How to Survive Promotion in the Middle Ages (4/11)
Please see Masterpost for fic headers and author's notes.
Back to Part Three
"Merlin," Arthur began in the patient tone of one who is not looking forward to the answer, "is there any particular reason why the Earl of Northumbria has asked, as a special favour to his nephew, for your friend Gwaine's head on a plate?"
"I can't imagine," Merlin said. He spoke as innocently as someone could who had been sharing a conspiratorial laugh with Gwaine only about five minutes earlier, which was to say, not very innocently at all. "His nephew must be a little over-sensitive. It wasn't even Gwaine he lost that practice match against, it was Bors - or so I heard," Merlin added hastily, scavenging what he could of the illusion that he had no inside information on the matter. "So, nope, can't think of a thing."
"Try a little harder," Arthur suggested.
"Weeeeeeeell," Merlin said, "there may also have been a rather top-heavy sword and a few jibes about Sir Rothby, hmm, not being able to keep it up?"
Arthur buried his face in his hands. "I am trying to negotiate some sort of a working relationship with the head of a large and very nearly independent territory with whom our current relations are tenuous at best, and on whose good will the security of a significant portion of our border relies, and you and Gwaine thought that this would be an opportune time for baiting his presumptive heir and making jabs about erectile dysfunction?"
"Technically I didn't do anything," Merlin pointed out. "How could I? I wasn't even there." He had, just possibly, been there when Gwaine had slipped his own, special sword in amongst the others and he might just have given the metal a bit of a ... hint ... of a magical push in the right direction to making it rather... implausibly unresponsive to Sir Rothby's control. Now didn't seem like a good time to bring that up, though. Never might, in fact, be a better time for that particular revelation. "Besides, it seems to me to be something that couldn't have happened to a nicer person."
"Sometimes," said Arthur, "I wonder if anything I say actually penetrates your skull, or if your ears are there simply as decoration. It doesn't matter if Sir Rothby is nice, he is powerful, or at least his uncle is and someday he may be himself, so you have got to be careful around him. I wouldn't want the thought that I might actually care whether you live or die to go to your head, but I don't suppose it's occurred to you that if you had been present at the match, Northumbria could just as easily have been asking for your head on a silver platter."
"You're not actually going to turn Gwaine over to them?" Merlin asked, feeling suddenly queasy. "Arthur, you can't, he -"
"Of course I'm not," Arthur said, "the man saved my life - more than once, loath as I am to admit it. That doesn't change the fact that the entire incident is politically very, very inconvenient."
"Don't you think it would be even more politically inconvenient to kill off your allies?" Merlin asked.
"So you are paying attention, Merlin," Arthur said, pleased. "Good, and now you understand why I don't try to wring your neck in public. I hope you didn't think it was because you weren't provoking me anymore."
"Don't worry," said Merlin jovially, "when you start showing unconditional concern for my well-being, I'll know it's because you've been replaced by an impostor. I still don't trust Sir Rothby, though," he added more seriously. "He's up to something."
"Of course he's up to something," Arthur said, not bothering to restrain the sarcasm in his voice, "he's part of a political delegation. Gwen tells me that even Lady Lavinia seems to be scheming at something."
"Maybe she means to take over Camelot using a new and exciting collection of knitting techniques," Merlin suggested.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's right, I'll tell Gwen to stop worrying, you've figured out Northumbria's secret bargaining tactics."
"Arthur, please though, this is serious," Merlin insisted.
"I know that, but what are you planning to do, follow Sir Rothby around the castle in case he does something suspicious?" Arthur asked.
Merlin got a dangerously speculative look in his eye.
"Merlin, no, that was a joke," Arthur said quickly.
"Back in a tick," Merlin called out over his shoulder, "I've just got to check on something."
"Merlin! Merlin, no, come back here! That's an order!" Arthur shouted after him. "This is a very bad idea!"
Merlin was already disappearing down the corridor, however, and paid him no heed. When it was clear that he was well and truly gone, Arthur returned to the activity which had occupied him before Merlin's arrival, which was a detailed study of certain old maps and charters relating to the position of Northumbria. He read the formal, looping script of the documents at length, pausing frequently to rub at his temples where he was worried by a headache that had nothing to do with reading the letters on the page before him.
"Are you following me?" Sir Rothby demanded incredulously the fourth time he walked around a corner and found Merlin nonchalantly examining an ordinary patch of wall.
"What, me?" Merlin asked in exaggerated surprise, turning and ostentatiously looking behind him for some other possible lurker in the castle corridor. Finding them to be alone, he turned back to face Sir Rothby with wide, astonished eyes. "Whyever would I be following you?"
Sir Rothby barely restrained a growl. "Perhaps you and your little friends should stay out of my way," he suggested. "I didn't come here to be pestered by nuisance servants, and if you haven't got the good sense to keep out of my way, I may just end up doing something that you will regret."
"I'm not afraid of you," said Merlin boldly. "You're nothing but a bully with a big sword. Whatever it is you're planning, I'll stop it."
Sir Rothby laughed a mean little laugh. "If you don't even know what you think I'm planning, how do you expect to stop me, exactly?"
"It doesn't matter," Merlin said stubbornly, "I'll figure it out."
"Let me make things a little easier for you," said Sir Rothby. "For the next two hours I thought I might go to my rooms and construct devious plots of unspecified design. If you would like to stand outside my chambers and press your ear against the door in the hope that I will begin reciting a list of my evil schemes, feel free to do so. Otherwise you might accidentally spend that time doing something useful, like scrubbing the floors."
With that, he swept off, leaving Merlin alone in the hall. Merlin followed after him closely enough to see Sir Rothby's door shut emphatically in his face. He lingered outside it in the corridor until he was sure that Sir Rothby didn't intend to slip out the moment his back was turned, and when there was no sign of further movement finally gave up today's investigations as bootless.
If he had stayed a little longer, he might have seen the Lady Lavinia slip into Sir Rothby's rooms, but try as he might on Sir Rothby's suggestion he would not have heard a single sound slip through the cracks in the door.
As soon as the Lady Lavinia entered she whispered, "Are we alone?"
Sir Rothby nodded, and at once Lady Lavinia lifted her hands and spoke a word that made the slightest whisper of air from the open windows die away to nothing, as at the same time all noise from the outside world ceased. She brought her hands down with an expression of satisfaction.
"Now, sister, what have you learned?" Lady Lavinia asked.
"Arthur does not fight in the tournament," Sir Rothby said. "All the knights can talk of is who will take his place as Camelot's foremost knight."
"But you said, you were sure-" Lady Lavinia said in consternation.
"I was," Sir Rothby snapped. "This is as much of a disappointment for me as it is for you. I don't understand it, it isn't like Arthur to hold himself back like this. I don't know why he wouldn't want to fight."
"Perhaps he means to protect the succession," Lady Lavinia suggested. "Until he sires an heir - or better, two - there is no guarantee for him that the Pendragon line will continue. Perhaps he does not mean to risk that now he is king."
"There is one guarantee -" Sir Rothby said.
Lady Lavinia only shook her head.
"You do not begin to doubt my claim, surely?" said Sir Rothby.
"Of course not. But there is no guarantee that Arthur's knights will follow you - this is what we have learned to our cost. Without some outside force to threaten its security, Camelot's people will never accept you as their Queen. They will follow Guinevere or even risk falling into chaos and civil war while they choose a new lord to lead them before they will accept the traitor daughter back into their midst. You know all this."
"Gwen," said Sir Rothby scornfully. "If the kingdom were ever in need of dress hemming or flower cutting they would be right to look to her."
"Do not underestimate her, sister. I have spent the last four days talking with her and there is no doubt in my mind that she understands the intrigues and politics of the court as well as you or I."
"You have been talking to her," Sir Rothby said derisively, "about lace. I hardly think that is an accurate measure of anyone's political acumen. She is a pretty servant who my brother has chosen to warm his bed, no more."
"And if you do not wish her to become the mother of the next Pendragon king, you must find a way to convince Arthur to enter the tournament," Lady Lavinia insisted. "Or you will no longer be the last of the Pendragon line."
"I don't see why we can't just break into his chambers at night and kill them both," Sir Rothby said petulantly.
"For the same reasons you could not simply lead an army against him. Any doubt about the instigator of his death would only cast suspicion on you. It must be done in open combat and in a way that invites no apprehension of conspiracy on your part. Then when you lead our armies against Northumbria you will be able to rally the support of Arthur's loyal followers, enraged over his death at the hands of a former ally, and at last claim your proper place as ruler of Camelot. Have patience, sister," Lady Lavinia said and then added in warning, "but not too much. The tournament is in five days. Entice Arthur to enter the lists himself by then, or all our planning will have come to nought."
"I will not fail in this," Sir Rothby promised. "Arthur's head is mine."
"See that you do not," said Lady Lavinia. "Apart from anything else, I grow tired of talking about lace."
Sir Rothby snorted. "At least you are not pretending to be a man. I swear, if one more knight gives me a hearty slap on the back and makes insinuations about 'wenching', I am going to break his fingers." He paused thoughtfully. "And possibly some other things as well. At least you get to stop talking about clothes. At the end of the day, I'm still stuck in - this." He waved a hand over his body.
"Do you have any idea how many lace patterns I've looked at since we got here?" Lady Lavinia asked darkly.
"At least you have a choice about that. You could always say you're tired of it and change the subject," Sir Rothby pointed out reasonably.
"You haven't read the Lady Lavinia's letters," said Lady Lavinia. "The woman never gets tired of talking about lace, and I must maintain the illusion before those who know her."
