How to Survive Promotion in the Middle Ages (9/11)

[themadlurker]

Please see Masterpost for fic headers and author's notes.

Back to Part Eight



Gwen had never thought of pacing as something that could be catching, but she was beginning to wonder if it might be. Arthur had calmed at last, the way he always did the night before combat. It was Gwen now who was growing flustered and anxious, impatient for the dawn and dreading it at the same time.

It didn't matter how many times she told herself that it was ridiculous to expect Merlin back already; he had only left yesterday. She still came around every corner of the castle hoping that she would run into him. After all, he was, well, he was a sorcerer, wasn't he? He did all sorts of improbable things. Was it that much more unreasonable to expect him to reach Carbonek and be back in the blink of an eye?

She knew she was probably being silly. It couldn't really work like that, could it? Only she was going to be put on trial tomorrow. Even if it was indirectly, even if all the contest came down to was some kind of political manoeuvring, she couldn't help thinking that, with Merlin gone, and Elyan travelling, that if Arthur... if Arthur were even injured tomorrow, she would have no one left in the court to rely on. It was a sobering thought.

Arthur had sworn that he would never let her come to harm, but what if it weren't up to Arthur? If he fell in combat, would his knights still feel the same way about supporting a woman who had brought their King to such an end? Could she rely on someone like Gwaine, after everything else that had happened, to defend her if Arthur was gone, and no help came from Carbonek in time?

She had tried to represent some of this to Arthur, mainly in terms of the danger to the kingdom if he fell, but he was determined. A king could not be worthy to rule if he balked at defending what he believed in. Gwen, perhaps unworthily, felt that it might be more useful to have a king who was still alive at the end of the day.

If Arthur was determined to fight Sir Rothby, and if Sir Rothby was determined to try to kill him, perhaps there was still one person at Camelot to whom she could appeal for reason. Not that she had much hope of success, but Gwen felt the overwhelming need to do something other than pace in circles around the castle all night.

Sir Rothby had been under heavy guard since making his accusation, but his mother, Lady Lavinia, was still free to come and go as she pleased. In any case, the castle guards were hardly going to stop the Queen of Camelot from visiting whomever she wished.

Gwen knocked quietly on Lady Lavinia's door, so quietly in fact that she waited for a minute, uncertain whether she had been heard at all, before a faint voice called out, "Enter."

Lady Lavinia was sitting up in bed, the blankets drawn up nearly to her chin. Gwen shut the door and came to her side, feeling suddenly nervous for no reason that she could place.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you were going to bed, I didn't think of the hour," Gwen said. It was only early evening, but perhaps for the older lady it was late already.

"It's no trouble, my dear," Lady Lavinia said. "Was there something you wanted?"

Gwen came a little nearer and trod on something hard, round and silver, that rolled away under the bed. Lady Lavinia's eyes flashed at the movement, as Gwen stumbled and righted herself with a hand on the blankets.

"I'm sorry," Gwen repeated and then, since she was there anyway and might as well continue, sat down on the foot of the bed. "I wanted to talk to you. It's about your son, Sir Rothby. I suppose you know about his - you know what's been going on?"

"I've heard something about it," said Lady Lavinia. "Of course I haven't been able to see him since then, which is so upsetting to a mother's feelings. I don't understand what's been happening."

"I'm afraid he's got into a bit of trouble," said Gwen, trying to sound as sympathetic about it as she could. "He's said some things that - well, they aren't true, but now he and the King are both so determined to prove they're right and the other's wrong that they're going to fight each other about it tomorrow. And I'm very much afraid that one of them may be - that someone may get badly hurt."

"How terrible," said Lady Lavinia. "But of course these things will happen. Rothby was always a little mischievous as a boy. I'm sure it'll be all right in the end."

"Wouldn't it be better if they didn't fight at all, though, don't you think?" Gwen asked. "I don't know if you could somehow convince your son - if you could convince him that it was a bad idea -" but Lady Lavinia was already shaking her head.

