How to Survive Promotion in the Middle Ages (2/11)
Please see Masterpost for fic headers and author's notes.
Back to Part One
The Queen of Camelot slipped into the lord privy councillor's chambers the next morning, not long after breakfast. Her presence there was nothing unprecedented; they often spent a quiet morning together when the King was busy with affairs that did not require their presence.
In times of crisis, Merlin and Gwen were welcome voices of counsel and wisdom (much as the King hated to use that term with regard to Merlin) within the general council. When the occasion allowed, however, Arthur much preferred to consult their judgment in private, away from prying ears. He claimed it was because he didn't want his concentration interrupted at a diplomatically vital moment.
In fact, it was largely because Arthur disliked having an audience for conversations that went as follows:
"What's that bit with the squiggly lines?"
"That's the ocean, Merlin, it's a big wet thing that goes all around the isle of Albion. That's why it's called an island."
"No, no, I see what he means - over there - are you expecting an attack by an army of snakes?"
"Wyverns, those are wyverns, they've very clearly got heads, and tails, and talons, and very sharp, pointy teeth."
"..."
"Of course, dear, I see that now. It's a very nice drawing, Arthur."
For the sake of the dignity of the Crown, therefore, Arthur surrounded himself with his more respectful advisors when there were potential witnesses. Since Arthur was still working hard to establish himself as a figure of authority and a strong successor to his father, Gwen and Merlin ended up spending quite a lot of time on their own together during council meetings, or as their own duties permitted.
This morning, however, Gwen arrived to find no sign of her friend anywhere in his chambers. She hunted through the rooms everywhere she could think of with no result until a whispered "Gwen!" startled her as she stood near the bed. A moment later she barely restrained a shriek as something reached out and grabbed her ankle, tugging her closer.
She shook it off and knelt down cautiously beside the bed, not discounting the possibility of something unpleasant leaping out at her when she did. Instead she came face to face with Merlin, who was making frantic shushing noises.
"Merlin, come on, you can't stay under there forever," Gwen reasoned with the bedstead after attempting, unsuccessfully, to lure him out.
"Are you sure that Sir Rothby isn't around?" Merlin asked after insisting that Gwen make another check of the room for eavesdroppers.
"We're the only ones here," Gwen assured him, "and my personal guards are still outside the door. I don't think anyone can have got in here in the last five minutes."
"He's trying to kill me," Merlin said plaintively, his voice somewhat muffled by bedclothes and cobwebs.
"No one's trying to kill you," Gwen said with a sigh. "It was just an accident, it could have happened to anyone."
"He set fire to my robes!" Merlin exclaimed, a single charred sleeve emerging from under the bed in brief visual emphasis.
"You're always saying you'd like to do that yourself," Gwen pointed out. It was true. Merlin regularly threatened to burn his official garments and was only kept in check by the King's promise that, if he did, he would find a new and more garish set waiting for him by the end of the day and the King himself would personally feed him his new hat.
"I was in them at the time," Merlin protested. "If one of the kitchen maids hadn't spotted it and thrown soup over me to put it out, someone could have been hurt! As it is, that soup will never be recovered." He said it with great solemnity, as if the pot of mushed peas were one of the greatest losses Camelot would have to suffer.
"You have to remember how young he is," Gwen pleaded. "You must have made as many mistakes when you were new here and he's not that much older than you were then. Probably the court of Camelot is very grand and strange compared to what he's used to at home and his nerves are making him clumsy. Besides, he's a cousin of the Earl, we can't afford to offend him, and you did promise to spend some time with him last night."
"That was before I was aware of his homicidal tendencies!" Merlin exclaimed. "He was talking about riding off into an isolated spot in the woods today for a bit of hunting. I'm not good at hunting, Gwen, I usually bump into things. At least Arthur used to make sure no one shot me; I don't think Sir Rothby is going to be that bothered."
Merlin fixed a sad and helpless look on his face, forcing Gwen to harden her heart as best she could with the memory of the many times that Merlin had caused life-threatening mishaps of his own. The time he had nearly destroyed the castle kitchens over a theory about an intruder being able to hide in the largest cooking pot made a good example; they'd been scraping exploded shards of pot and cabbage leaves off the kitchen walls for weeks. Gwen doubted the Northumbrian knight could have a greater capacity for haphazard destruction.
"You can't just stand Sir Rothby up if he's expecting you," Gwen insisted. "If you don't come out of here dressed and ready to be diplomatic in the next five minutes, I'm going to have to send the guards in to drag you out."
"I could tell Arthur I'm sick," Merlin suggested brightly. "I'm very ill and I need to rest and I haven't got time to be assassinated by any pyromaniac knights from Northumbria today."
Gwen shook her head. "It won't work, I'm afraid, and I haven't got any more time to play hide and seek this morning. I have to go discuss dress fashions with the awful Lady Lavinia and try to convince her that a sundering of the truce between Camelot and Northumbria would mean that all her sleeves would be out of date and a source of general social mockery by the end of the year."
Merlin frowned. "Isn't she the one who tripped over her own lace ruff at dinner last night? I thought she was already a source of universal mockery."
Gwen snickered and then quickly repressed it. "Yes, but if anyone tells her that, she could start a war. I really have to go."
There was a hearty sigh from under the bed as Gwen stood, and a moment later Merlin emerged, somewhat dusty and dishevelled, from his hiding place.
"I would just like it to be known and recorded for future generations," he announced, "that, if I die today, it was all due to the unkindness and the politically conniving heart of the Queen Guinevere."
Gwen giggled. "I'll make sure Geoffrey gets a note about it, if you do."
Merlin solemnly retrieved his hat - a red, garish cap that extended about a foot above his face - and placed it on his head with funereal gravity. "Remember me fondly," he said, kissing Gwen on the cheek and leaving behind a cobweb on her hair.
Gwen smiled after him, then sighed and went to go find someone to talk to about lace.
Arthur meanwhile would have happily traded places with either of them if it had meant someone else had to endure the lengthy speech that the Earl of Northumbria was giving him about the weight and onerous responsibilities of kingship. The Earl had begun with belated condolences on his father's death, profuse regrets that he had not been able to attend the funeral, a few score words on the importance of strength in a ruler, which Uther had displayed, and several hundred on the dangers of appearing hesitant or indecisive, which Uther had not. The entire speech was tinged with condescension and filled with references to Arthur's "youth" - which Arthur thought was a bit rich coming from a man barely five years older than himself, and who had been ruling about as long.
The Earl concluded with his thanks for Arthur's invitation to visit the court of Camelot - which the Earl had ignored for almost five months - and assured him that Northumbria had every intention of supporting the new King with the same steadfastness as the old - which Arthur doubted.
"Thank you for your words of friendship," Arthur said, jumping in at the first available pause lest the Earl get a second wind and begin a new discourse on the philosophy of kingship. "Northumbria has always been one of our most valued allies, and I hope will continue to be so for a long time. Perhaps while you are here, we could go over one or two areas of mutual concern - matters of security along our borders..."
"Indeed, indeed," the Earl interjected, "as I have always said, the fruit of alliance is born from the sweetest flower, but also the most delicate, which needs the most careful tending, a jealous husbanding..."
Arthur slumped imperceptibly in his chair, and only managed to retain a moderately cheerful expression by reminding himself that eight years ago, when the Earl had still been "that little twerp, Rupert" and only third in line for his father's seat, Arthur had had the very great pleasure of knocking the stuffing out of him in a practice bout.
Gwaine slept, when at last he did sleep, with all the dedication of an anvil learning to swim; that is to say, he sunk far and fast. Had he slept more lightly, had the demands of a long and weary road travelled mostly on foot been less pressing, he might have heard the following:
"Is this the one?"
"Maybe, hard to tell. Bring the torch closer. I need to see his face."
"Careful, you'll wake him."
"This isn't him. Must be the other one."
"Right. I'll deal with him soon enough."
"Don't let him wake the other. We don't want extra trouble."
"All right, I've got it."
There was a brief scuffle, a thud, and then the woods were silent again. Gwaine slept on.
He awoke from dreams of moving, dancing forests to find the trees back where he had left them, solid and unbending and clearly delineated by the morning light.
It was well past sunrise, and Gwaine wondered why Lancelot had done nothing to wake him. The man had seemed impatient enough to reach the castle the night before; Gwaine had expected to be roused at the first glimmer of daylight. The puzzle was solved when Gwaine looked around and discovered that Lancelot, his blanket, saddle-bag, and every other sign of him was gone, leaving Gwaine alone beside the cold ashes. More to the point, both the horses were missing.