"Just five more days," Sir Rothby said, like reciting a mantra.
"Just five more days," Lady Lavinia repeated. "Be careful."
Lancelot reacted the way that anyone would if someone snuck into their room in the dead of night with a sword. That is to say, not well.
When you have slept in the kind of inns where coin purses are considered an invitation to find yourself stabbed in the middle of the night and the inn keeper as often as not takes a percentage of the dead man's purse, you learn to sleep lightly no matter how tired you are. So when the door to his room creaked ever so slightly as it opened, Lancelot was wide awake in a heartbeat without moving an inch.
The intruder wasn't carrying a light, which was suspicious enough in itself. People just didn't sneak around in a dark tower at the dead of night unless they really had something to hide; Lancelot didn't think that someone had decided to bring him a midnight snack. A barely visible silhouette detached itself from the wall, then slid the door shut. There was a flash of light as it did, and Lancelot was sure that nothing could have created that long, thin sliver of reflected moonlight but a sword. He tensed in readiness, preparing to spring as well as he could from a prone position.
He had at least had the foresight to bring his own sword back with him to his room after the practice round with Sidney, despite offers to return it to the armoury. It was sitting on the table halfway across the room, though, carefully swaddled in cloth. If the intruder would only keep between Lancelot and the window, leaving him free on the other side to reach his sword - no such luck. The figure crept up between Lancelot and his weapon, leaving Lancelot between it and the light, peering into the blackness. Lancelot listened for the slightest hint of a footfall by his bed, reached out, and swung blindly into the darkness, connecting with something soft.
"Ow," it said.
Lancelot took the chance to pounce, knocking whoever it was off their feet and clearing a path to his weapon. He seized it and approached the person he had knocked down, ready to strike if necessary.
"Do you always over-react to people like this?" Elaine's petulant voice demanded. "Do you have any idea how many bruises I'm going to have tomorrow?"
Lancelot exhaled and ordered his muscles to relax as much as they could; the adrenaline of fear was still running through his veins. "What are you doing here?" he asked, more or less calmly.
"You were late," Elaine said. "Aren't you going to offer to help me up?"
He groped around in the dark until he found her outstretched arm and helped her up to sit on the bed.
"You were supposed to be in the courtyard to help me practise tonight," Elaine said. "I've been waiting for hours."
Lancelot, who couldn't remember having promised anything about spending a second night in a row traipsing around a dark practice yard after midnight, calculated the chances that, if he just put his head back down on the pillow, this would all turn out to be a dream.
Elaine poked him in the ribs, happily missing the worst of the places where he was bruised from fighting Sidney during the day. He supposed he should be grateful she wasn't poking him with a sword.
"Perhaps you'll excuse me for tonight, until I have a chance to recover from being knocked down by your brother - again," he added with particular emphasis.
"What, you didn't try to fight Sidney today, did you?" Elaine asked. "That was foolish. He's not the cleverest fighter, but he can hit things very hard. It's better to be alert if you're going to offer yourself up as a target. You must have been falling over your own feet."
"I didn't exactly offer to fight him," Lancelot pointed out. "It was more that he found me in an awkward position. Returning that sword you 'borrowed'," he elaborated when she said nothing.
"Oh, that," said Elaine. Lancelot waited for some acknowledgment of her own culpability, but she just said, "I did warn you not to wake Bernhard."
Lancelot took a deep breath and said, "I cannot train against your brothers during the day, and you at night, if I am to face them in a trial of combat in a few days' time."
"Fine, forget I was even here," Elaine said, sounding cross. "I'll just practise on my own as usual, and then in a few days when you're gone, or better yet dead, I'll go on practising alone, and that'll be fine too." The bed shifted beside him as she got up to go, and her footsteps retreated toward the door.
"Wait," said Lancelot, already regretting what he was about to say. "Tomorrow night, after we have both had a day to rest. I suppose you were not idle today any more than I was?"
"Oh, Dame B. woke me appallingly early and made me read Latin homilies while she dozed off in her chair, and then there were the usual things to be done around the keep with the servants and the-" Elaine yawned suddenly "-preparations for the tournament."
"Tomorrow, then," Lancelot repeated. "As soon as it's quiet. And not the whole night. I still need to prepare for the tournament myself."
"Will you attack me when I come in then, as well?" Elaine asked, as if this were a thoroughly unreasonable response to someone sneaking into his rooms in the dead of night.
Lancelot thought about waiting for another creeping shadow to skulk in at the entrance to his room and said, "No, out in the yard, where I can be sure it's you and not someone else coming up here to do me mischief."
"Who else could I have been? You didn't think I was Greg come up to ambush you in the night, did you?" Lancelot said nothing and Elaine laughed. "You did! How funny. I don't think you have to worry about Greg sneaking into your rooms in the middle of the night. He'd hate for you to be secretly murdered; most of the fun for him is being able to boast about things afterward. He'd much rather grind you to a pulp in front of an audience." And then reaching out to pat Lancelot's arm somewhat inaccurately in the dark, she added, "But don't worry, he won't really want to kill you because he prefers being able to gloat over the people he's beaten and so it's less fun if you're dead."
Lancelot found this a singularly uncomforting thought, and said so as politely as he could.
"I can't help that. Besides, if you want to know how to beat them, you'll just have to show up tomorrow night for practice so I can tell you how to make Gregory drop his guard. William likes to think he's the only one who can, but I could do it every time. Well," she paused, "I used to be able to do it when we were ten, but I don't think he's got that much better since then. Not really."
Lancelot groaned and let himself collapse back onto the bed. Despite all his earlier alertness, he was asleep again before he heard her shut the door.
"Merlin, has there been any word of - oh, I'm sorry." Gwen said as she burst into Merlin's rooms, then drew up short at the sight of the half-naked man who wasn't Merlin standing in the middle of them.
"No, please don't go," Gwaine said with a bright and flirtatious grin, "you've improved the beauty of the room a hundred times just by coming in. And I'm sure Merlin wouldn't want to miss you."
"Is Merlin here then?" Gwen asked, "I didn't see him." She looked around half-expecting Merlin to pop out from behind the door. It wasn't that far-fetched; Merlin did that sort of thing sometimes and it was a good excuse not to look at Gwaine's chest, which was firm, well-muscled and a completely inappropriate thing for a married woman to be looking at.
Gwaine jerked his head towards the closed bedroom door behind him. "He's just getting some things ready, you know, in the other room. Excuse my informal dress, we were just - in the middle of something."
"Oh - oh," said Gwen, flustered and embarrassed, "I don't want to intrude if you're - maybe I should just -"
She made a move toward the door, but it had inexplicably moved from where she had thought it was and she groped in vain for a door handle along the bare unyielding wall. Gwaine, conversely, had made no move of any kind, including any to cover himself. He just stood there, arms akimbo, in the middle of the room, as if he were a statue on a pedestal. Gwen tried not to think about why he was doing that in Merlin's rooms.
"Don't feel obliged to go on my account," he said, "I'd be happy to have you stay for this."
"Er-" said Gwen. He probably meant - he probably just meant - Gwen's brain panicked and fled, deserting her traitorously.
"Gwen, was that you?" asked Merlin, or rather his voice, which emerged from a heap of clothes that were precariously making their way into the room.
Gwen's brain re-emerged and gave her a helpful shove. "Oh! Clothes! Of course, Merlin's helping you dress for the ceremony." A number of wild speculations about Merlin and Gwaine being naked together in his bedroom chased themselves out of her mind; Merlin was decently clothed beneath the tottering pile of garments and showed no signs of having been otherwise.
"If we can find a shirt that he doesn't say scratches, itches, or looks ridiculous," Merlin complained cheerfully. "I swear, it feels like he's been taking his clothes off for hours now, he can't keep a shirt on for more than a second. At this rate he's going to have to be knighted in nothing at all. We'll have to call you the Naked Knight," he told Gwaine, dropping a rich blue shirt over the man's head and manhandling the knight-to-be until he could reach the ties at the neck. He bent over them with his lip caught between his teeth in an expression of intense concentration, as if he had actually forgotten how to put a shirt on someone else in the last six months.
Gwaine seemed equally fascinated with watching Merlin and his fumbling hands and something in his look made Gwen wonder if she had been as far off in her speculations as she thought. She coughed discreetly to remind them of her presence and Gwaine started at the sound, though Merlin just kept working steadily at the laces.
"I feel like a fraud in all this finery," Gwaine said by way of excuse. "I've spent all my life running away from these trappings. Now here I am, dressing up as a knight, when I'd be more comfortable standing stark naked in the middle of a bar-room brawl."
"Then you'd better not wear anything at all to the ceremony," said Gwen gravely. "Not if you feel it would be dishonest."
"Do you think Arthur would object?" Gwaine asked her with a wink that she pretended not to see.
"It isn't exactly what he meant by formal attire..." said Gwen, "but let it not be said that the court of Camelot isn't open to new ideas. I'll be sure to mention it to Arthur. Who knows? You might start a fashion."
"There, you're all done," Merlin announced, finishing with the laces and dropping a tunic over Gwaine's head, "and if you try to take that one off before this evening I'll - I'll have Arthur throw you in the stocks. Or muck out the stables, he likes making people do that."
Gwen giggled. "Do you remember when Lancelot -"
"Yeah," Merlin laughed, "poor man, he really had to work for that knighthood."
As the humour bubbled down, Gwen felt worry slide back in to take its place. "Actually, that's what I came to see you about. There hasn't been any word of him?"
Merlin shook his head. "I'm sure he'll be here soon, Gwen, you know he wouldn't miss this."