"I'm afraid he's terribly stubborn. I dare say if I tried to talk him out of it he'd only be more determined to go through with it. You know what these young men are like," Lady Lavinia said conspiratorially.

"But what if -" Gwen tried. "Do you remember, a few days ago, when we were sitting together? It was... it was after Sir Gwaine arrived, you met him at his knighting ceremony? If you could just tell your son - or, no, better yet, your cousin, the Earl. If you could just tell him about how we sat together and talked that day, it could clear up the confusion of what my husband and your son are arguing about. And then the Earl could put a stop to this foolishness."

Lady Lavinia's fingers emerged over the top of the bed clothes and she appeared to be counting something out in her head. At last she reached a conclusion and sighed sadly.

"No, I'm so sorry my dear," said Lady Lavinia, "I think you must have the day wrong. It was the day before that when you and I were having such a lovely chat about lace patterns. Yes, I'm afraid I simply couldn't lie about such a thing, even though I'm sure this is terribly important to you. But then, if you didn't want people to say such things about your indiscretions, you really should have been more careful not to be seen, shouldn't you?"

She said it in a syrupy, sympathetic voice, and a hand snaked out from under the covers to rest consolingly on Gwen's own. Gwen snatched her hand back from the touch, as if bitten. She didn't believe the tone of sympathy. There was something about the words that struck too false a note.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you," she said, getting up to leave. "I should have seen it was impossible. Don't let me trouble you any further."

"Good night, Guinevere," Lady Lavinia called out after her.

As Gwen closed the door behind her, she felt the prickings of tears at the corner of her eyes. It was just frustration. Hot, angry frustration, with herself as much as anything, for believing that it would make a difference. If the woman's son was willing to accuse Gwen of adultery, why should she have believed his mother would be any better?

There had been something strange, though, just at the end, when Lady Lavinia had reached out to take her hand. It stuck in Gwen's mind through her self-remonstration over what a mistake this visit had been. Already made suspicious by Lady Lavinia's pretense of sympathy, Gwen's thoughts ran feverishly over everything she had seen during their short interview before coming to rest on Lady Lavinia's hand.

It had been a sleeve. Not the sleeve of a nightdress, but of a fine gown.

Lady Lavinia had been still dressed under the bed clothes, Gwen was sure of it, and she had kept all but her head carefully hidden beneath the blankets so that Gwen would not see it. Her hair had not looked right, either, now Gwen knew what to look for in her memories. It had still been bound up, not let out and mussed by lying in bed. Gwen must have noticed the difference without being fully aware of it.

That pause before Lady Lavinia answered the knock at her door, then, had not been a pause to wake or to sit up in bed. It had been just enough time for her to get into bed, and to arrange the bed clothes so they covered up what she was wearing. She had only forgotten her gown when she moved to touch Gwen's hand in that move of false kindness.

But what reason could there have been to conceal the fact that she was still dressed from Gwen, who had scarcely expected to find her in bed at this hour anyway. Surely she could have feigned tiredness without hiding under the bedclothes.

What if there were someone she did not want to know that she had been out of bed? Gwen wondered.

It was an odd thought, and might come to nothing, but Gwen decided to walk the long way back to her own rooms, by way of the other guest quarters. It proved a fruitful detour when she reached Sir Rothby's door, set back a little in a niche in the wall, and found the guards posted outside it slumped on the floor in a deep sleep. Their legs had been drawn in so they did not protrude into the corridor and were invisible to the casual passerby.

Gwen shook the shoulder of the nearest one, gently, to wake him, but it had no effect. His head merely lolled further to the side upon his shoulder. Gwen bit her lip, worrying away at the problem.

There had been something else in Lady Lavinia's room that had made her uneasy from the moment she saw it, but what was it? Something about the bed or - no, it had been what was under the bed. When she had stepped on something and Lady Lavinia had looked nervous, or angry, or at any rate not her calm, placid self. What had it been? It was a piece of jewellery, Gwen had thought, a bracelet or a bangle, a heavy, solid one. She tried to remember what it had looked like, if she had got a look at it when she came in.

