped into the hall, Guinevere at their head and Rose trailing reluctantly at their rear. Only a few days ago she would have found dressing up and being the Queen’s latest pet project great fun - she would have waltzed into the hall intent on seeing the Doctor’s reaction, hoping for a somewhat startled exclamation of her beauty, like in Cardiff. Now, though, she found herself reluctant - Bertilak’s death, Morgan Le Fay’s insane fury, Gawain’s self-centred reinterpretation of his failings - they had all served to rob Camelot of its shine, though nothing so much as the Doctor’s displeasure with her. She’d hurt him somehow and she regretted that more than she could express, not least because it seemed to make worse whatever else was bothering him.
She wasn’t arrogant enough to think the Doctor’s erratic moods and strange silences since they’d arrived in Camelot were all down to her - something about this place, about Arthur and Gawain and legends and mythically high ideals doomed to failure from the outset, unsettled him, almost seemed to hurt him. She suspected it wasn’t just linked to the mystery of Morgaine, either. He’d mentioned his people, his being the last, more since they’d been here than he had in the weeks since she’d met him - something about Camelot made him think of home and she had no idea how to help him with that, because nothing he’d told her added up to enough to make sense of.
As if on cue, the object of her musings drew into sight - sitting moodily on Arthur’s left, watching the parade of green clad women with an expression that was not quite displeasure. When he caught sight of Rose, his eyebrows lifted impressively, but he did not unfold his arms or soften the tight line of his lips. Rose blushed and dipped her head, wishing she’d resisted Guinevere and her enthusiastic desire to celebrate Gawain’s defeat of the Green Knight - she had not been party to Gawain’s rendition of the story, nor did she know how the Doctor had explained away over a year, but she doubted either did justice to the truth.
While the Doctor looked ill at ease with the cheerful display of green, Gawain was delighted, leaping to his feet and babbling eloquently about their beauty and his honour. Rose watched him coldly - how quickly he had relinquished any guilt for the unhappy ending to his quest. She wondered if, in his mind, he had rewritten any faults on his part as hers - casting Mathilde and her into the same unsavoury light and making them the object of his downfall, rather than his own vanity, ill-judged competitiveness and falsity. Before he could reach her and demand a kiss, as he was from the others, Rose whirled away, ducking into the gathering throng and making for her place beside the Doctor.
He smirked as she joined him. ‘Gone off the pretty boy, have we?’ he asked acerbically and Rose glowered at him.
‘I don’t like liars,’ she retorted quietly.
The Doctor’s eyes narrowed momentarily and Rose wondered what she had inadvertently said now. There was no time to question him, though, for Gawain had reached the last lady and Arthur had advanced from the dais beside them and had lifted his arms for silence.
‘Long has Sir Gawain been from these halls and much has our sorrow been at his lack. Now, he is returned, triumphant, and with such stories as will keep us entertained longer e’er than he was gone from us.’
There was a murmur of excitement and approval from the assembled lords and ladies.
‘They’ve written the poem already?’ Rose whispered in surprise and the Doctor grinned smugly. ‘It was you?’ she surmised and the Doctor’s grin broadened.
‘I may have helped them along at bit.’
Rose frowned. ‘Isn’t that, well, cheating? Interfering with time or something?’
‘Nah - poem exists, I’ve just made sure the idiots here don’t get it wrong.’
Rose looked at him sceptically as Arthur motioned his court to silence. ‘All day my finest bard has crafted his tale, Merlin at his side, and now my dear friends, we will hear the finest tale since ever the deeds of Felix Brutus were recounted. Come, bard, let us hear the song of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight!’
A great cheer swelled through the hall as its occupants moved to take their seats, all settling to look towards the minstrels expectantly. With great solemnity, the bard stepped forward and swept into a low bow.
‘Sith the sege and the assaut was seded at Troye,’ the bard began and the Doctor settled back into his chair with a contented sigh. Rose also sighed - though intrigued by how the Doctor had filled in the months and months when they had simply been in the TARDIS, she was not particularly keen to hear about Gawain’s heroics, not after his diatribe against women. The Doctor, though, seemed determined to stay. Crossing her arms and glaring at his cheerful profile, she resigned herself to boredom. At least, she thought, reaching for her glass of wine, she could dull the passing hours.
‘While the Newe Yere was so yep that hit were newe comen,’ the bard continued, as Rose sipped the strong beverage, hoping that the Doctor had been succinct but fearing that her bum might be numb before the song was over.
************** ‘Wake up!’ the Doctor’s voice whispered in her ear. ‘And wipe the droll from your chin - it’s not ladylike!’
Rose shot upright, dabbing at her face in horror, as the Doctor chuckled. Her chin was dry and she glared sleepily as the Doctor grinned.
‘The poem’s nearly done. Didn’t think you’d want to miss it.’
Rose rolled her eyes, ‘yeah, because the rest of it was so good I couldn’t keep my eyes open,’ she grumbled.
‘You saying I’m dull?’ the Doctor demanded and Rose’s eyes sparkled.
‘Just… poetry? Not really your thing. I’d stick to the day job.’
‘It’s a classic,’ the Doctor pouted and Rose giggled.
‘It’s boring!’ she countered. ‘Plus, Mathilde really wasn’t that beautiful and Gawain wasn’t that brave.’
The Doctor’s expression cleared. ‘You’re jealous!’
‘What?’
‘You’re jealous, because you’re not in it.
Rose shook her head impatiently. ‘Shut up! I am not!’ The Doctor opened his mouth to retort and Rose popped her finger over his lips, gesturing with a nod towards the bard. ‘Be quiet! Bard’s talking!’
The bard sang his final line, of Gawain reaching Camelot and being embraced by his King, and subsided with a modest obeisance. The audience burst into delighted applause, only to falter to a stop as Gawain stood and moved gracelessly to stand before them.
‘Please, be silent, for this I cannot let rest here! I am guilty of cowardice and covetous desire. I concealed the girdle and told Lord Bertilak of it not, seduced, like Adam before me, by the wiles of a woman. Lord Bertilak’s lady wife enticed me to first take the girdle and then to keep it.’ He sighed dramatically and bowed his head. ‘I betrayed the code to which I am sworn, and ever thus will wear this green belt, as token of the untruth I allowed myself to convey.’
Rose muttered something rude beneath her breath and the Doctor chuckled.
‘Manners, Rose!’ he chided, but his tone was amused, not chastising.
‘My dear Gawain,’ Arthur said, standing and moving to embrace the penitent knight. ‘You are too hard upon yourself, though your distress does you great justice. But I say that girdle is a sign of your quality and not your lack! Indeed, your adventure brings us all renown, and so, it seems to be, this green belt is a excellent emblem of knightly grace!’ Arthur kept one arm about Gawain as he turned to his court. ‘I decree that ever shall all my knights be garbed in such a sash, in honour of Gawain’s bold quest and the greatest story of romance that ever have we heard!’
A rapturous cheer surged through the hall and, on its wake, the Doctor held out his hand and led Rose out into the night.
Chapter Thirty