"He might." Gwen worried instinctively at her lower lip. She could remember all too clearly the feeling of being left behind in a cold, dark forest without even a hint of a "fare thee well." The memory still stung. "He might have decided that he didn't - that this wasn't really what he wanted."
"That wasn't why he left," Merlin said, so gently and seriously that Gwen was sure he had guessed the direction her thoughts were taking. Then, with a furtive glance at Gwaine, he added more cheerfully, "He's probably just been caught up in some business, maybe getting settled in the town. I'm sure he'll be here soon."
Gwaine, who had begun to fidget once neither of them was paying attention to him, made a sudden move for the door, although Merlin's hand still rested carelessly on his shoulder and he had to pull away sharply from its grasp in the process.
Merlin picked up the remaining pile of clothes with a groan. "I'll just put these back again," he said. "Don't worry about me, if I break my back along the way, I'll shout for help; I can probably dig my way out if the shirts form an avalanche and bury me." He continued on this vein until his words were muffled within the wardrobe. Gwen wasn't overly concerned; he sounded too much like he was enjoying his monologue of self-pity.
"You know, it's a funny thing," Gwen observed, now that Gwaine was decently clothed at last and her brain was back into better working order, "I could have sworn that I heard Arthur offer to pay for a tailor for you to have some new clothes the day you arrived."
It was Gwaine's turn to look away. "Ah, yes, but it wouldn't have been - that is, I haven't had a chance yet to - Merlin offered to help."
Gwen nodded sagely, concealing her inner amusement. So that was what it took to put Gwaine off his perpetual readiness for flirtation. "Yes, Merlin likes to be helpful. He's a great friend that way."
"Right. Well, I'd better go get ready. It's not every day you become a knight, after all. Never thought I'd see the day I'd put this on." He fingered the front of the tunic on which Merlin had, with suspiciously fine and speedy work, embroidered Gwaine's house crest. "You know, after my father's death, I swore that no one would ever bear these colours again? I destroyed everything I could find that bore our crest and damned the lot of them. I never expected to find myself wearing it in the end."
"None of us expected to be where we are now," Gwen said, "not even Arthur, in some ways. Even the things you expect to happen don't always come about in the ways you thought."
Gwaine nodded. He cast a look toward the muffled sounds coming from the other room and said, "No, nothing's happened the way I thought it would." Then looking back at Gwen and catching her sympathetic expression, he flashed her a brilliant grin and said, "Lots of preparations to make before the final execution. Tell Merlin I've promised not to be parted from the tunic until after the ceremony and a decent night's revelry - or an indecent night's, if I can manage it." He finished with a lewd wink and hurried out before Gwen could come up with a rejoinder.
"You'd better still have your kit on-" Merlin was saying as he returned, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his features on finding Gwen alone, which she managed not to take personally.
"I think he had to go do some things to get ready," Gwen said without much conviction.
"You mean he's bolted again?" Merlin asked matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, pretty much," Gwen agreed. "He does seem quite nervous about the ceremony."
Merlin sighed. "I had to intercept him on his way to the stables twice this morning. He said he was just going out to get some air. He could have left plenty of times by now though - if he's not sure about being a knight, why is he staying and going through with it at all?"
"Maybe he has other reasons for staying," Gwen suggested. "Or maybe he doesn't want to let people down."
"I don't know why he's so worried, he's going to be brilliant." Merlin shook his head in incomprehension. "So is Lancelot, it'll be a great thing for both of them."
"Are you sure Lancelot's all right?" Gwen asked, returning to their former subject. "You don't know - I mean, you don't know where he is, do you?"
Merlin sighed again. "I don't, no. And you're right, he should have been here by now. But Lancelot's a big boy, Gwen. He knows how to take care of himself. I'm sure everything will be fine, and he'll get here as soon as he can."
"I know that," said Gwen, "I do, it just - doesn't stop me worrying."
"I'll tell you what, if he's not here by the time the tournament begins, I'll go out and look for him myself," Merlin promised. "I found him before, and that was when he was guarding some peasants in a remote sea-side town. We know he rode close to Camelot with Gwaine, so he can't be far off. I'd go now, but I don't trust our visitors not to get up to mischief if they're left on their own. Do you?"
"No," she admitted, "I wish I did, but they have been acting strangely. The Earl seems harmless enough. Arthur says he's arrogant, and proud, and doesn't like the idea of Northumbria paying tribute to what he looks down on as a newer kingdom. But there's something... off about Sir Rothby, and I could have sworn that Lady Lavinia was trying to pump me for information about Camelot's defensive forces in between remarks about fabric tension."
"She does look like she could do dangerous things with a knitting needle," Merlin declared sombrely, which sent both of them into a brief fit of giggles.
"Lancelot can take care of himself," Merlin repeated firmly, once their laughter had subsided.
"Lancelot can take care of himself," Gwen agreed and tried to believe it.
In the morning, Lancelot awoke to the sight of Timothy clattering in with a breakfast tray which, as per his usual custom, just barely and improbably missed capsizing over Lancelot's head. Lancelot expected him to turn and retreat as usual, but he stayed frozen by the door watching Lancelot pick up his porridge and begin to eat as if he had forgotten how the sequence of "open door, walk through, close" was supposed to work.
"K-king Pelles, he" the boy said, stumbling over the words. "He requests your presence in his private chambers." And then, having got that much out, he fled.
Lancelot ate the rest of his breakfast on a leaden stomach, wondering how far Pelles' charitable views extended on the question of his daughter sneaking into a strange man's room at night. The summons could have nothing to do with last night's uninvited visitation, he told himself firmly, not believing it in the slightest, and descended as calmly as he could from the tower.
Pelles' private chambers were located in another wing of the castle altogether, as Lancelot discovered by dint of a great deal of aimless wandering that took him, at length, into a part of the castle he had never seen before. The rooms there were a little larger; fewer doors opened onto the corridor, and the footsteps of the attendants who passed along it were more discreet, more careful not to obtrude on the notice of the inhabitants. Lancelot found a door before which two guards stood at attention, and asked one of these if King Pelles was within.
The guard's eyes flicked over him, assessing but uninterested in the result, and returned to their watchfulness without any further movement.
A moment later, the door swung open from within and Lancelot was ushered in by a well-dressed servant who shut the door behind him then retreated to a respectful distance. Pelles was standing at a long, low table on which were laid out dozens of crumbling old scrolls, some so caked with dust and decay that Lancelot wasn't sure anything could remain beneath the crust of age.
Pelles beckoned him forward and carefully unrolled a piece of parchment that crackled ominously in protest.
"This was in the time of Alfred the Great," said Pelles, indicating long columns of scratchy letters that Lancelot could not read. Along their edges curled a trail of vines and, suspended from it, a man dangling by his ankle who appeared to have been mauled by some sort of wild animal. There was a gaping wound in his side and a foot soldier with a spear knelt down at the bottom of the page - part of the same hunt, Lancelot thought, until he noticed that the spear was dripping as well as the wound. He turned away feeling sick.
"Our family has a long and colourful history, as you can see," Pelles carried on, his fingers hovering over the colourful images in the margins as he traced their story in the text. "My ancestor Pellam was a great and virtuous king until he was driven mad by lust for a young married woman in his court. When she rebuffed his advances, King Pellam lured her husband out into the woods, away from his hunting party, and killed him, telling the others when they arrived that he had been killed by a wild boar. When the poor man's wife heard of this, she shut herself away in her rooms and swore that she would never allow a man entry again. After a few days, the king ordered the guards to break down her door, and found only one of her serving women, weeping into her apron. She said her lady had gone mad in her grief and despair, and sworn that she would take no other mate but the creature that had killed her husband. And so with the help of a witch she changed herself into a wild beast and went to roam the woods.
"When the king heard this, he summoned the court sorcerer and commanded him to transform him into a wild boar. The sorcerer warned him that the longer he spent in the form of an animal, the more he would come to think like the animal, and gave him a charm that would return him to human form when he touched it, urging him not to wait too long to use it. The king hid the charm in the roots of a tree at the edge of the wood, and the sorcerer spoke the magic words to transform him. After that, Pellam wandered into the woods, in search of his mate.
"Nothing more was heard from the king for days, and no one knows if he ever found the lady he sought, but some days later when his lords were hunting in the woods, they came across a magnificent boar, a king of beasts. It was digging around the roots of various trees as if searching for something buried there, and when it saw the hunting party it seemed to go mad. It went into a frenzy, pawing at the ground and emitting a series of wild squeals and shrieks. The hunting party were nervous, thinking that perhaps the beast was rabid, and when at last it made a move to charge back towards them and the castle, one of the king's own retainers hurled a javelin to bring it down.
"As soon as it had stilled, the flesh on its bones seemed to shimmer and change, and before long it was the body of the king lying before them, naked and torn by the javelin in the same place as the lord that he had killed. The party carried him back to the castle, where the whole story came out, and a search was made for the lady, the sorcerer, and the charm buried in the wood, but none of them was ever found.
"No one knew how much of the king's mind the beast had retained, but it was generally agreed among the people of the court that the murderous instincts of the animal had led the king to attack his own men, and so no more was done in the matter except to give the king's body a quiet funeral and confer among themselves as to who should be the next king."
There was a long pause, as Pelles seemed to sink into contemplation of the manuscript.
"And do you believe the story, my lord?" Lancelot asked, wondering at its meaning.
"Hmm? Oh, well, yes," said Pelles distractedly, "there is another version of the story in which the lady simply fled after her husband's death, out of fear of the king, and his own men turned against him to avenge their friend's death. Who knows whether we bring these evils on ourselves or if they are dispensed from other hands?"