Gwen's head ached terribly.

Was Sir Rothby even still inside? If he had disabled the guards, he could be anywhere in the castle by now.

She spun around and headed back to the royal chambers at a fast walk, breaking into a run as the quiet desertion of the halls turned her worry into panic. She turned a corner at high speed and ran straight into a cloaked and hooded figure coming the other way.

Gwen would have fallen, but she was caught and held tightly by the shoulders.

"Morgana?" she gasped, looking up into the deep shadows of the hood.

"Slæp nu," said the shadowy figure, and Gwen slumped suddenly in its arms, her eyelashes fluttering shut as she was drawn into a deep magical sleep.

The last thought Gwen had before the sleep claimed her was that of course it wasn't Morgana. That was Lady Lavinia's face just peeking out from beneath the hood of the cloak. So why had she been so sure?

While the guards outside Sir Rothby's quarters slumbered on, a figure knocked on the door and was admitted, carrying the unconscious body of the queen.

"Can you make her forget?" asked Lady Lavinia, once the queen was laid out on the bed.

"What does she know?" Sir Rothby asked sharply. "Did she discover who we are?"

Lady Lavinia paused for a moment before shaking her head. "No, she merely came across the sleeping guards. I believe she was going to alert the others."

Sir Rothby sighed. "That is simple enough, then. A spell to erase her memory of the last few minutes should be enough."

Lady Lavinia bit her lip and suggested, "Perhaps a little longer than that?" At Sir Rothby's look of inquiry, she added hastily, "In case there was something preceding that which made her seek out your rooms. There's no telling what brought her here. If she wakes and returns again, it will only complicate matters."

Sir Rothby nodded gravely. "It is enough of a risk leaving the guards asleep at their stations. Any more, and the Queen may not be the only one to suspect something amiss."

"Exactly," said Lady Lavinia, with a sigh of relief. "It won't - the spell won't harm her, I suppose? I mean, the effects won't be noticeable?"

"Just a brief lapse in her memory," Sir Rothby assured her. He raised a hand and carefully stroked it across the Queen's temples as he whispered a spell. "There, all gone now. You can return her without being observed?"

"I know this castle like the back of my hand. And the guards will not see me," Lady Lavinia promised. She gathered the still sleeping Queen into her arms with a little effort and headed for the door.

"Aren't you going to wish me luck in the tournament tomorrow?" Sir Rothby asked, just before she left.

"Of course," said Lady Lavinia, and turned around with a wide smile. "Good luck, sister. I'm sure you will be victorious."

She slipped out past the slumbering guards and through the corridors to the Queen's chamber. She walked softly past the door to the King's bedchamber, but there was no sign of movement within. She laid the Queen out upon the couch in her own room, arranged as if she had lain down for a quick nap and fallen into a deep sleep.

Then, looking at the stiff gown that Gwen wore, Lady Lavinia lifted her a little to loose the lacings of the dress. Gwen sank back onto the couch with a little sigh. There was a shawl lying on a chair that Lady Lavinia brought over and spread across Gwen's feet.

"I'm sorry, Gwen," said Lady Lavinia gently. "Really, I am. I suppose you won't believe it, but I never wanted you to get mixed up in all this."

She brushed aside a curl that had fallen across Gwen's cheek.

"Why did it have to be Arthur though?" she asked the sleeping Queen. "You could have fallen in love with Lancelot, and run away with your knight errant, and then it would just have been some princess worrying about losing her position at court. Wouldn't that have been better?"

Lady Lavinia straightened up and drew her hood closer around her face before leaving.

"It's for the best, Gwen. You'll understand that someday, perhaps."

With that, she left.