Gwaine cursed. Not with much creativity, but with a great deal of feeling. It wasn't as though he hadn't run into unscrupulous travellers before, but Lancelot had seemed so unflinchingly courteous. It was hard to believe he would go to so much trouble just to steal Gwaine's horse while he slept. Not that it was Gwaine's horse, except by moral right. Perhaps that was it. If Lancelot had had an attack of conscience in the night about Gwaine's liberation of the horse from its former owner, and decided to return it, he might have had the courtesy to consider Gwaine's feelings about walking the rest of the way to Camelot.
Gwaine gathered what remained of his belongings and tidied away the last of their camp in a fit of irritation. Fortunately he had kept his sword bundled beside him as he slept; he didn't own much else of value. He wondered if Lancelot would even bother to return this way if he were on a misguided errand of horse restoration. It had scarcely escaped Gwaine's notice how often Lancelot had checked his horse's progress after spurring it on unthinkingly. Perhaps he had simply forgotten Gwaine in his haste.
Well, Gwaine would not wait either. He did not mind the loss of such an unfriendly travelling companion. If he took some of the hunting tracks that ran through the forest he might even beat Lancelot and arrive first.
There were further benefits to this method of travel, Gwaine discovered in his way along a game trail; he was enjoying the opportunities it afforded to slash at any impinging growth that barred his way. It was not a particularly good example of valorous combat, but some of the plants, thick, resilient, and prickly, did put up a good effort at fighting back. Gwaine had just concluded a victorious battle against a gorse bush when he realized that the sounds he was still hearing of someone pushing through shrubbery were not his alone.
He stopped to listen and in a moment recognized footsteps bearing toward him, moving first at a fast walk and then speeding to a run. He was just looking around for signs of their likely quarry when a figure burst out from a dense patch of foliage right in front of him, and nearly bowled Gwaine over.
"Merlin?" he exclaimed in surprise. He had to grasp Merlin's elbows to stop them colliding, which led to an awkward dance on the narrow path.
"Gwaine?" said Merlin, equally startled, but then he was dragging Gwaine unceremoniously down into the gorse bushes and clapping a hand over his mouth. Gwaine didn't mind the position, but he had just spent a lot of effort getting out of those same gorse bushes.
A moment later, though, Merlin's reasons became clear, as a burly youth burst out of the undergrowth into the spot where they had just been standing.
"Merlin?" his pursuer called out. "Are you there? I think we'd better stick together, or one of us is going to get lost. Aha!" he exclaimed, spotting their hiding place. "Got you," he added in an undertone. An ugly, malicious look stretched itself across his features.
The youth's look and manner changed completely as he caught sight of Gwaine, becoming instantly closed off and guarded. His stance shifted subtly and Gwaine noticed that his sword was drawn, and had clearly been held at the ready during his pursuit. Without knowing what had passed between them, Gwaine could feel himself move instinctively to shelter Merlin, pushing out of the brambles to stand between the two of them, and letting his hand rest in readiness upon the hilt of his sword.
Gwaine's presence, however, was enough to deter the stranger from any immediate violence. His manner became at once relaxed and casual in the presence of a witness. The only thing left to attest to the threat were Gwaine's jangling nerves and the deathgrip Merlin kept on his arm.
Merlin came out of the bushes looking much more like himself, his clothes and hair wildly dishevelled, more than should have been possible from a few minutes' hiding. He seemed to become aware of some awkwardness in the situation and flushed.
"Erm. Gwaine, this is Sir Rothby, nephew of the Earl of Northumbria. Uh, this is Gwaine. Knight - soon to be knight of Camelot." Merlin cast a wary glance between the two of them: Gwaine still standing tense and at the ready to draw his sword, Sir Rothby seemingly at ease but with his sword still drawn. "Um. Maybe we should be heading back," he suggested, making motions to continue on the path toward the castle.
"Will you lead the way?" Sir Rothby asked, gesturing politely to the way ahead with his sword hand.
"Oh no, we insist," Gwaine growled, "after you." He took Merlin by the shoulder, lightly steering him to the side as they walked along the narrow path so that Gwaine remained between him and Sir Rothby the rest of the way back to the castle.
It was not quite the homecoming he had pictured, but then it might be a promising sign that a settled life at Camelot would not be as dull or routine as Gwaine had been imagining.
Merlin's nervousness of the morning had only increased when he found that Sir Rothby did not intend to take any attendants with them on their hunting trip.
"Too many people underfoot only interferes with the sport, don't you think?" he had said when Merlin commented on the intimate size of their party. He clapped Merlin heartily on the back, nearly knocking him over in the process.
"Shouldn't we take a guide at least?" Merlin suggested desperately. "It's only fair to tell you, I have a really terrible sense of direction. We could end up wandering for days. And wolves - there could be wolves. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you out there because I... would be useless against wolves."
Sir Rothby had merely laughed and made as if to thump Merlin's back again; Merlin flinched out of the way and Rothby seemed to get another laugh out of that. He began testing the points on his arrows, and Merlin made a show of doing the same, while running over a number of spells under his breath that could disable a person without too patently involving a magical effect. He knew he was probably being ridiculous and overreacting to just another unpleasant, somewhat buffoonish noble; there was no reason he shouldn't be able to defend himself against someone who relied on physical weapons.
It couldn't hurt to be careful, though. Hunting accidents could happen even without any ill intent, and if Sir Rothby was really so clumsy he could knock over a heavy candelabra onto Merlin's head without meaning to, Merlin didn't like to trust the results of letting him loose in the forest to go shoot things. At least not so long as Merlin was potentially one of those things.
Sir Rothby just made Merlin nervous. It was nothing so definite as the feeling he got from the proximity of powerful magic, but it sent a shiver down the back of his spine nonetheless. There was something about the apparently simple and straightforward knight that felt wrong.
Spending so much time alone with Sir Rothby in the woods had made Merlin edgy, even before Sir Rothby started firing arrows that missed Merlin's head by mere inches. At that point, Merlin decided the better part of valour was putting as much distance between himself and the knight as he possibly could. He would have been glad enough to run into Gwaine in any case, but Merlin could have kissed him for showing up when he did.
Lancelot's eyes flickered open to the sight of a grey stone ceiling. The rest of his body caught up with his consciousness a moment later and he uttered an involuntary, "Ow."
"Oh good, you're awake," said an unfamiliar female voice. "We thought Sidney might have traumatised you permanently. He's very strong, but his aim's bad, so I shouldn't think he wanted to kill you or anything. He was probably just aiming for your back. We're not a mindlessly violent family."
Lancelot groaned. There was something not right here, but he couldn't quite place it. His ears were ringing and he felt faintly nauseous, which wasn't helping him to think. He turned his head a little to the side towards the unfamiliar voice and decided that there was something he recognized about the young woman leaning over him with a faint expression of concern. He couldn't connect her face to anything else, though, and to figure out where he was he would have to move his head more. His head hurt right now and Lancelot wasn't sure it was worth it.
"What did you want to go and interfere like that for, anyway?" the young woman demanded. "I could have handled Greg just fine if you and your little friend hadn't got in the way."
"Greg-" Lancelot managed to repeat in some confusion.
"-ory. Sir Gregory," she elaborated, "my brother. He was the one your friend knocked out in the woods. The knight in black? I don't know what the world is coming to when ordinary people can start riding around in the woods like that, interfering in private matters. Is it any wonder Greg thinks you were trying to abduct me?"
Lancelot struggled up onto his elbows, although the move caused jabbing pains that told him he ought to lie down again and his head swam in protest. He could place the girl now, the one from the woods yesterday. And the black knight - her brother?
"Didn't you tell them what had happened?" he asked groggily.
"Of course I did, what do you think?" She rolled her eyes at him, and vanished for a moment from his field of vision, returning with a cup of water, which she held up for Lancelot to drink. "I told my father you were just a passing stranger who thought Greg was trying to abduct me. But Greg is such a dramatist, he doesn't like to admit he was knocked out by a big stick, so he's making the whole thing out to be a murderous attack. And then besides, there was the question of the armour."
"The armour... what about armour?" Lancelot asked. His head was still spinning, and there was a point somewhere at the back of his skull where pain was throbbing with a dull insistence. He hadn't been wearing any armour to travel, and said as much - probably if he had his head wouldn't be aching like this. It was something to think about for the future, whatever that man had said - whoever he was - about being knocked out by your own helmet.