Lancelot, who felt he ought to say something more in response, asked, "And this man, King Pellam, he was your-"
"Oh, my great grandfather, or my great-great-grandfather. The records are uncertain after his death, as his children were quietly removed to this castle and dwelt in some obscurity until my grandfather achieved lordship once more over these lands. His eldest son was Pescheour, the Fisher King. You must know his story?"
Lancelot said slowly, "He was a king who allowed his knights to roam at large around the countryside, attacking freely wherever they willed. His own brother struck down a knight of Camelot, and the knight's brother returned to seek vengeance. He dealt the Fisher King a blow from which the king could never recover and never die, but must live in agony."
Pelles nodded gravely. "Since that time, my uncles' lands have lain in waste and ruin. Only my father's kingdom survived, and it has fallen to our hands to preserve the last relics of our family." He opened a thickly bound tome - one written in the common Latin - to a page where the text bounded an image of a wooden cup, set with jewels. "It is said that whoever drinks from the grail gains ever-lasting life. A vessel of the very deepest magic. And yet its legacy has also been a curse upon my family, for those like Pescheour can never die, no matter how great their pain, until they are released from the hold of its magic.
"My sons are forbidden to touch it. When I die it will pass into the keeping of my daughter, and from there perhaps, at last, it will fade into the dust of history. If it does not - if any man can deserve its blessings, I think it will be a son of hers."
Pelles closed the book he had been studying, and sat heavily in a chair. As he did, Lancelot noticed that he was favouring his own left side, pressing his hand against his chest as he sank back, as if an old wound there pained him as well. He noticed the direction of Lancelot's gaze and smiled.
"A hunting accident in my youth," he said. "It has healed long ago, but the scar remains, and sometimes it pulls to remind me." He laughed at Lancelot's expression. "Don't look so worried! I was not transformed into a wild boar at the time. If you live long enough, I dare say you will be less surprised to see a fellow knight with a battle wound. But you did not come here to hear listen to an old man wallow in his reminiscences or his family history."
"No, my lord," said Lancelot, some of his earlier nervousness returning.
"Chrétien, bring me my sword," the king ordered.
Lancelot took an involuntary step back. Surely no one would would spend that much time discussing his family history as a prelude to an execution? Yet he couldn't help flinching as the servant brought out a long bundle and laid it out before the king, pulling back the swaddling cloths to show the gleam of highly polished and efficient metal.
"Well?" Pelles demanded.
Lancelot gulped. "My lord, if I have offended you in some way during my short stay here, I can only say -" he began, but Pelles waved it off.
"Aren't you going to try it?" he asked. "Sidney told me you didn't have a proper weapon of your own. He felt quite badly about it, he said, because he wants you to be able to defend yourself properly and he thought the old sword you were using yesterday couldn't have helped."
"I cannot accept - your own sword -" Lancelot said in some confusion.
"I have others," Pelles said, "and as it is the gift of a king, it should not be declined."
"Then thank you, my lord," Lancelot said and took up the sword reverently from its wrappings. He tested its weight in his hands, finding it surprisingly light, but when he gripped it by the hilt he found it balanced perfectly and naturally. Holding it straight out before him and looking along the blade, twisting it slowly to ensure that every line and angle was straight, he caught the king's servant watching him with widened eyes as he tidied away the cloth and books from the table.
Lancelot let the point of the sword drop and bowed deeply to the king. "It is a fine instrument, my lord. Thank you for your generosity."
"Such swords tend to find their way into the right hands," Pelles said, "don't you think? It will be a better match for that armour of yours than some old practice sword."
The servant followed him to the door to let him out, and Lancelot could have sworn when he looked back that he was being watched with interest by the guards who were still waiting outside.
He found William waiting for him at the end of the corridor, leaning casually against the wall yet in a way that effectively blocked Lancelot's exit. Seen from up close, he was not quite what Lancelot had expected. Lancelot had imagined features more like his sister's, based on some of their similar tricks of moving. It was Sidney, however, to whom William bore the most marked resemblance, despite their great differences in shape and bulk.
William smiled pleasantly, no hint of anything menacing, but his eyes were sharp as he looked Lancelot over.
"I see you got on with my father, then," was the first thing he said, skipping over the niceties of introducing himself. He was looking at the sword in Lancelot's hand.
Lancelot shifted uncertainly. He wanted to flee back to his own room and take the measure of this new weapon in private, but he could hardly push his way past one of the king's sons. "He said your brother-"
"Ah, yes, Sidney. Did you mean to mean to con him, by the way?" he asked, and the bland tone in which he asked it belied its insinuation so well that it took a moment for the full implication to register.
"I don't know what you mean," Lancelot said a little stiffly.
"That trick yesterday," William said, "letting him win so easily. He said he knocked you over in one round? He's certainly feeling over-confident now, if that's what you were hoping for. The funny thing is you don't move like someone that inept. So, were you trying to lull him in a state of false confidence, or did you just happen to... trip, during that round?"
"Something like that," Lancelot said, who didn't want to explain the full context of the events to William any more than he had to his brother.
"Well then, let's see what it takes to trip you," said William. Without waiting for an answer, he slung an amicable arm around Lancelot's shoulders and stayed glued to his side until they reached the small practice yard. They made no detour to the armoury and, from a sword that William produced seemingly out of nowhere, it was clear that none was intended. It was easier, true, if more hazardous, to observe an unknown opponent's movements without his armour on.
If Lancelot had thought that practising against Elaine or Sidney was exhausting, it was nothing to facing William. It wasn't just that he was a quick and wily opponent; it was the constant stream of remarks with which William accompanied every move, offering up comments on Lancelot's strategy and technique, his own, and sometimes on completely irrelevant matters such as the likelihood of rain in the surrounding farmlands that season. It was obvious that he meant to test Lancelot's concentration, but the semi-continuous stream of patter didn't seem to affect his own speed or skill at all, and he was just as likely to make a sudden and unexpected move without pausing for breath in mid-sentence as at a moment when he remained silent and watchful.
Lancelot for his own part did what he could to ignore the commentary, watching instead the ways in which William moved, the small but eloquent hints of movement in the way he placed his feet, in the turn of his hips and where his shoulder sat. When he failed to rise to any of William's opening jabs, they became less frequent and aimed experimentally at different points of attack. They were clearly aimed at random, and several speculating about Lancelot's birth and his family bounced off harmlessly. It was only when William said, "So you thought you could lure my sister away with you?" and then, "Was she the first lady you've run off with into the woods?" that Lancelot faltered.
William spotted this slight hesitation and pressed home with, "How many ladies are there out there right now wondering where you are or if you will ever return?"
Hearing it shouldn't have mattered. Lancelot saw William's next move before he made it, knew that he would step in to the right and bash Lancelot's sword arm out of the way. He saw the move coming and knew how to counter it, but in one part of his mind Gwen's face had risen up, gentle and unrebukingly sad, and Lancelot's feet were a half-pace too slow. William caught him smartly beneath his grip, kicked his feet out from under him, and let his sword swing down lightly to hover with casual menace over the point of Lancelot's throat.
"That was fun," he said with a little smile that Lancelot could see upside-down above him. "We must do it again some time."
With that William sauntered off, leaving Lancelot to pick himself up. When he did, he found Elaine watching him from the covered walkway.
"That was sad," she said, making no move to help him either as he rose and dusted himself off.
"Thank you for your concern, my lady," said Lancelot, trying not to sound as bruised as he felt.
"The first thing to remember with William," she carried on regardless, "is not to listen to anything he says, because it's the most appalling rubbish. And second, it helps if you know that when he was a little boy he used to collect frogs in a basin that he kept locked up in his closet, and that one day when our nursemaid caught him smuggling them into his room he stuffed them down his trousers to hide. If you can still take him seriously after that, you might as well surrender in advance. I see Papa's given you Dolor," she added as a non sequitur.
Lancelot frowned in confusion. "He seemed more welcoming than before."
Elaine stared at him and then went to pick up the sword that William had knocked from his hand. "Dolor," she said, handing it back to him with visible reluctance, "is the name of the sword."
"What is it about this sword?" Lancelot demanded, exasperated at having fallen needlessly for the second time on the same increasingly tender spot of his back, and somewhat nonplussed at finding that his new sword merited tenderer care than his ribs.
"It's been in our family for about, hmm-" Elaine stopped to think "-yes, seven generations. Like the dinner set, only Papa couldn't give me a sword, just the useless bits of wood. And he always put off handing it to my brothers, as well." Her eyes followed yearningly the sweep of its blade in his hand. "So you see he either must like you a great deal or else he's trying to infuriate them into killing you when they get the chance. But probably it's that he likes you. What did he say to you, anyway?"
"There was something about a story in a book, about your family history," Lancelot said. He'd forgotten most of it already, although an impression remained of a great sadness in Pelles when he talked of his family. "And about your inheritance and having children, I thi-" He stopped in sudden horror. "Er, I don't think he meant - I mean, it wasn't about you and-"
Elaine wrinkled her nose into an expression of distaste. "Wonderful, so he thinks you'd make a good father for his grandchildren. Good of you both to consult me. Well at least that must mean he isn't expecting you to die imminently, how nice for you." She swept off into the castle.
Lancelot did his best to convince himself that he was feeling unusually weighed down that day only because of his injuries, but the mood lingered beyond the physical discomfort. The image of Gwen's face hovered on the edge of his mind for the rest of the day, sometimes alternating with the brief flash of real unhappiness he had seen when Elaine turned away from him.