When Gwen woke up next, it was bright morning. Sunlight and bird song streamed in through the open windows of her room. She still had a headache. Still, from last night, when she had gone to see Lady Lavinia and - of course, the woman was sorry, but she couldn't help. Had there been anything else?

Gwen puzzled over the memory. There was a nagging thought that she kept trying to reach, but it continually evaded her. No, she must just have been tired. She had come back to bed and fallen asleep almost before her head had hit the pillow, that was all. And there were so many other things to be worried about today, with the fate of Camelot resting on the outcome of a single trial by combat. Anything else would just have to wait.

Guinevere's hair was tousled by sleep and she winced against the morning light when Arthur touched her cheek to wake her. Even groggy and half-asleep, she was the most lovely thing he had ever seen.

Arthur leaned in and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly. "Sleep well?" he asked.

"Mmmm..." said Guinevere, whose tongue had not caught up with her brain yet.

Arthur kissed her again, his tongue darting in to find hers when her lips opened a little. He stroked gently along the roof of her mouth until she drew back with a satisfied noise.

"Good morning," she said, and stretched lazily along the couch, fingers curling and uncurling in the air.

"I knew you'd find it eventually, if I helped you," Arthur told her, watching her tongue flick out after a yawn. He stole another kiss while her lips were gently parted.

"Hmm?" said Gwen in confusion, then pulled back to look at him properly. She smoothed his hair down automatically. Arthur wondered if she knew that her own was a mess as well.

"Never mind," he said. "It'll pass. I looked for you last night, but you were already fast asleep in here. I didn't want to disturb you."

"Yes, I'd been..." Gwen trailed off. "I think I was talking to Lady Lavinia, trying to convince her of - something." Her eyes cleared a little as she said, "Arthur, are you sure you want to do this? It's not too late to change your mind, find another way-"

Arthur rested a finger under her chin and tilted her face up into another kiss.

"That's not really an answer," she said with mock severity. "This is serious, you know."

"I know," he agreed. "But whatever happens later today, I would like to think that the day began in the best possible way it could."

Gwen gave a sweet, secret smile and said, "I don't know if we have time for the best way."

Arthur kissed her again. "Then why don't we make do with second best?" he asked, and pulled her into his arms.

By the time Merlin and Lancelot rode within sight of the castle, the shadows of the trees were already lengthening into dusk. Merlin hadn't remembered riding this far from Camelot to reach the place in the woods from which they'd returned, but it must have been longer than he'd thought.

Lancelot wanted to ride on into the night, by the light of the moon if necessary, but Merlin persuaded him that the remaining distance would be easier and faster by daylight in any case, and that Lancelot would be no use to anyone if he arrived exhausted from a night of travel. They could set out a little before dawn, when they and the horses were rested, and still arrive before the trumpet announced the start of the tournament.

Convinced by Merlin's impeccable logic (and a meaningful word or two about how magic could put Lancelot out like a light while he was still sitting on his horse, rather than lying all comfortable on the ground), Lancelot finally conceded the point and set up camp for the night. Merlin solemnly promised to wake him at least two hours before dawn and then settled in with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to begin a quiet vigil.

He shook himself out of a quiet doze some time later, not knowing how late the hour was. The moon was high up in the sky and everything else was still and dark. Lancelot was snoring gently on the ground a few feet away.

Merlin smiled. For someone who had protested that he did not, absolutely did not need to sleep, Lancelot was certainly doing a good imitation of it. Merlin could afford to yawn a little in the morning; he wouldn't be the one to face an unknown knight in combat tomorrow. Now there was a thought to keep you awake at night. It would turn out for the best, though, Merlin believed that. Lancelot fought like no one he'd ever seen before. And if it came down to it - if it came down to a choice between protecting his friends and playing by the rules - Merlin didn't have any doubt about what part he'd be playing at the tournament tomorrow.

Not that he would have said no to a nice warm bed for the night instead of sitting up on the cold ground. That was the sort of sacrifice nobody thought of when you offered to save the day. They thought about harrowing near misses with bandits in the forest or deadly battles or - Merlin yawned - making a desperate ride between two far distant kingdoms and barely making it back in time. No one thought about the fact that you weren't going to get in a good night's sleep along the way.