"My armour, not yours," the girl said, as if it was obvious, "as if you could be expected to have anything like that. It was a knight's armour. They found the set in my saddle bags - well of course I had to come home to tell someone where Greg was and to make sure the pair of you hadn't killed him, only then they got a look through the saddle bags on my horse before I could hide them. So of course they found the armour I'd stashed there, and because I couldn't tell them about getting it from Timothy or what I'd wanted it for they just went and assumed it was yours, and that you were some mysterious knight, ha! As if I'd ever run away with someone who looks like he ought to be clearing out our stables." She said most of this without, apparently, pausing for breath. "It would probably fit you, though," she added a bit more reflectively, her head tilted to the side as if to take his measure. "We're about the same size. I suppose I can understand the mistake. Gregory was never a very good judge of character."
Lancelot was about to ask, "The same size as what?" but the scattered and tangled pieces of information were beginning to slot together in his head. He was also starting to remember the previous night, as well as the day preceding it, when he had met Gwaine. He remembered standing guard over their camp, pacing to and fro as far from the fire as he reasonably could, although he could not let Gwaine's sleeping form completely out of his sight. He had turned away for a moment, hearing a rustling noise come out of the trees, and then there had been a crash that made him put his hand to his sword, but everything in his memory went dark after that.
"They kidnapped me!" he exclaimed at last, connecting the idea of a night-time ambush with his presence in this unfamiliar room.
"Obviously," the girl agreed, as if he had been slow at figuring it out. "You're lucky they think I was running off with you willingly. And that they think you're actually a knight. Otherwise they'd just have thrown you in a cell to be flogged or something. As it is they'll probably let you recover a little before they insist on fighting you. You should try to sit up if you can. I'll have Mathilde send up some soup."
With that she took herself off, and Lancelot realized she had left him still not knowing her name. He pushed himself up fully, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and although his head throbbed even more at the movement, it subsided a little once he was sitting still.
The room was mostly bare. It was a small stone cell, such as might have been inhabited by an ascetic monk. The bed on which he now sat, a table, and a chair in which the girl must have been sitting before he woke, were its only furnishings. A much faded carpet covered the floor nearest the bed, the one concession to warmth in the otherwise sparse and chill stone room. There was a piece of plain work set aside on the table, that the girl must have left. The heavy oak door that she had shut behind her when she went away showed no signs from within of being barred, but he did not know if there would be guards waiting on the other side.
He stood carefully and walked towards the only window that his cell afforded. It showed that he was high up, in a turret that looked down slantwise at the main part of a stone castle. Below it he could see the hustle and bustle of daily life carrying on. Servants rushed back and forth on their own errands in a constant stream of activity.
There was a small practice yard just visible in an inside corner of the keep, and in it Lancelot could see an extremely broad-shouldered young man exercising his bladework against a wooden practice dummy. He wondered if it was one of the lady's brothers who had abducted him - not the one who had worn the black armour, based on his girth, but perhaps the one who had fetched him that powerful blow to the head.
He didn't hear the door open; the servants must have kept the door hinges exceptionally well oiled.
"So you must be the man who has us all in such a fine uproar today."
The speaker was a man of about forty, with dark hair and a beard, who stood watching Lancelot with his hands clasped behind his back.
"I'm afraid you have not had a very pleasant journey here," the man said apologetically. "My sons are somewhat impetuous, but they mean well. It was quite a shock to all of us to find Elaine missing - we all thought that someone- Well. We thought the worst. She swears though that no one took her from here by force, and I am inclined to believe her. She has always been impulsive."
Lancelot bowed, a somewhat curtailed courtesy since he was trying not to move his head too much.
"Sir, I take it you are the lord of this castle?" he asked.
The man inclined his head politely. "My name is Pelles, and I am the king of those lands - diminished and scattered though they may be - in which you were travelling. I can see you don't recognize the name," he added, taking in Lancelot's reaction. "You must be a stranger in this part of the country, then."
"A stranger to all of Camelot and the lands around it for several years," Lancelot admitted. "I have returned to offer my service once more to King Arthur. If you will send a messenger to the king, he will vouch for my honesty."
"I will send word to your friends if you wish, but it is not your honesty I doubt; my daughter has already explained the circumstances that led to your mistaken attack on my son. Although she still will not tell me the reason for her secretive departure, I do believe her account of your innocent encounter along the way."
"Then you do not mean to hold me here any longer?" Lancelot asked, feeling a weight lift off his heart.
Pelles did not answer immediately, and Lancelot's worse premonitions returned.
"I do not believe that you meant any harm by your actions," Pelles explained at length, "but harm has been done. Word of my daughter's flight has spread among the common people here, as well as the news that last night my sons brought her abductor back - a very handsome young man, by all reports," he added, looking Lancelot over critically. "Well, I suppose if one is to lose one's daughter to a scandalous elopement, the rogue may as well be a handsome one."
Lancelot opened his mouth to protest, but Pelles held up a hand to forestall it. "I know, I know, you never had that design. Still, you must think of how it looks to the people here when she vanished, and how easily they believe that young hearts will do everything they should not."
"That may be so," Lancelot agreed, "but surely you cannot hold me responsible for what these people say."
"That lies with your own conscience," Pelles said. "I cannot tell you how to feel in the matter. You can leave now if you wish. No guards will stop you, and I have bid my sons not to stand in your way. I will not imprison a man for a mistake, especially one he made in what he thought was the defense of one of my children's safety. However, if you do, my daughter's honour - her good name in this land - will be tarnished forever. I beg you, as a father, not to let that happen."
"What would you have me do?" Lancelot asked. "If there is anything I can say to relieve the people's suspicion, I will do so happily, but how much more likely is it that they will accept my word, as a stranger, if yours or your daughter's will not suffice?"
"It is not your word I have come to ask you for," Pelles said. "My daughter tells me you offered to defend her honour in combat when you first met her, before you had any idea of who she was. That is what I would ask you now to do. We will hold a tournament here in a week's time. If you wish to help my daughter retain her good name, you will enter the tournament as her champion and swear to defend her against all challengers."
"And who would my challengers be?" Lancelot asked, although he had already guessed at the answer.
"Her brothers will challenge your right to take up her defense yourself and each of them will fight you in turn to make you prove your worth."
Lancelot frowned. In principle he saw nothing wrong with fighting as a lady's champion, but to fight her own brothers for her sake - it seemed somehow of a weightier significance.
"If I win?" he asked Pelles.
"You win the right to my daughter's hand, and those lands which are her droit and inheritance," Pelles said simply. "You must admit it is a generous offer."
It was, no doubt, a generous offer, to hand over his daughter to a stranger for the sake of her reputation. Lancelot's feelings revolted at the idea, and yet he wondered what the alternative could be, if that was the first choice.
"And if I lose?" he wondered aloud.
"Assuming you survive the tournament itself -" Pelles held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, to show that it was a question of matters beyond his control "- you will be banished henceforth from these lands, to return only on penalty of death."
"And your daughter?" Lancelot wanted to know what the result was to be for her if he failed.
Pelles sighed heavily. "Consigned to some holy place, perhaps. There are some relics belonging to my family that she may be assigned to keep in her charge. Or a good marriage may not yet be impossible, if we can find a man of noble birth who will not mind whatever rumours are born of these events." He must have caught something of Lancelot's distaste for these suggestions in his expression, as he added, "This would be her fate in any case, if you choose to leave this place now. I only ask that you consider the alternative."
He made as if to leave and Lancelot called him back to say, "Your daughter - Elaine - may I speak to her before I make my decision?"
Pelles inclined his head. "I will send someone to bring you to her presently," he said, and was gone.
Lancelot paced aimlessly around the room. It was small, and he could scarcely take four strides from one end to the other before he had to turn. Though he had been assured he could leave, there was nowhere in particular for him to go, and so he made his rounds of the confined space, feeling like a caged animal, held in by the invisible bars of his situation.
If Pelles was to be believed, it would be easy enough to walk out of the door, slip away quietly, and avoid the entire mess of tangled obligations. He could still scarcely be more than a day's ride from Camelot, unless he had been unconscious much longer than he thought. If he took a horse from the stables - or his own if it was there - and rode through the day, he might yet arrive on the same day as he had expected, if a little later.
He couldn't help feeling some responsibility for what had happened, though. It was true he hadn't been the one to attack the Lady Elaine's brother, but it was his own self-righteous interference that had led to the mistake and brought him here. She might not be much worse off than if he had simply left her to be dragged home on her own, but now that he was involved, it felt too much like cowardice to slink off and let others sort out the consequences for themselves.
On the other hand, he had made a promise to Merlin that he would be at King Arthur's court within the next few days. Merlin had said that Arthur needed people close to him on whose loyalty he could rely - and what kind of loyalty would it be to ignore his king's summons for the benefit of strangers? If he remained, and if he was victorious in combat, it must seem that he had neglected his duty to his future king to pursue his own advantage in marriage.