Part Five
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/62871.html at Dreamwidth.
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"Merlin," Arthur began in the patient tone of one who is not looking forward to the answer, "is there any particular reason why the Earl of Northumbria has asked, as a special favour to his nephew, for your friend Gwaine's head on a plate?"
"I can't imagine," Merlin said. He spoke as innocently as someone could who had been sharing a conspiratorial laugh with Gwaine only about five minutes earlier, which was to say, not very innocently at all. "His nephew must be a little over-sensitive. It wasn't even Gwaine he lost that practice match against, it was Bors - or so I heard," Merlin added hastily, scavenging what he could of the illusion that he had no inside information on the matter. "So, nope, can't think of a thing."
"Try a little harder," Arthur suggested.
"Weeeeeeeell," Merlin said, "there may also have been a rather top-heavy sword and a few jibes about Sir Rothby, hmm, not being able to keep it up?"
Arthur buried his face in his hands. "I am trying to negotiate some sort of a working relationship with the head of a large and very nearly independent territory with whom our current relations are tenuous at best, and on whose good will the security of a significant portion of our border relies, and you and Gwaine thought that this would be an opportune time for baiting his presumptive heir and making jabs about erectile dysfunction?"
"Technically I didn't do anything," Merlin pointed out. "How could I? I wasn't even there." He had, just possibly, been there when Gwaine had slipped his own, special sword in amongst the others and he might just have given the metal a bit of a ... hint ... of a magical push in the right direction to making it rather... implausibly unresponsive to Sir Rothby's control. Now didn't seem like a good time to bring that up, though. Never might, in fact, be a better time for that particular revelation. "Besides, it seems to me to be something that couldn't have happened to a nicer person."
"Sometimes," said Arthur, "I wonder if anything I say actually penetrates your skull, or if your ears are there simply as decoration. It doesn't matter if Sir Rothby is nice, he is powerful, or at least his uncle is and someday he may be himself, so you have got to be careful around him. I wouldn't want the thought that I might actually care whether you live or die to go to your head, but I don't suppose it's occurred to you that if you had been present at the match, Northumbria could just as easily have been asking for your head on a silver platter."
"You're not actually going to turn Gwaine over to them?" Merlin asked, feeling suddenly queasy. "Arthur, you can't, he -"
"Of course I'm not," Arthur said, "the man saved my life - more than once, loath as I am to admit it. That doesn't change the fact that the entire incident is politically very, very inconvenient."
"Don't you think it would be even more politically inconvenient to kill off your allies?" Merlin asked.
"So you are paying attention, Merlin," Arthur said, pleased. "Good, and now you understand why I don't try to wring your neck in public. I hope you didn't think it was because you weren't provoking me anymore."
"Don't worry," said Merlin jovially, "when you start showing unconditional concern for my well-being, I'll know it's because you've been replaced by an impostor. I still don't trust Sir Rothby, though," he added more seriously. "He's up to something."
"Of course he's up to something," Arthur said, not bothering to restrain the sarcasm in his voice, "he's part of a political delegation. Gwen tells me that even Lady Lavinia seems to be scheming at something."
"Maybe she means to take over Camelot using a new and exciting collection of knitting techniques," Merlin suggested.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's right, I'll tell Gwen to stop worrying, you've figured out Northumbria's secret bargaining tactics."
"Arthur, please though, this is serious," Merlin insisted.
"I know that, but what are you planning to do, follow Sir Rothby around the castle in case he does something suspicious?" Arthur asked.
Merlin got a dangerously speculative look in his eye.
"Merlin, no, that was a joke," Arthur said quickly.
"Back in a tick," Merlin called out over his shoulder, "I've just got to check on something."
"Merlin! Merlin, no, come back here! That's an order!" Arthur shouted after him. "This is a very bad idea!"
Merlin was already disappearing down the corridor, however, and paid him no heed. When it was clear that he was well and truly gone, Arthur returned to the activity which had occupied him before Merlin's arrival, which was a detailed study of certain old maps and charters relating to the position of Northumbria. He read the formal, looping script of the documents at length, pausing frequently to rub at his temples where he was worried by a headache that had nothing to do with reading the letters on the page before him.
"Are you following me?" Sir Rothby demanded incredulously the fourth time he walked around a corner and found Merlin nonchalantly examining an ordinary patch of wall.
"What, me?" Merlin asked in exaggerated surprise, turning and ostentatiously looking behind him for some other possible lurker in the castle corridor. Finding them to be alone, he turned back to face Sir Rothby with wide, astonished eyes. "Whyever would I be following you?"
Sir Rothby barely restrained a growl. "Perhaps you and your little friends should stay out of my way," he suggested. "I didn't come here to be pestered by nuisance servants, and if you haven't got the good sense to keep out of my way, I may just end up doing something that you will regret."
"I'm not afraid of you," said Merlin boldly. "You're nothing but a bully with a big sword. Whatever it is you're planning, I'll stop it."
Sir Rothby laughed a mean little laugh. "If you don't even know what you think I'm planning, how do you expect to stop me, exactly?"
"It doesn't matter," Merlin said stubbornly, "I'll figure it out."
"Let me make things a little easier for you," said Sir Rothby. "For the next two hours I thought I might go to my rooms and construct devious plots of unspecified design. If you would like to stand outside my chambers and press your ear against the door in the hope that I will begin reciting a list of my evil schemes, feel free to do so. Otherwise you might accidentally spend that time doing something useful, like scrubbing the floors."
With that, he swept off, leaving Merlin alone in the hall. Merlin followed after him closely enough to see Sir Rothby's door shut emphatically in his face. He lingered outside it in the corridor until he was sure that Sir Rothby didn't intend to slip out the moment his back was turned, and when there was no sign of further movement finally gave up today's investigations as bootless.
If he had stayed a little longer, he might have seen the Lady Lavinia slip into Sir Rothby's rooms, but try as he might on Sir Rothby's suggestion he would not have heard a single sound slip through the cracks in the door.
As soon as the Lady Lavinia entered she whispered, "Are we alone?"
Sir Rothby nodded, and at once Lady Lavinia lifted her hands and spoke a word that made the slightest whisper of air from the open windows die away to nothing, as at the same time all noise from the outside world ceased. She brought her hands down with an expression of satisfaction.
"Now, sister, what have you learned?" Lady Lavinia asked.
"Arthur does not fight in the tournament," Sir Rothby said. "All the knights can talk of is who will take his place as Camelot's foremost knight."
"But you said, you were sure-" Lady Lavinia said in consternation.
"I was," Sir Rothby snapped. "This is as much of a disappointment for me as it is for you. I don't understand it, it isn't like Arthur to hold himself back like this. I don't know why he wouldn't want to fight."
"Perhaps he means to protect the succession," Lady Lavinia suggested. "Until he sires an heir - or better, two - there is no guarantee for him that the Pendragon line will continue. Perhaps he does not mean to risk that now he is king."
"There is one guarantee -" Sir Rothby said.
Lady Lavinia only shook her head.
"You do not begin to doubt my claim, surely?" said Sir Rothby.
"Of course not. But there is no guarantee that Arthur's knights will follow you - this is what we have learned to our cost. Without some outside force to threaten its security, Camelot's people will never accept you as their Queen. They will follow Guinevere or even risk falling into chaos and civil war while they choose a new lord to lead them before they will accept the traitor daughter back into their midst. You know all this."
"Gwen," said Sir Rothby scornfully. "If the kingdom were ever in need of dress hemming or flower cutting they would be right to look to her."
"Do not underestimate her, sister. I have spent the last four days talking with her and there is no doubt in my mind that she understands the intrigues and politics of the court as well as you or I."
"You have been talking to her," Sir Rothby said derisively, "about lace. I hardly think that is an accurate measure of anyone's political acumen. She is a pretty servant who my brother has chosen to warm his bed, no more."
"And if you do not wish her to become the mother of the next Pendragon king, you must find a way to convince Arthur to enter the tournament," Lady Lavinia insisted. "Or you will no longer be the last of the Pendragon line."
"I don't see why we can't just break into his chambers at night and kill them both," Sir Rothby said petulantly.
"For the same reasons you could not simply lead an army against him. Any doubt about the instigator of his death would only cast suspicion on you. It must be done in open combat and in a way that invites no apprehension of conspiracy on your part. Then when you lead our armies against Northumbria you will be able to rally the support of Arthur's loyal followers, enraged over his death at the hands of a former ally, and at last claim your proper place as ruler of Camelot. Have patience, sister," Lady Lavinia said and then added in warning, "but not too much. The tournament is in five days. Entice Arthur to enter the lists himself by then, or all our planning will have come to nought."
"I will not fail in this," Sir Rothby promised. "Arthur's head is mine."
"See that you do not," said Lady Lavinia. "Apart from anything else, I grow tired of talking about lace."
Sir Rothby snorted. "At least you are not pretending to be a man. I swear, if one more knight gives me a hearty slap on the back and makes insinuations about 'wenching', I am going to break his fingers." He paused thoughtfully. "And possibly some other things as well. At least you get to stop talking about clothes. At the end of the day, I'm still stuck in - this." He waved a hand over his body.
"Do you have any idea how many lace patterns I've looked at since we got here?" Lady Lavinia asked darkly.
"At least you have a choice about that. You could always say you're tired of it and change the subject," Sir Rothby pointed out reasonably.
"You haven't read the Lady Lavinia's letters," said Lady Lavinia. "The woman never gets tired of talking about lace, and I must maintain the illusion before those who know her."
"Just five more days," Sir Rothby said, like reciting a mantra.