And then there was the thought of going before Queen Guinevere - Gwen - honour-bound to another woman, someone whom he had just met. He wondered how he could bear to accept her welcome knowing that he had already betrayed her, in his faith if not in his heart. Yet perhaps it would be better for all concerned if he arrived already wed to another, as she was, so there could be no question of unwanted feelings standing in the way of friendship.
Better for all concerned, except perhaps the Lady Elaine. Of her wishes he knew nothing but that she had never intended to run off one day into the woods and the next find herself wed to a stranger.
Or he might lose the tournament and the outcome of it all would be meaningless, except that he would arrive a few days later, in the same condition, if perhaps a little more bruised and humbled. He trusted to his skill in combat, but he had gained more experience in a rougher style of fighting over the years than in the formal practice of the tourney grounds. He might not succeed at all.
Lancelot paced some more.
A knock on the door startled him, and he called out, "Come in!" expecting it to be Elaine. Instead, a pale and skinny boy entered the room, juggling a tray badly balanced with heavy dishes as he propped the door open first with a knee, then an elbow, finally catching it with the back of his heel and almost tripping the rest of the way in. Lancelot made an instinctive move to steady him, but by then the boy had recovered himself, sliding the tray down onto the table improbably without disaster.
Something about him reminded Lancelot strongly of Merlin - although if there had been a greater resemblance, no doubt his breakfast would be scattered across the floor rather than neatly collected on the table - and he couldn't help grinning at the strangely conducted bow the boy gave on quitting the room. He bent at unlikely places, as if his joints were purely present for show, and he folded up at whatever point of his anatomy occurred to him as being convenient at the moment.
Warmed by the thought of his friend, Lancelot sat down on the bed to eat with better appetite and cheer than he had expected a few minutes ago.
He had scarcely finished eating, and was still in fact contemplating an apple core with lingering interest, when the boy reappeared, made another awkward bow, and invited him to come visit the Lady Elaine's chambers.
Elaine smiled as they entered, which Lancelot at first took to be a good sign, but he soon found the welcome was directed rather at the serving boy than at him because the first greeting she gave was, "Thanks, Tim," and inquired whether he (Timothy) had got his share of the midday meal yet, before taking any notice of Lancelot at all.
When she did acknowledge his presence, it was only to say, "Well?" in the same tone as she might have said, "You again?"
Lancelot wondered at their being left alone together, after her father had expressed so much concern over the very idea of his daughter eloping, and said so.
"Oh, he probably thinks you've already done the worst you could by compromising my reputation," Elaine said with complete unconcern.
Lancelot wondered at this attitude even more, but only asked, "and your father's plans?"
"They're all roughly the same as before, aren't they?" she said. "He wants to see me married one way or another. I think father had his hopes that when it came time for the King of Camelot to choose his queen, he would look towards us." She shrugged without much interest. "I never met him, but I suppose it would have been something to be queen. His kingdom is much larger than my father's, you know." She said it as if she were discussing the relative merits of a pair of shoes. She could have been saying, "This one has buttons, but the other ones are blue."
"Did you never think of marrying for love?" Lancelot asked her.
She merely shrugged again. "Father says that isn't the point of marrying people. Or rather he says that people who have lands to think about don't marry each other for love, that's for poor people to do. Nobles only marry so that their lands won't be divided and lost through the generations. So it's really got more to do with map-making than feelings."
Lancelot was puzzled by the phrase. "Map-making?"
"Oh, you know, lines on maps," she said, gesturing to one wall, the move seeming random, until he realized she was pointing out a tapestry that picked out stylized features of the countryside between its motifs of lords and ladies riding through the woods. "Marriages and children rearrange all the lines. Unless you go around marrying your cousins until everyone looks so alike you can't remember the right names at the dinner table. I think father's always hoped since he had four children he could annex the kingdoms in every direction by marrying us off to the relevant heirs. He's had Greg in mind for the Princess Elena and me for Prince Arthur since that match was broken off - only now Arthur is king and married, he doesn't know what to do with me any more. He started inviting minor barons a few weeks ago out of desperation and the first one to arrive had warts everywhere."
Lancelot made a suitable noise of sympathy about the warts. "But have you never felt - has there never been anyone you wanted to marry? Someone you would have married if you were -" he stumbled over the words "- one of the poor people and could do as you liked."
Elaine wrinkled her nose and appeared to ponder this. After a moment she took a step back and ran her eyes over Lancelot assessingly. Then she squinted, tilted her head the other way and did it again, closing her left eye halfway through and peering judgmentally at him out of the right one.
Lancelot found himself growing increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze and wished he could interpose some piece of furniture - or possibly a small but sturdy battlement - between them.
"Hmm," she said finally, after a long, lingering look at his neck, "no, I don't think there's anyone I'd want to marry. But I'll give it some thought."
"Erm -" Lancelot gargled. He coughed repeatedly to clear his throat and tried to ignore the rising warmth in his cheeks. "I suppose your father told you what he has in mind as the, uh, for the... results of the tournament?"
"You mean that I'm to be the prize," Elaine said frankly. "Yes, he offered me the choice between marrying my 'chivalrous highwayman', as he called you, or spending the rest of my life looking after his old dinner set."
Lancelot, who had been nodding along in understanding, had to stop to say, "Dinner set?"
"His cup thing, and some bit of wood that's supposed to be from a spear or something, but looks more like a splintered old table knife." She went over to the tapestry that she had pointed out before, and drew a corner of it back to reveal a closet behind it. She vanished for a moment and returned holding an ancient wooden cup - almost like a beggar's bowl - and a broken-off piece of wood that did slightly resemble a crude knife.
"You see?" she said. "This is the great legacy my father has in store for me if he can't dispose of me suitably. Sometimes I think it'd be better to just set fire to the things and claim they'd vanished - only then I suppose he'd accuse one of my attendants or something else." She stepped back into the closet and Lancelot could hear the objects clatter as she tossed them back into their places. "So you can see why I wanted to leave," she added, coming back into the room, "and why I was so glad about Tim."
Lancelot considered the serving boy with renewed interest. "Was he the one you were -" he didn't know whether to add, "running away with."
"Oh, Tim helped me to sneak away. Only I couldn't tell my father or my brothers that, because they might have turned him away for it - or something worse. He was the only one who knew where I'd gone, you see, but he'd sworn not to tell them where I was, and I'd sworn not to tell anyone about him helping, so neither of us could tell anyone that I hadn't known anything about you."
"I see," said Lancelot, who wasn't sure he did. "You haven't told me, though, if there was anyone you were expecting to meet in the forest -" He couldn't help feeling it was a matter of some importance if there was someone she had actually intended to elope with, who might be a better candidate for doing battle for her hand.
She stared at him as if he'd suggested she had been out hunting for pixie dust. "Why would you think that? You don't imagine I had a secret rendez-vous with your branch-wielding friend, do you?
"No, I meant, the armour," Lancelot said hastily, "that you said they thought you meant for me. But it wasn't."
She scowled at him fiercely. "I've already told you that - it was mine. You're as bad as William, I tried telling him that it couldn't be some, some man's armour," she said with great scorn, "because it was clearly meant for me, but he just said, 'what would you want armour for, and where would you get it anyway,' and looked smug and self-satisfied when I wouldn't answer. I saved up nearly a year for that armour and sold bits of fine work in the town through Tim, and he snuck away every fortnight for two months carrying measurements back and forth in secret to the town blacksmith, and now they'll probably just let you wear it for the tournament, and you'll probably ruin it too, getting yourself knocked about by Greg. It doesn't seem fair." Her voice was edged with a frustration that sounded so near to tears that Lancelot hesitated, not wanting to disturb her any further.
"Am I to understand, then, that you wish me to fight your brothers in this tournament?" Lancelot asked cautiously.
Elaine sighed shakily. "You might as well. If you don't, I'll probably never get away from here, and you don't seem like you'd be too horrible to marry. Not like a troll or a baron with warts or anything. Besides -" and a brighter gleam of interest came into her eye for the first time in their conversation "- you did say you were headed for Camelot, didn't you?"
Lancelot agreed, but said, "I thought you said there was nothing interesting at Camelot now that you couldn't marry the King?"
"I never said there was," she said quickly. "It would just be a change from guarding a goblet for the rest of my life."
"Then I will go speak to your father about this challenge," Lancelot said, with a small bow.
"Don't let William get in under your right side," she said almost absently as he left. "He has a nasty little trick of jabbing people beneath the sword arm and knocking it out."