"Just five more days," Lady Lavinia repeated. "Be careful."
Lancelot reacted the way that anyone would if someone snuck into their room in the dead of night with a sword. That is to say, not well.
When you have slept in the kind of inns where coin purses are considered an invitation to find yourself stabbed in the middle of the night and the inn keeper as often as not takes a percentage of the dead man's purse, you learn to sleep lightly no matter how tired you are. So when the door to his room creaked ever so slightly as it opened, Lancelot was wide awake in a heartbeat without moving an inch.
The intruder wasn't carrying a light, which was suspicious enough in itself. People just didn't sneak around in a dark tower at the dead of night unless they really had something to hide; Lancelot didn't think that someone had decided to bring him a midnight snack. A barely visible silhouette detached itself from the wall, then slid the door shut. There was a flash of light as it did, and Lancelot was sure that nothing could have created that long, thin sliver of reflected moonlight but a sword. He tensed in readiness, preparing to spring as well as he could from a prone position.
He had at least had the foresight to bring his own sword back with him to his room after the practice round with Sidney, despite offers to return it to the armoury. It was sitting on the table halfway across the room, though, carefully swaddled in cloth. If the intruder would only keep between Lancelot and the window, leaving him free on the other side to reach his sword - no such luck. The figure crept up between Lancelot and his weapon, leaving Lancelot between it and the light, peering into the blackness. Lancelot listened for the slightest hint of a footfall by his bed, reached out, and swung blindly into the darkness, connecting with something soft.
"Ow," it said.
Lancelot took the chance to pounce, knocking whoever it was off their feet and clearing a path to his weapon. He seized it and approached the person he had knocked down, ready to strike if necessary.
"Do you always over-react to people like this?" Elaine's petulant voice demanded. "Do you have any idea how many bruises I'm going to have tomorrow?"
Lancelot exhaled and ordered his muscles to relax as much as they could; the adrenaline of fear was still running through his veins. "What are you doing here?" he asked, more or less calmly.
"You were late," Elaine said. "Aren't you going to offer to help me up?"
He groped around in the dark until he found her outstretched arm and helped her up to sit on the bed.
"You were supposed to be in the courtyard to help me practise tonight," Elaine said. "I've been waiting for hours."
Lancelot, who couldn't remember having promised anything about spending a second night in a row traipsing around a dark practice yard after midnight, calculated the chances that, if he just put his head back down on the pillow, this would all turn out to be a dream.
Elaine poked him in the ribs, happily missing the worst of the places where he was bruised from fighting Sidney during the day. He supposed he should be grateful she wasn't poking him with a sword.
"Perhaps you'll excuse me for tonight, until I have a chance to recover from being knocked down by your brother - again," he added with particular emphasis.
"What, you didn't try to fight Sidney today, did you?" Elaine asked. "That was foolish. He's not the cleverest fighter, but he can hit things very hard. It's better to be alert if you're going to offer yourself up as a target. You must have been falling over your own feet."
"I didn't exactly offer to fight him," Lancelot pointed out. "It was more that he found me in an awkward position. Returning that sword you 'borrowed'," he elaborated when she said nothing.
"Oh, that," said Elaine. Lancelot waited for some acknowledgment of her own culpability, but she just said, "I did warn you not to wake Bernhard."
Lancelot took a deep breath and said, "I cannot train against your brothers during the day, and you at night, if I am to face them in a trial of combat in a few days' time."
"Fine, forget I was even here," Elaine said, sounding cross. "I'll just practise on my own as usual, and then in a few days when you're gone, or better yet dead, I'll go on practising alone, and that'll be fine too." The bed shifted beside him as she got up to go, and her footsteps retreated toward the door.
"Wait," said Lancelot, already regretting what he was about to say. "Tomorrow night, after we have both had a day to rest. I suppose you were not idle today any more than I was?"
"Oh, Dame B. woke me appallingly early and made me read Latin homilies while she dozed off in her chair, and then there were the usual things to be done around the keep with the servants and the-" Elaine yawned suddenly "-preparations for the tournament."
"Tomorrow, then," Lancelot repeated. "As soon as it's quiet. And not the whole night. I still need to prepare for the tournament myself."
"Will you attack me when I come in then, as well?" Elaine asked, as if this were a thoroughly unreasonable response to someone sneaking into his rooms in the dead of night.
Lancelot thought about waiting for another creeping shadow to skulk in at the entrance to his room and said, "No, out in the yard, where I can be sure it's you and not someone else coming up here to do me mischief."
"Who else could I have been? You didn't think I was Greg come up to ambush you in the night, did you?" Lancelot said nothing and Elaine laughed. "You did! How funny. I don't think you have to worry about Greg sneaking into your rooms in the middle of the night. He'd hate for you to be secretly murdered; most of the fun for him is being able to boast about things afterward. He'd much rather grind you to a pulp in front of an audience." And then reaching out to pat Lancelot's arm somewhat inaccurately in the dark, she added, "But don't worry, he won't really want to kill you because he prefers being able to gloat over the people he's beaten and so it's less fun if you're dead."
Lancelot found this a singularly uncomforting thought, and said so as politely as he could.
"I can't help that. Besides, if you want to know how to beat them, you'll just have to show up tomorrow night for practice so I can tell you how to make Gregory drop his guard. William likes to think he's the only one who can, but I could do it every time. Well," she paused, "I used to be able to do it when we were ten, but I don't think he's got that much better since then. Not really."
Lancelot groaned and let himself collapse back onto the bed. Despite all his earlier alertness, he was asleep again before he heard her shut the door.
"Merlin, has there been any word of - oh, I'm sorry." Gwen said as she burst into Merlin's rooms, then drew up short at the sight of the half-naked man who wasn't Merlin standing in the middle of them.
"No, please don't go," Gwaine said with a bright and flirtatious grin, "you've improved the beauty of the room a hundred times just by coming in. And I'm sure Merlin wouldn't want to miss you."
"Is Merlin here then?" Gwen asked, "I didn't see him." She looked around half-expecting Merlin to pop out from behind the door. It wasn't that far-fetched; Merlin did that sort of thing sometimes and it was a good excuse not to look at Gwaine's chest, which was firm, well-muscled and a completely inappropriate thing for a married woman to be looking at.
Gwaine jerked his head towards the closed bedroom door behind him. "He's just getting some things ready, you know, in the other room. Excuse my informal dress, we were just - in the middle of something."
"Oh - oh," said Gwen, flustered and embarrassed, "I don't want to intrude if you're - maybe I should just -"
She made a move toward the door, but it had inexplicably moved from where she had thought it was and she groped in vain for a door handle along the bare unyielding wall. Gwaine, conversely, had made no move of any kind, including any to cover himself. He just stood there, arms akimbo, in the middle of the room, as if he were a statue on a pedestal. Gwen tried not to think about why he was doing that in Merlin's rooms.
"Don't feel obliged to go on my account," he said, "I'd be happy to have you stay for this."
"Er-" said Gwen. He probably meant - he probably just meant - Gwen's brain panicked and fled, deserting her traitorously.
"Gwen, was that you?" asked Merlin, or rather his voice, which emerged from a heap of clothes that were precariously making their way into the room.
Gwen's brain re-emerged and gave her a helpful shove. "Oh! Clothes! Of course, Merlin's helping you dress for the ceremony." A number of wild speculations about Merlin and Gwaine being naked together in his bedroom chased themselves out of her mind; Merlin was decently clothed beneath the tottering pile of garments and showed no signs of having been otherwise.
"If we can find a shirt that he doesn't say scratches, itches, or looks ridiculous," Merlin complained cheerfully. "I swear, it feels like he's been taking his clothes off for hours now, he can't keep a shirt on for more than a second. At this rate he's going to have to be knighted in nothing at all. We'll have to call you the Naked Knight," he told Gwaine, dropping a rich blue shirt over the man's head and manhandling the knight-to-be until he could reach the ties at the neck. He bent over them with his lip caught between his teeth in an expression of intense concentration, as if he had actually forgotten how to put a shirt on someone else in the last six months.
Gwaine seemed equally fascinated with watching Merlin and his fumbling hands and something in his look made Gwen wonder if she had been as far off in her speculations as she thought. She coughed discreetly to remind them of her presence and Gwaine started at the sound, though Merlin just kept working steadily at the laces.
"I feel like a fraud in all this finery," Gwaine said by way of excuse. "I've spent all my life running away from these trappings. Now here I am, dressing up as a knight, when I'd be more comfortable standing stark naked in the middle of a bar-room brawl."
"Then you'd better not wear anything at all to the ceremony," said Gwen gravely. "Not if you feel it would be dishonest."
"Do you think Arthur would object?" Gwaine asked her with a wink that she pretended not to see.
"It isn't exactly what he meant by formal attire..." said Gwen, "but let it not be said that the court of Camelot isn't open to new ideas. I'll be sure to mention it to Arthur. Who knows? You might start a fashion."
"There, you're all done," Merlin announced, finishing with the laces and dropping a tunic over Gwaine's head, "and if you try to take that one off before this evening I'll - I'll have Arthur throw you in the stocks. Or muck out the stables, he likes making people do that."
Gwen giggled. "Do you remember when Lancelot -"
"Yeah," Merlin laughed, "poor man, he really had to work for that knighthood."
As the humour bubbled down, Gwen felt worry slide back in to take its place. "Actually, that's what I came to see you about. There hasn't been any word of him?"
Merlin shook his head. "I'm sure he'll be here soon, Gwen, you know he wouldn't miss this."