Part Three
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/62455.html at Dreamwidth.
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Back to Part One
The Queen of Camelot slipped into the lord privy councillor's chambers the next morning, not long after breakfast. Her presence there was nothing unprecedented; they often spent a quiet morning together when the King was busy with affairs that did not require their presence.
In times of crisis, Merlin and Gwen were welcome voices of counsel and wisdom (much as the King hated to use that term with regard to Merlin) within the general council. When the occasion allowed, however, Arthur much preferred to consult their judgment in private, away from prying ears. He claimed it was because he didn't want his concentration interrupted at a diplomatically vital moment.
In fact, it was largely because Arthur disliked having an audience for conversations that went as follows:
"What's that bit with the squiggly lines?"
"That's the ocean, Merlin, it's a big wet thing that goes all around the isle of Albion. That's why it's called an island."
"No, no, I see what he means - over there - are you expecting an attack by an army of snakes?"
"Wyverns, those are wyverns, they've very clearly got heads, and tails, and talons, and very sharp, pointy teeth."
"..."
"Of course, dear, I see that now. It's a very nice drawing, Arthur."
For the sake of the dignity of the Crown, therefore, Arthur surrounded himself with his more respectful advisors when there were potential witnesses. Since Arthur was still working hard to establish himself as a figure of authority and a strong successor to his father, Gwen and Merlin ended up spending quite a lot of time on their own together during council meetings, or as their own duties permitted.
This morning, however, Gwen arrived to find no sign of her friend anywhere in his chambers. She hunted through the rooms everywhere she could think of with no result until a whispered "Gwen!" startled her as she stood near the bed. A moment later she barely restrained a shriek as something reached out and grabbed her ankle, tugging her closer.
She shook it off and knelt down cautiously beside the bed, not discounting the possibility of something unpleasant leaping out at her when she did. Instead she came face to face with Merlin, who was making frantic shushing noises.
"Merlin, come on, you can't stay under there forever," Gwen reasoned with the bedstead after attempting, unsuccessfully, to lure him out.
"Are you sure that Sir Rothby isn't around?" Merlin asked after insisting that Gwen make another check of the room for eavesdroppers.
"We're the only ones here," Gwen assured him, "and my personal guards are still outside the door. I don't think anyone can have got in here in the last five minutes."
"He's trying to kill me," Merlin said plaintively, his voice somewhat muffled by bedclothes and cobwebs.
"No one's trying to kill you," Gwen said with a sigh. "It was just an accident, it could have happened to anyone."
"He set fire to my robes!" Merlin exclaimed, a single charred sleeve emerging from under the bed in brief visual emphasis.
"You're always saying you'd like to do that yourself," Gwen pointed out. It was true. Merlin regularly threatened to burn his official garments and was only kept in check by the King's promise that, if he did, he would find a new and more garish set waiting for him by the end of the day and the King himself would personally feed him his new hat.
"I was in them at the time," Merlin protested. "If one of the kitchen maids hadn't spotted it and thrown soup over me to put it out, someone could have been hurt! As it is, that soup will never be recovered." He said it with great solemnity, as if the pot of mushed peas were one of the greatest losses Camelot would have to suffer.
"You have to remember how young he is," Gwen pleaded. "You must have made as many mistakes when you were new here and he's not that much older than you were then. Probably the court of Camelot is very grand and strange compared to what he's used to at home and his nerves are making him clumsy. Besides, he's a cousin of the Earl, we can't afford to offend him, and you did promise to spend some time with him last night."
"That was before I was aware of his homicidal tendencies!" Merlin exclaimed. "He was talking about riding off into an isolated spot in the woods today for a bit of hunting. I'm not good at hunting, Gwen, I usually bump into things. At least Arthur used to make sure no one shot me; I don't think Sir Rothby is going to be that bothered."
Merlin fixed a sad and helpless look on his face, forcing Gwen to harden her heart as best she could with the memory of the many times that Merlin had caused life-threatening mishaps of his own. The time he had nearly destroyed the castle kitchens over a theory about an intruder being able to hide in the largest cooking pot made a good example; they'd been scraping exploded shards of pot and cabbage leaves off the kitchen walls for weeks. Gwen doubted the Northumbrian knight could have a greater capacity for haphazard destruction.
"You can't just stand Sir Rothby up if he's expecting you," Gwen insisted. "If you don't come out of here dressed and ready to be diplomatic in the next five minutes, I'm going to have to send the guards in to drag you out."
"I could tell Arthur I'm sick," Merlin suggested brightly. "I'm very ill and I need to rest and I haven't got time to be assassinated by any pyromaniac knights from Northumbria today."
Gwen shook her head. "It won't work, I'm afraid, and I haven't got any more time to play hide and seek this morning. I have to go discuss dress fashions with the awful Lady Lavinia and try to convince her that a sundering of the truce between Camelot and Northumbria would mean that all her sleeves would be out of date and a source of general social mockery by the end of the year."
Merlin frowned. "Isn't she the one who tripped over her own lace ruff at dinner last night? I thought she was already a source of universal mockery."
Gwen snickered and then quickly repressed it. "Yes, but if anyone tells her that, she could start a war. I really have to go."
There was a hearty sigh from under the bed as Gwen stood, and a moment later Merlin emerged, somewhat dusty and dishevelled, from his hiding place.
"I would just like it to be known and recorded for future generations," he announced, "that, if I die today, it was all due to the unkindness and the politically conniving heart of the Queen Guinevere."
Gwen giggled. "I'll make sure Geoffrey gets a note about it, if you do."
Merlin solemnly retrieved his hat - a red, garish cap that extended about a foot above his face - and placed it on his head with funereal gravity. "Remember me fondly," he said, kissing Gwen on the cheek and leaving behind a cobweb on her hair.
Gwen smiled after him, then sighed and went to go find someone to talk to about lace.
Arthur meanwhile would have happily traded places with either of them if it had meant someone else had to endure the lengthy speech that the Earl of Northumbria was giving him about the weight and onerous responsibilities of kingship. The Earl had begun with belated condolences on his father's death, profuse regrets that he had not been able to attend the funeral, a few score words on the importance of strength in a ruler, which Uther had displayed, and several hundred on the dangers of appearing hesitant or indecisive, which Uther had not. The entire speech was tinged with condescension and filled with references to Arthur's "youth" - which Arthur thought was a bit rich coming from a man barely five years older than himself, and who had been ruling about as long.
The Earl concluded with his thanks for Arthur's invitation to visit the court of Camelot - which the Earl had ignored for almost five months - and assured him that Northumbria had every intention of supporting the new King with the same steadfastness as the old - which Arthur doubted.
"Thank you for your words of friendship," Arthur said, jumping in at the first available pause lest the Earl get a second wind and begin a new discourse on the philosophy of kingship. "Northumbria has always been one of our most valued allies, and I hope will continue to be so for a long time. Perhaps while you are here, we could go over one or two areas of mutual concern - matters of security along our borders..."
"Indeed, indeed," the Earl interjected, "as I have always said, the fruit of alliance is born from the sweetest flower, but also the most delicate, which needs the most careful tending, a jealous husbanding..."
Arthur slumped imperceptibly in his chair, and only managed to retain a moderately cheerful expression by reminding himself that eight years ago, when the Earl had still been "that little twerp, Rupert" and only third in line for his father's seat, Arthur had had the very great pleasure of knocking the stuffing out of him in a practice bout.
Gwaine slept, when at last he did sleep, with all the dedication of an anvil learning to swim; that is to say, he sunk far and fast. Had he slept more lightly, had the demands of a long and weary road travelled mostly on foot been less pressing, he might have heard the following:
"Is this the one?"
"Maybe, hard to tell. Bring the torch closer. I need to see his face."
"Careful, you'll wake him."
"This isn't him. Must be the other one."
"Right. I'll deal with him soon enough."
"Don't let him wake the other. We don't want extra trouble."
"All right, I've got it."
There was a brief scuffle, a thud, and then the woods were silent again. Gwaine slept on.
He awoke from dreams of moving, dancing forests to find the trees back where he had left them, solid and unbending and clearly delineated by the morning light.
It was well past sunrise, and Gwaine wondered why Lancelot had done nothing to wake him. The man had seemed impatient enough to reach the castle the night before; Gwaine had expected to be roused at the first glimmer of daylight. The puzzle was solved when Gwaine looked around and discovered that Lancelot, his blanket, saddle-bag, and every other sign of him was gone, leaving Gwaine alone beside the cold ashes. More to the point, both the horses were missing.