"He might." Gwen worried instinctively at her lower lip. She could remember all too clearly the feeling of being left behind in a cold, dark forest without even a hint of a "fare thee well." The memory still stung. "He might have decided that he didn't - that this wasn't really what he wanted."
"That wasn't why he left," Merlin said, so gently and seriously that Gwen was sure he had guessed the direction her thoughts were taking. Then, with a furtive glance at Gwaine, he added more cheerfully, "He's probably just been caught up in some business, maybe getting settled in the town. I'm sure he'll be here soon."
Gwaine, who had begun to fidget once neither of them was paying attention to him, made a sudden move for the door, although Merlin's hand still rested carelessly on his shoulder and he had to pull away sharply from its grasp in the process.
Merlin picked up the remaining pile of clothes with a groan. "I'll just put these back again," he said. "Don't worry about me, if I break my back along the way, I'll shout for help; I can probably dig my way out if the shirts form an avalanche and bury me." He continued on this vein until his words were muffled within the wardrobe. Gwen wasn't overly concerned; he sounded too much like he was enjoying his monologue of self-pity.
"You know, it's a funny thing," Gwen observed, now that Gwaine was decently clothed at last and her brain was back into better working order, "I could have sworn that I heard Arthur offer to pay for a tailor for you to have some new clothes the day you arrived."
It was Gwaine's turn to look away. "Ah, yes, but it wouldn't have been - that is, I haven't had a chance yet to - Merlin offered to help."
Gwen nodded sagely, concealing her inner amusement. So that was what it took to put Gwaine off his perpetual readiness for flirtation. "Yes, Merlin likes to be helpful. He's a great friend that way."
"Right. Well, I'd better go get ready. It's not every day you become a knight, after all. Never thought I'd see the day I'd put this on." He fingered the front of the tunic on which Merlin had, with suspiciously fine and speedy work, embroidered Gwaine's house crest. "You know, after my father's death, I swore that no one would ever bear these colours again? I destroyed everything I could find that bore our crest and damned the lot of them. I never expected to find myself wearing it in the end."
"None of us expected to be where we are now," Gwen said, "not even Arthur, in some ways. Even the things you expect to happen don't always come about in the ways you thought."
Gwaine nodded. He cast a look toward the muffled sounds coming from the other room and said, "No, nothing's happened the way I thought it would." Then looking back at Gwen and catching her sympathetic expression, he flashed her a brilliant grin and said, "Lots of preparations to make before the final execution. Tell Merlin I've promised not to be parted from the tunic until after the ceremony and a decent night's revelry - or an indecent night's, if I can manage it." He finished with a lewd wink and hurried out before Gwen could come up with a rejoinder.
"You'd better still have your kit on-" Merlin was saying as he returned, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his features on finding Gwen alone, which she managed not to take personally.
"I think he had to go do some things to get ready," Gwen said without much conviction.
"You mean he's bolted again?" Merlin asked matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, pretty much," Gwen agreed. "He does seem quite nervous about the ceremony."
Merlin sighed. "I had to intercept him on his way to the stables twice this morning. He said he was just going out to get some air. He could have left plenty of times by now though - if he's not sure about being a knight, why is he staying and going through with it at all?"
"Maybe he has other reasons for staying," Gwen suggested. "Or maybe he doesn't want to let people down."
"I don't know why he's so worried, he's going to be brilliant." Merlin shook his head in incomprehension. "So is Lancelot, it'll be a great thing for both of them."
"Are you sure Lancelot's all right?" Gwen asked, returning to their former subject. "You don't know - I mean, you don't know where he is, do you?"
Merlin sighed again. "I don't, no. And you're right, he should have been here by now. But Lancelot's a big boy, Gwen. He knows how to take care of himself. I'm sure everything will be fine, and he'll get here as soon as he can."
"I know that," said Gwen, "I do, it just - doesn't stop me worrying."
"I'll tell you what, if he's not here by the time the tournament begins, I'll go out and look for him myself," Merlin promised. "I found him before, and that was when he was guarding some peasants in a remote sea-side town. We know he rode close to Camelot with Gwaine, so he can't be far off. I'd go now, but I don't trust our visitors not to get up to mischief if they're left on their own. Do you?"
"No," she admitted, "I wish I did, but they have been acting strangely. The Earl seems harmless enough. Arthur says he's arrogant, and proud, and doesn't like the idea of Northumbria paying tribute to what he looks down on as a newer kingdom. But there's something... off about Sir Rothby, and I could have sworn that Lady Lavinia was trying to pump me for information about Camelot's defensive forces in between remarks about fabric tension."
"She does look like she could do dangerous things with a knitting needle," Merlin declared sombrely, which sent both of them into a brief fit of giggles.
"Lancelot can take care of himself," Merlin repeated firmly, once their laughter had subsided.
"Lancelot can take care of himself," Gwen agreed and tried to believe it.
In the morning, Lancelot awoke to the sight of Timothy clattering in with a breakfast tray which, as per his usual custom, just barely and improbably missed capsizing over Lancelot's head. Lancelot expected him to turn and retreat as usual, but he stayed frozen by the door watching Lancelot pick up his porridge and begin to eat as if he had forgotten how the sequence of "open door, walk through, close" was supposed to work.
"K-king Pelles, he" the boy said, stumbling over the words. "He requests your presence in his private chambers." And then, having got that much out, he fled.
Lancelot ate the rest of his breakfast on a leaden stomach, wondering how far Pelles' charitable views extended on the question of his daughter sneaking into a strange man's room at night. The summons could have nothing to do with last night's uninvited visitation, he told himself firmly, not believing it in the slightest, and descended as calmly as he could from the tower.
Pelles' private chambers were located in another wing of the castle altogether, as Lancelot discovered by dint of a great deal of aimless wandering that took him, at length, into a part of the castle he had never seen before. The rooms there were a little larger; fewer doors opened onto the corridor, and the footsteps of the attendants who passed along it were more discreet, more careful not to obtrude on the notice of the inhabitants. Lancelot found a door before which two guards stood at attention, and asked one of these if King Pelles was within.
The guard's eyes flicked over him, assessing but uninterested in the result, and returned to their watchfulness without any further movement.
A moment later, the door swung open from within and Lancelot was ushered in by a well-dressed servant who shut the door behind him then retreated to a respectful distance. Pelles was standing at a long, low table on which were laid out dozens of crumbling old scrolls, some so caked with dust and decay that Lancelot wasn't sure anything could remain beneath the crust of age.
Pelles beckoned him forward and carefully unrolled a piece of parchment that crackled ominously in protest.
"This was in the time of Alfred the Great," said Pelles, indicating long columns of scratchy letters that Lancelot could not read. Along their edges curled a trail of vines and, suspended from it, a man dangling by his ankle who appeared to have been mauled by some sort of wild animal. There was a gaping wound in his side and a foot soldier with a spear knelt down at the bottom of the page - part of the same hunt, Lancelot thought, until he noticed that the spear was dripping as well as the wound. He turned away feeling sick.
"Our family has a long and colourful history, as you can see," Pelles carried on, his fingers hovering over the colourful images in the margins as he traced their story in the text. "My ancestor Pellam was a great and virtuous king until he was driven mad by lust for a young married woman in his court. When she rebuffed his advances, King Pellam lured her husband out into the woods, away from his hunting party, and killed him, telling the others when they arrived that he had been killed by a wild boar. When the poor man's wife heard of this, she shut herself away in her rooms and swore that she would never allow a man entry again. After a few days, the king ordered the guards to break down her door, and found only one of her serving women, weeping into her apron. She said her lady had gone mad in her grief and despair, and sworn that she would take no other mate but the creature that had killed her husband. And so with the help of a witch she changed herself into a wild beast and went to roam the woods.
"When the king heard this, he summoned the court sorcerer and commanded him to transform him into a wild boar. The sorcerer warned him that the longer he spent in the form of an animal, the more he would come to think like the animal, and gave him a charm that would return him to human form when he touched it, urging him not to wait too long to use it. The king hid the charm in the roots of a tree at the edge of the wood, and the sorcerer spoke the magic words to transform him. After that, Pellam wandered into the woods, in search of his mate.
"Nothing more was heard from the king for days, and no one knows if he ever found the lady he sought, but some days later when his lords were hunting in the woods, they came across a magnificent boar, a king of beasts. It was digging around the roots of various trees as if searching for something buried there, and when it saw the hunting party it seemed to go mad. It went into a frenzy, pawing at the ground and emitting a series of wild squeals and shrieks. The hunting party were nervous, thinking that perhaps the beast was rabid, and when at last it made a move to charge back towards them and the castle, one of the king's own retainers hurled a javelin to bring it down.
"As soon as it had stilled, the flesh on its bones seemed to shimmer and change, and before long it was the body of the king lying before them, naked and torn by the javelin in the same place as the lord that he had killed. The party carried him back to the castle, where the whole story came out, and a search was made for the lady, the sorcerer, and the charm buried in the wood, but none of them was ever found.
"No one knew how much of the king's mind the beast had retained, but it was generally agreed among the people of the court that the murderous instincts of the animal had led the king to attack his own men, and so no more was done in the matter except to give the king's body a quiet funeral and confer among themselves as to who should be the next king."
There was a long pause, as Pelles seemed to sink into contemplation of the manuscript.
"And do you believe the story, my lord?" Lancelot asked, wondering at its meaning.
"Hmm? Oh, well, yes," said Pelles distractedly, "there is another version of the story in which the lady simply fled after her husband's death, out of fear of the king, and his own men turned against him to avenge their friend's death. Who knows whether we bring these evils on ourselves or if they are dispensed from other hands?"