Gwaine cursed. Not with much creativity, but with a great deal of feeling. It wasn't as though he hadn't run into unscrupulous travellers before, but Lancelot had seemed so unflinchingly courteous. It was hard to believe he would go to so much trouble just to steal Gwaine's horse while he slept. Not that it was Gwaine's horse, except by moral right. Perhaps that was it. If Lancelot had had an attack of conscience in the night about Gwaine's liberation of the horse from its former owner, and decided to return it, he might have had the courtesy to consider Gwaine's feelings about walking the rest of the way to Camelot.
Gwaine gathered what remained of his belongings and tidied away the last of their camp in a fit of irritation. Fortunately he had kept his sword bundled beside him as he slept; he didn't own much else of value. He wondered if Lancelot would even bother to return this way if he were on a misguided errand of horse restoration. It had scarcely escaped Gwaine's notice how often Lancelot had checked his horse's progress after spurring it on unthinkingly. Perhaps he had simply forgotten Gwaine in his haste.
Well, Gwaine would not wait either. He did not mind the loss of such an unfriendly travelling companion. If he took some of the hunting tracks that ran through the forest he might even beat Lancelot and arrive first.
There were further benefits to this method of travel, Gwaine discovered in his way along a game trail; he was enjoying the opportunities it afforded to slash at any impinging growth that barred his way. It was not a particularly good example of valorous combat, but some of the plants, thick, resilient, and prickly, did put up a good effort at fighting back. Gwaine had just concluded a victorious battle against a gorse bush when he realized that the sounds he was still hearing of someone pushing through shrubbery were not his alone.
He stopped to listen and in a moment recognized footsteps bearing toward him, moving first at a fast walk and then speeding to a run. He was just looking around for signs of their likely quarry when a figure burst out from a dense patch of foliage right in front of him, and nearly bowled Gwaine over.
"Merlin?" he exclaimed in surprise. He had to grasp Merlin's elbows to stop them colliding, which led to an awkward dance on the narrow path.
"Gwaine?" said Merlin, equally startled, but then he was dragging Gwaine unceremoniously down into the gorse bushes and clapping a hand over his mouth. Gwaine didn't mind the position, but he had just spent a lot of effort getting out of those same gorse bushes.
A moment later, though, Merlin's reasons became clear, as a burly youth burst out of the undergrowth into the spot where they had just been standing.
"Merlin?" his pursuer called out. "Are you there? I think we'd better stick together, or one of us is going to get lost. Aha!" he exclaimed, spotting their hiding place. "Got you," he added in an undertone. An ugly, malicious look stretched itself across his features.
The youth's look and manner changed completely as he caught sight of Gwaine, becoming instantly closed off and guarded. His stance shifted subtly and Gwaine noticed that his sword was drawn, and had clearly been held at the ready during his pursuit. Without knowing what had passed between them, Gwaine could feel himself move instinctively to shelter Merlin, pushing out of the brambles to stand between the two of them, and letting his hand rest in readiness upon the hilt of his sword.
Gwaine's presence, however, was enough to deter the stranger from any immediate violence. His manner became at once relaxed and casual in the presence of a witness. The only thing left to attest to the threat were Gwaine's jangling nerves and the deathgrip Merlin kept on his arm.
Merlin came out of the bushes looking much more like himself, his clothes and hair wildly dishevelled, more than should have been possible from a few minutes' hiding. He seemed to become aware of some awkwardness in the situation and flushed.
"Erm. Gwaine, this is Sir Rothby, nephew of the Earl of Northumbria. Uh, this is Gwaine. Knight - soon to be knight of Camelot." Merlin cast a wary glance between the two of them: Gwaine still standing tense and at the ready to draw his sword, Sir Rothby seemingly at ease but with his sword still drawn. "Um. Maybe we should be heading back," he suggested, making motions to continue on the path toward the castle.
"Will you lead the way?" Sir Rothby asked, gesturing politely to the way ahead with his sword hand.
"Oh no, we insist," Gwaine growled, "after you." He took Merlin by the shoulder, lightly steering him to the side as they walked along the narrow path so that Gwaine remained between him and Sir Rothby the rest of the way back to the castle.
It was not quite the homecoming he had pictured, but then it might be a promising sign that a settled life at Camelot would not be as dull or routine as Gwaine had been imagining.
Merlin's nervousness of the morning had only increased when he found that Sir Rothby did not intend to take any attendants with them on their hunting trip.
"Too many people underfoot only interferes with the sport, don't you think?" he had said when Merlin commented on the intimate size of their party. He clapped Merlin heartily on the back, nearly knocking him over in the process.
"Shouldn't we take a guide at least?" Merlin suggested desperately. "It's only fair to tell you, I have a really terrible sense of direction. We could end up wandering for days. And wolves - there could be wolves. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you out there because I... would be useless against wolves."
Sir Rothby had merely laughed and made as if to thump Merlin's back again; Merlin flinched out of the way and Rothby seemed to get another laugh out of that. He began testing the points on his arrows, and Merlin made a show of doing the same, while running over a number of spells under his breath that could disable a person without too patently involving a magical effect. He knew he was probably being ridiculous and overreacting to just another unpleasant, somewhat buffoonish noble; there was no reason he shouldn't be able to defend himself against someone who relied on physical weapons.
It couldn't hurt to be careful, though. Hunting accidents could happen even without any ill intent, and if Sir Rothby was really so clumsy he could knock over a heavy candelabra onto Merlin's head without meaning to, Merlin didn't like to trust the results of letting him loose in the forest to go shoot things. At least not so long as Merlin was potentially one of those things.
Sir Rothby just made Merlin nervous. It was nothing so definite as the feeling he got from the proximity of powerful magic, but it sent a shiver down the back of his spine nonetheless. There was something about the apparently simple and straightforward knight that felt wrong.
Spending so much time alone with Sir Rothby in the woods had made Merlin edgy, even before Sir Rothby started firing arrows that missed Merlin's head by mere inches. At that point, Merlin decided the better part of valour was putting as much distance between himself and the knight as he possibly could. He would have been glad enough to run into Gwaine in any case, but Merlin could have kissed him for showing up when he did.
Lancelot's eyes flickered open to the sight of a grey stone ceiling. The rest of his body caught up with his consciousness a moment later and he uttered an involuntary, "Ow."
"Oh good, you're awake," said an unfamiliar female voice. "We thought Sidney might have traumatised you permanently. He's very strong, but his aim's bad, so I shouldn't think he wanted to kill you or anything. He was probably just aiming for your back. We're not a mindlessly violent family."
Lancelot groaned. There was something not right here, but he couldn't quite place it. His ears were ringing and he felt faintly nauseous, which wasn't helping him to think. He turned his head a little to the side towards the unfamiliar voice and decided that there was something he recognized about the young woman leaning over him with a faint expression of concern. He couldn't connect her face to anything else, though, and to figure out where he was he would have to move his head more. His head hurt right now and Lancelot wasn't sure it was worth it.
"What did you want to go and interfere like that for, anyway?" the young woman demanded. "I could have handled Greg just fine if you and your little friend hadn't got in the way."
"Greg-" Lancelot managed to repeat in some confusion.
"-ory. Sir Gregory," she elaborated, "my brother. He was the one your friend knocked out in the woods. The knight in black? I don't know what the world is coming to when ordinary people can start riding around in the woods like that, interfering in private matters. Is it any wonder Greg thinks you were trying to abduct me?"
Lancelot struggled up onto his elbows, although the move caused jabbing pains that told him he ought to lie down again and his head swam in protest. He could place the girl now, the one from the woods yesterday. And the black knight - her brother?
"Didn't you tell them what had happened?" he asked groggily.
"Of course I did, what do you think?" She rolled her eyes at him, and vanished for a moment from his field of vision, returning with a cup of water, which she held up for Lancelot to drink. "I told my father you were just a passing stranger who thought Greg was trying to abduct me. But Greg is such a dramatist, he doesn't like to admit he was knocked out by a big stick, so he's making the whole thing out to be a murderous attack. And then besides, there was the question of the armour."
"The armour... what about armour?" Lancelot asked. His head was still spinning, and there was a point somewhere at the back of his skull where pain was throbbing with a dull insistence. He hadn't been wearing any armour to travel, and said as much - probably if he had his head wouldn't be aching like this. It was something to think about for the future, whatever that man had said - whoever he was - about being knocked out by your own helmet.
"My armour, not yours," the girl said, as if it was obvious, "as if you could be expected to have anything like that. It was a knight's armour. They found the set in my saddle bags - well of course I had to come home to tell someone where Greg was and to make sure the pair of you hadn't killed him, only then they got a look through the saddle bags on my horse before I could hide them. So of course they found the armour I'd stashed there, and because I couldn't tell them about getting it from Timothy or what I'd wanted it for they just went and assumed it was yours, and that you were some mysterious knight, ha! As if I'd ever run away with someone who looks like he ought to be clearing out our stables." She said most of this without, apparently, pausing for breath. "It would probably fit you, though," she added a bit more reflectively, her head tilted to the side as if to take his measure. "We're about the same size. I suppose I can understand the mistake. Gregory was never a very good judge of character."
Lancelot was about to ask, "The same size as what?" but the scattered and tangled pieces of information were beginning to slot together in his head. He was also starting to remember the previous night, as well as the day preceding it, when he had met Gwaine. He remembered standing guard over their camp, pacing to and fro as far from the fire as he reasonably could, although he could not let Gwaine's sleeping form completely out of his sight. He had turned away for a moment, hearing a rustling noise come out of the trees, and then there had been a crash that made him put his hand to his sword, but everything in his memory went dark after that.
"They kidnapped me!" he exclaimed at last, connecting the idea of a night-time ambush with his presence in this unfamiliar room.
"Obviously," the girl agreed, as if he had been slow at figuring it out. "You're lucky they think I was running off with you willingly. And that they think you're actually a knight. Otherwise they'd just have thrown you in a cell to be flogged or something. As it is they'll probably let you recover a little before they insist on fighting you. You should try to sit up if you can. I'll have Mathilde send up some soup."
With that she took herself off, and Lancelot realized she had left him still not knowing her name. He pushed himself up fully, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and although his head throbbed even more at the movement, it subsided a little once he was sitting still.
The room was mostly bare. It was a small stone cell, such as might have been inhabited by an ascetic monk. The bed on which he now sat, a table, and a chair in which the girl must have been sitting before he woke, were its only furnishings. A much faded carpet covered the floor nearest the bed, the one concession to warmth in the otherwise sparse and chill stone room. There was a piece of plain work set aside on the table, that the girl must have left. The heavy oak door that she had shut behind her when she went away showed no signs from within of being barred, but he did not know if there would be guards waiting on the other side.
He stood carefully and walked towards the only window that his cell afforded. It showed that he was high up, in a turret that looked down slantwise at the main part of a stone castle. Below it he could see the hustle and bustle of daily life carrying on. Servants rushed back and forth on their own errands in a constant stream of activity.
There was a small practice yard just visible in an inside corner of the keep, and in it Lancelot could see an extremely broad-shouldered young man exercising his bladework against a wooden practice dummy. He wondered if it was one of the lady's brothers who had abducted him - not the one who had worn the black armour, based on his girth, but perhaps the one who had fetched him that powerful blow to the head.
He didn't hear the door open; the servants must have kept the door hinges exceptionally well oiled.
"So you must be the man who has us all in such a fine uproar today."
The speaker was a man of about forty, with dark hair and a beard, who stood watching Lancelot with his hands clasped behind his back.
"I'm afraid you have not had a very pleasant journey here," the man said apologetically. "My sons are somewhat impetuous, but they mean well. It was quite a shock to all of us to find Elaine missing - we all thought that someone- Well. We thought the worst. She swears though that no one took her from here by force, and I am inclined to believe her. She has always been impulsive."
Lancelot bowed, a somewhat curtailed courtesy since he was trying not to move his head too much.
"Sir, I take it you are the lord of this castle?" he asked.
The man inclined his head politely. "My name is Pelles, and I am the king of those lands - diminished and scattered though they may be - in which you were travelling. I can see you don't recognize the name," he added, taking in Lancelot's reaction. "You must be a stranger in this part of the country, then."
"A stranger to all of Camelot and the lands around it for several years," Lancelot admitted. "I have returned to offer my service once more to King Arthur. If you will send a messenger to the king, he will vouch for my honesty."
"I will send word to your friends if you wish, but it is not your honesty I doubt; my daughter has already explained the circumstances that led to your mistaken attack on my son. Although she still will not tell me the reason for her secretive departure, I do believe her account of your innocent encounter along the way."
"Then you do not mean to hold me here any longer?" Lancelot asked, feeling a weight lift off his heart.
Pelles did not answer immediately, and Lancelot's worse premonitions returned.
"I do not believe that you meant any harm by your actions," Pelles explained at length, "but harm has been done. Word of my daughter's flight has spread among the common people here, as well as the news that last night my sons brought her abductor back - a very handsome young man, by all reports," he added, looking Lancelot over critically. "Well, I suppose if one is to lose one's daughter to a scandalous elopement, the rogue may as well be a handsome one."
Lancelot opened his mouth to protest, but Pelles held up a hand to forestall it. "I know, I know, you never had that design. Still, you must think of how it looks to the people here when she vanished, and how easily they believe that young hearts will do everything they should not."
"That may be so," Lancelot agreed, "but surely you cannot hold me responsible for what these people say."
"That lies with your own conscience," Pelles said. "I cannot tell you how to feel in the matter. You can leave now if you wish. No guards will stop you, and I have bid my sons not to stand in your way. I will not imprison a man for a mistake, especially one he made in what he thought was the defense of one of my children's safety. However, if you do, my daughter's honour - her good name in this land - will be tarnished forever. I beg you, as a father, not to let that happen."
"What would you have me do?" Lancelot asked. "If there is anything I can say to relieve the people's suspicion, I will do so happily, but how much more likely is it that they will accept my word, as a stranger, if yours or your daughter's will not suffice?"
"It is not your word I have come to ask you for," Pelles said. "My daughter tells me you offered to defend her honour in combat when you first met her, before you had any idea of who she was. That is what I would ask you now to do. We will hold a tournament here in a week's time. If you wish to help my daughter retain her good name, you will enter the tournament as her champion and swear to defend her against all challengers."
"And who would my challengers be?" Lancelot asked, although he had already guessed at the answer.
"Her brothers will challenge your right to take up her defense yourself and each of them will fight you in turn to make you prove your worth."
Lancelot frowned. In principle he saw nothing wrong with fighting as a lady's champion, but to fight her own brothers for her sake - it seemed somehow of a weightier significance.
"If I win?" he asked Pelles.
"You win the right to my daughter's hand, and those lands which are her droit and inheritance," Pelles said simply. "You must admit it is a generous offer."
It was, no doubt, a generous offer, to hand over his daughter to a stranger for the sake of her reputation. Lancelot's feelings revolted at the idea, and yet he wondered what the alternative could be, if that was the first choice.
"And if I lose?" he wondered aloud.
"Assuming you survive the tournament itself -" Pelles held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, to show that it was a question of matters beyond his control "- you will be banished henceforth from these lands, to return only on penalty of death."
"And your daughter?" Lancelot wanted to know what the result was to be for her if he failed.
Pelles sighed heavily. "Consigned to some holy place, perhaps. There are some relics belonging to my family that she may be assigned to keep in her charge. Or a good marriage may not yet be impossible, if we can find a man of noble birth who will not mind whatever rumours are born of these events." He must have caught something of Lancelot's distaste for these suggestions in his expression, as he added, "This would be her fate in any case, if you choose to leave this place now. I only ask that you consider the alternative."
He made as if to leave and Lancelot called him back to say, "Your daughter - Elaine - may I speak to her before I make my decision?"
Pelles inclined his head. "I will send someone to bring you to her presently," he said, and was gone.
Lancelot paced aimlessly around the room. It was small, and he could scarcely take four strides from one end to the other before he had to turn. Though he had been assured he could leave, there was nowhere in particular for him to go, and so he made his rounds of the confined space, feeling like a caged animal, held in by the invisible bars of his situation.
If Pelles was to be believed, it would be easy enough to walk out of the door, slip away quietly, and avoid the entire mess of tangled obligations. He could still scarcely be more than a day's ride from Camelot, unless he had been unconscious much longer than he thought. If he took a horse from the stables - or his own if it was there - and rode through the day, he might yet arrive on the same day as he had expected, if a little later.
He couldn't help feeling some responsibility for what had happened, though. It was true he hadn't been the one to attack the Lady Elaine's brother, but it was his own self-righteous interference that had led to the mistake and brought him here. She might not be much worse off than if he had simply left her to be dragged home on her own, but now that he was involved, it felt too much like cowardice to slink off and let others sort out the consequences for themselves.
On the other hand, he had made a promise to Merlin that he would be at King Arthur's court within the next few days. Merlin had said that Arthur needed people close to him on whose loyalty he could rely - and what kind of loyalty would it be to ignore his king's summons for the benefit of strangers? If he remained, and if he was victorious in combat, it must seem that he had neglected his duty to his future king to pursue his own advantage in marriage.