Lancelot, who felt he ought to say something more in response, asked, "And this man, King Pellam, he was your-"
"Oh, my great grandfather, or my great-great-grandfather. The records are uncertain after his death, as his children were quietly removed to this castle and dwelt in some obscurity until my grandfather achieved lordship once more over these lands. His eldest son was Pescheour, the Fisher King. You must know his story?"
Lancelot said slowly, "He was a king who allowed his knights to roam at large around the countryside, attacking freely wherever they willed. His own brother struck down a knight of Camelot, and the knight's brother returned to seek vengeance. He dealt the Fisher King a blow from which the king could never recover and never die, but must live in agony."
Pelles nodded gravely. "Since that time, my uncles' lands have lain in waste and ruin. Only my father's kingdom survived, and it has fallen to our hands to preserve the last relics of our family." He opened a thickly bound tome - one written in the common Latin - to a page where the text bounded an image of a wooden cup, set with jewels. "It is said that whoever drinks from the grail gains ever-lasting life. A vessel of the very deepest magic. And yet its legacy has also been a curse upon my family, for those like Pescheour can never die, no matter how great their pain, until they are released from the hold of its magic.
"My sons are forbidden to touch it. When I die it will pass into the keeping of my daughter, and from there perhaps, at last, it will fade into the dust of history. If it does not - if any man can deserve its blessings, I think it will be a son of hers."
Pelles closed the book he had been studying, and sat heavily in a chair. As he did, Lancelot noticed that he was favouring his own left side, pressing his hand against his chest as he sank back, as if an old wound there pained him as well. He noticed the direction of Lancelot's gaze and smiled.
"A hunting accident in my youth," he said. "It has healed long ago, but the scar remains, and sometimes it pulls to remind me." He laughed at Lancelot's expression. "Don't look so worried! I was not transformed into a wild boar at the time. If you live long enough, I dare say you will be less surprised to see a fellow knight with a battle wound. But you did not come here to hear listen to an old man wallow in his reminiscences or his family history."
"No, my lord," said Lancelot, some of his earlier nervousness returning.
"Chrétien, bring me my sword," the king ordered.
Lancelot took an involuntary step back. Surely no one would would spend that much time discussing his family history as a prelude to an execution? Yet he couldn't help flinching as the servant brought out a long bundle and laid it out before the king, pulling back the swaddling cloths to show the gleam of highly polished and efficient metal.
"Well?" Pelles demanded.
Lancelot gulped. "My lord, if I have offended you in some way during my short stay here, I can only say -" he began, but Pelles waved it off.
"Aren't you going to try it?" he asked. "Sidney told me you didn't have a proper weapon of your own. He felt quite badly about it, he said, because he wants you to be able to defend yourself properly and he thought the old sword you were using yesterday couldn't have helped."
"I cannot accept - your own sword -" Lancelot said in some confusion.
"I have others," Pelles said, "and as it is the gift of a king, it should not be declined."
"Then thank you, my lord," Lancelot said and took up the sword reverently from its wrappings. He tested its weight in his hands, finding it surprisingly light, but when he gripped it by the hilt he found it balanced perfectly and naturally. Holding it straight out before him and looking along the blade, twisting it slowly to ensure that every line and angle was straight, he caught the king's servant watching him with widened eyes as he tidied away the cloth and books from the table.
Lancelot let the point of the sword drop and bowed deeply to the king. "It is a fine instrument, my lord. Thank you for your generosity."
"Such swords tend to find their way into the right hands," Pelles said, "don't you think? It will be a better match for that armour of yours than some old practice sword."
The servant followed him to the door to let him out, and Lancelot could have sworn when he looked back that he was being watched with interest by the guards who were still waiting outside.
He found William waiting for him at the end of the corridor, leaning casually against the wall yet in a way that effectively blocked Lancelot's exit. Seen from up close, he was not quite what Lancelot had expected. Lancelot had imagined features more like his sister's, based on some of their similar tricks of moving. It was Sidney, however, to whom William bore the most marked resemblance, despite their great differences in shape and bulk.
William smiled pleasantly, no hint of anything menacing, but his eyes were sharp as he looked Lancelot over.
"I see you got on with my father, then," was the first thing he said, skipping over the niceties of introducing himself. He was looking at the sword in Lancelot's hand.
Lancelot shifted uncertainly. He wanted to flee back to his own room and take the measure of this new weapon in private, but he could hardly push his way past one of the king's sons. "He said your brother-"
"Ah, yes, Sidney. Did you mean to mean to con him, by the way?" he asked, and the bland tone in which he asked it belied its insinuation so well that it took a moment for the full implication to register.
"I don't know what you mean," Lancelot said a little stiffly.
"That trick yesterday," William said, "letting him win so easily. He said he knocked you over in one round? He's certainly feeling over-confident now, if that's what you were hoping for. The funny thing is you don't move like someone that inept. So, were you trying to lull him in a state of false confidence, or did you just happen to... trip, during that round?"
"Something like that," Lancelot said, who didn't want to explain the full context of the events to William any more than he had to his brother.
"Well then, let's see what it takes to trip you," said William. Without waiting for an answer, he slung an amicable arm around Lancelot's shoulders and stayed glued to his side until they reached the small practice yard. They made no detour to the armoury and, from a sword that William produced seemingly out of nowhere, it was clear that none was intended. It was easier, true, if more hazardous, to observe an unknown opponent's movements without his armour on.
If Lancelot had thought that practising against Elaine or Sidney was exhausting, it was nothing to facing William. It wasn't just that he was a quick and wily opponent; it was the constant stream of remarks with which William accompanied every move, offering up comments on Lancelot's strategy and technique, his own, and sometimes on completely irrelevant matters such as the likelihood of rain in the surrounding farmlands that season. It was obvious that he meant to test Lancelot's concentration, but the semi-continuous stream of patter didn't seem to affect his own speed or skill at all, and he was just as likely to make a sudden and unexpected move without pausing for breath in mid-sentence as at a moment when he remained silent and watchful.
Lancelot for his own part did what he could to ignore the commentary, watching instead the ways in which William moved, the small but eloquent hints of movement in the way he placed his feet, in the turn of his hips and where his shoulder sat. When he failed to rise to any of William's opening jabs, they became less frequent and aimed experimentally at different points of attack. They were clearly aimed at random, and several speculating about Lancelot's birth and his family bounced off harmlessly. It was only when William said, "So you thought you could lure my sister away with you?" and then, "Was she the first lady you've run off with into the woods?" that Lancelot faltered.
William spotted this slight hesitation and pressed home with, "How many ladies are there out there right now wondering where you are or if you will ever return?"
Hearing it shouldn't have mattered. Lancelot saw William's next move before he made it, knew that he would step in to the right and bash Lancelot's sword arm out of the way. He saw the move coming and knew how to counter it, but in one part of his mind Gwen's face had risen up, gentle and unrebukingly sad, and Lancelot's feet were a half-pace too slow. William caught him smartly beneath his grip, kicked his feet out from under him, and let his sword swing down lightly to hover with casual menace over the point of Lancelot's throat.
"That was fun," he said with a little smile that Lancelot could see upside-down above him. "We must do it again some time."
With that William sauntered off, leaving Lancelot to pick himself up. When he did, he found Elaine watching him from the covered walkway.
"That was sad," she said, making no move to help him either as he rose and dusted himself off.
"Thank you for your concern, my lady," said Lancelot, trying not to sound as bruised as he felt.
"The first thing to remember with William," she carried on regardless, "is not to listen to anything he says, because it's the most appalling rubbish. And second, it helps if you know that when he was a little boy he used to collect frogs in a basin that he kept locked up in his closet, and that one day when our nursemaid caught him smuggling them into his room he stuffed them down his trousers to hide. If you can still take him seriously after that, you might as well surrender in advance. I see Papa's given you Dolor," she added as a non sequitur.
Lancelot frowned in confusion. "He seemed more welcoming than before."
Elaine stared at him and then went to pick up the sword that William had knocked from his hand. "Dolor," she said, handing it back to him with visible reluctance, "is the name of the sword."
"What is it about this sword?" Lancelot demanded, exasperated at having fallen needlessly for the second time on the same increasingly tender spot of his back, and somewhat nonplussed at finding that his new sword merited tenderer care than his ribs.
"It's been in our family for about, hmm-" Elaine stopped to think "-yes, seven generations. Like the dinner set, only Papa couldn't give me a sword, just the useless bits of wood. And he always put off handing it to my brothers, as well." Her eyes followed yearningly the sweep of its blade in his hand. "So you see he either must like you a great deal or else he's trying to infuriate them into killing you when they get the chance. But probably it's that he likes you. What did he say to you, anyway?"
"There was something about a story in a book, about your family history," Lancelot said. He'd forgotten most of it already, although an impression remained of a great sadness in Pelles when he talked of his family. "And about your inheritance and having children, I thi-" He stopped in sudden horror. "Er, I don't think he meant - I mean, it wasn't about you and-"
Elaine wrinkled her nose into an expression of distaste. "Wonderful, so he thinks you'd make a good father for his grandchildren. Good of you both to consult me. Well at least that must mean he isn't expecting you to die imminently, how nice for you." She swept off into the castle.
Lancelot did his best to convince himself that he was feeling unusually weighed down that day only because of his injuries, but the mood lingered beyond the physical discomfort. The image of Gwen's face hovered on the edge of his mind for the rest of the day, sometimes alternating with the brief flash of real unhappiness he had seen when Elaine turned away from him.
Part Five
Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/62871.html at Dreamwidth.
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