And then there was the thought of going before Queen Guinevere - Gwen - honour-bound to another woman, someone whom he had just met. He wondered how he could bear to accept her welcome knowing that he had already betrayed her, in his faith if not in his heart. Yet perhaps it would be better for all concerned if he arrived already wed to another, as she was, so there could be no question of unwanted feelings standing in the way of friendship.
Better for all concerned, except perhaps the Lady Elaine. Of her wishes he knew nothing but that she had never intended to run off one day into the woods and the next find herself wed to a stranger.
Or he might lose the tournament and the outcome of it all would be meaningless, except that he would arrive a few days later, in the same condition, if perhaps a little more bruised and humbled. He trusted to his skill in combat, but he had gained more experience in a rougher style of fighting over the years than in the formal practice of the tourney grounds. He might not succeed at all.
Lancelot paced some more.
A knock on the door startled him, and he called out, "Come in!" expecting it to be Elaine. Instead, a pale and skinny boy entered the room, juggling a tray badly balanced with heavy dishes as he propped the door open first with a knee, then an elbow, finally catching it with the back of his heel and almost tripping the rest of the way in. Lancelot made an instinctive move to steady him, but by then the boy had recovered himself, sliding the tray down onto the table improbably without disaster.
Something about him reminded Lancelot strongly of Merlin - although if there had been a greater resemblance, no doubt his breakfast would be scattered across the floor rather than neatly collected on the table - and he couldn't help grinning at the strangely conducted bow the boy gave on quitting the room. He bent at unlikely places, as if his joints were purely present for show, and he folded up at whatever point of his anatomy occurred to him as being convenient at the moment.
Warmed by the thought of his friend, Lancelot sat down on the bed to eat with better appetite and cheer than he had expected a few minutes ago.
He had scarcely finished eating, and was still in fact contemplating an apple core with lingering interest, when the boy reappeared, made another awkward bow, and invited him to come visit the Lady Elaine's chambers.
Elaine smiled as they entered, which Lancelot at first took to be a good sign, but he soon found the welcome was directed rather at the serving boy than at him because the first greeting she gave was, "Thanks, Tim," and inquired whether he (Timothy) had got his share of the midday meal yet, before taking any notice of Lancelot at all.
When she did acknowledge his presence, it was only to say, "Well?" in the same tone as she might have said, "You again?"
Lancelot wondered at their being left alone together, after her father had expressed so much concern over the very idea of his daughter eloping, and said so.
"Oh, he probably thinks you've already done the worst you could by compromising my reputation," Elaine said with complete unconcern.
Lancelot wondered at this attitude even more, but only asked, "and your father's plans?"
"They're all roughly the same as before, aren't they?" she said. "He wants to see me married one way or another. I think father had his hopes that when it came time for the King of Camelot to choose his queen, he would look towards us." She shrugged without much interest. "I never met him, but I suppose it would have been something to be queen. His kingdom is much larger than my father's, you know." She said it as if she were discussing the relative merits of a pair of shoes. She could have been saying, "This one has buttons, but the other ones are blue."
"Did you never think of marrying for love?" Lancelot asked her.
She merely shrugged again. "Father says that isn't the point of marrying people. Or rather he says that people who have lands to think about don't marry each other for love, that's for poor people to do. Nobles only marry so that their lands won't be divided and lost through the generations. So it's really got more to do with map-making than feelings."
Lancelot was puzzled by the phrase. "Map-making?"
"Oh, you know, lines on maps," she said, gesturing to one wall, the move seeming random, until he realized she was pointing out a tapestry that picked out stylized features of the countryside between its motifs of lords and ladies riding through the woods. "Marriages and children rearrange all the lines. Unless you go around marrying your cousins until everyone looks so alike you can't remember the right names at the dinner table. I think father's always hoped since he had four children he could annex the kingdoms in every direction by marrying us off to the relevant heirs. He's had Greg in mind for the Princess Elena and me for Prince Arthur since that match was broken off - only now Arthur is king and married, he doesn't know what to do with me any more. He started inviting minor barons a few weeks ago out of desperation and the first one to arrive had warts everywhere."
Lancelot made a suitable noise of sympathy about the warts. "But have you never felt - has there never been anyone you wanted to marry? Someone you would have married if you were -" he stumbled over the words "- one of the poor people and could do as you liked."
Elaine wrinkled her nose and appeared to ponder this. After a moment she took a step back and ran her eyes over Lancelot assessingly. Then she squinted, tilted her head the other way and did it again, closing her left eye halfway through and peering judgmentally at him out of the right one.
Lancelot found himself growing increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze and wished he could interpose some piece of furniture - or possibly a small but sturdy battlement - between them.
"Hmm," she said finally, after a long, lingering look at his neck, "no, I don't think there's anyone I'd want to marry. But I'll give it some thought."
"Erm -" Lancelot gargled. He coughed repeatedly to clear his throat and tried to ignore the rising warmth in his cheeks. "I suppose your father told you what he has in mind as the, uh, for the... results of the tournament?"
"You mean that I'm to be the prize," Elaine said frankly. "Yes, he offered me the choice between marrying my 'chivalrous highwayman', as he called you, or spending the rest of my life looking after his old dinner set."
Lancelot, who had been nodding along in understanding, had to stop to say, "Dinner set?"
"His cup thing, and some bit of wood that's supposed to be from a spear or something, but looks more like a splintered old table knife." She went over to the tapestry that she had pointed out before, and drew a corner of it back to reveal a closet behind it. She vanished for a moment and returned holding an ancient wooden cup - almost like a beggar's bowl - and a broken-off piece of wood that did slightly resemble a crude knife.
"You see?" she said. "This is the great legacy my father has in store for me if he can't dispose of me suitably. Sometimes I think it'd be better to just set fire to the things and claim they'd vanished - only then I suppose he'd accuse one of my attendants or something else." She stepped back into the closet and Lancelot could hear the objects clatter as she tossed them back into their places. "So you can see why I wanted to leave," she added, coming back into the room, "and why I was so glad about Tim."
Lancelot considered the serving boy with renewed interest. "Was he the one you were -" he didn't know whether to add, "running away with."
"Oh, Tim helped me to sneak away. Only I couldn't tell my father or my brothers that, because they might have turned him away for it - or something worse. He was the only one who knew where I'd gone, you see, but he'd sworn not to tell them where I was, and I'd sworn not to tell anyone about him helping, so neither of us could tell anyone that I hadn't known anything about you."
"I see," said Lancelot, who wasn't sure he did. "You haven't told me, though, if there was anyone you were expecting to meet in the forest -" He couldn't help feeling it was a matter of some importance if there was someone she had actually intended to elope with, who might be a better candidate for doing battle for her hand.
She stared at him as if he'd suggested she had been out hunting for pixie dust. "Why would you think that? You don't imagine I had a secret rendez-vous with your branch-wielding friend, do you?
"No, I meant, the armour," Lancelot said hastily, "that you said they thought you meant for me. But it wasn't."
She scowled at him fiercely. "I've already told you that - it was mine. You're as bad as William, I tried telling him that it couldn't be some, some man's armour," she said with great scorn, "because it was clearly meant for me, but he just said, 'what would you want armour for, and where would you get it anyway,' and looked smug and self-satisfied when I wouldn't answer. I saved up nearly a year for that armour and sold bits of fine work in the town through Tim, and he snuck away every fortnight for two months carrying measurements back and forth in secret to the town blacksmith, and now they'll probably just let you wear it for the tournament, and you'll probably ruin it too, getting yourself knocked about by Greg. It doesn't seem fair." Her voice was edged with a frustration that sounded so near to tears that Lancelot hesitated, not wanting to disturb her any further.
"Am I to understand, then, that you wish me to fight your brothers in this tournament?" Lancelot asked cautiously.
Elaine sighed shakily. "You might as well. If you don't, I'll probably never get away from here, and you don't seem like you'd be too horrible to marry. Not like a troll or a baron with warts or anything. Besides -" and a brighter gleam of interest came into her eye for the first time in their conversation "- you did say you were headed for Camelot, didn't you?"
Lancelot agreed, but said, "I thought you said there was nothing interesting at Camelot now that you couldn't marry the King?"
"I never said there was," she said quickly. "It would just be a change from guarding a goblet for the rest of my life."
"Then I will go speak to your father about this challenge," Lancelot said, with a small bow.
"Don't let William get in under your right side," she said almost absently as he left. "He has a nasty little trick of jabbing people beneath the sword arm and knocking it out."
Part Three
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/62455.html at Dreamwidth.
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