When Lancelot woke it was to the hiss and pop of a fire and the smell of frying sausages.

"What time is it?" he asked in a panic, leaping from slumber into almost complete wakefulness in an instant.

Merlin said, "Calm down, calm down," or something like it, around a mouthful of sausage. "You want some?"

The morning light was still dim, but it seemed to be growing brighter even as Lancelot looked around. The colours were just coming back to the world, and somewhere over the horizon the sun must be preparing to peek out in a dazzling display of brilliance. In other words, there was no time for sausages.

"We have to start for Camelot at once," Lancelot insisted, gathering up his belongings in a hurry and moving to saddle both horses. "There's not a moment to lose if we're to make it there before the tournament begins."

"It doesn't start f- sorry," Merlin said as a bit of sausage came out with the 'F' and hit Lancelot in the face. He swallowed the rest of the bite hastily. "Doesn't start for ages yet. It's barely even dawn. Here, have a sausage, you need to keep up your strength for the big day."

"We should leave now," said Lancelot. "It would be best to be at Camelot as soon as possible. We can worry about eating once we are sure of having arrived in time."

"We're not going to get to Camelot at all if you fall off your horse because you fainted with hunger," Merlin said, waving a sausage on a stick under Lancelot's nose.

Lancelot's stomach growled, traitorously, and he accepted the food with a grimace.

"Not like that," said Merlin, when Lancelot tried to bite off half of it at one go. "You'll burn your mouf - sorry - mouth or at least give yourself indigestion. Gaius always said indigestion was a man's worst enemy. That or swollen joints. I can never remember. You had to take the same foul-smelling red tonic for both of them, anyway."

Lancelot ate as patiently as he could while Merlin discoursed on the effects of various stomach ailments that would be enough to turn a person off eating for life.

"Where is Gaius, anyway?" Lancelot asked in a convenient pause before Merlin could move on to discussing inflammation of the bowels. "The last I heard he was at Camelot, albeit that was a long time ago."

"Oh, he went off on some sort of a physician's quest for the water of life," said Merlin, then paused thoughtfully. "Or the herb of life? It could've been a poultice, but that doesn't sound right. Anyway, I gather it's a sort of paid retirement where he does... field research, he called it. Mostly it's so he can let someone else look after people's boils at the castle for a change and he can go running around the countryside with this healer woman and they can cure all the villagers in the land. He sent me a letter a few weeks ago saying the mountain air had wonderful restorative properties and I'd better not be slacking off on my duties."

Merlin licked his fingers thoroughly and made a noise of contentment. He looked at the remaining bundle of provisions with a worryingly speculative eye.

"Now can we go?" Lancelot demanded, already standing in wait by his horse. Merlin shrugged and handed him a stick with another sausage once he'd mounted.

"Eat up," said Merlin, smothering the fire and gathering up his own possessions with infuriating slowness. "You can eat it on the way if you're that impatient about it, but if you choke to death, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I won't be in any position to complain about it if I do," Lancelot promised and finally, as Merlin mounted his own horse, he spurred Ambulatrix on with a sigh of relief.

Ambulatrix, accepting the situation grudgingly, allowed herself to be spurred on to a fast walk, turning into a trot as they cleared the last of the trees and headed across open ground, finally approaching the castle at Camelot.

There was an air of festival about the lower town. Whatever the reasons of state or politics for the tournament, it was an excuse for vendors to ply their wares to people from all over the kingdom and beyond who had come to watch the contests. Carts and horses filled the streets, moving at a sedate pace in and out of the tournament grounds. Some of them had flowers piled on top of the other wares.

"Why so many flowers?" Lancelot asked Merlin, forced back to a slow walk by the gradual ebbs and eddies of the crowd.

"For the Queen." A passing carter answered him instead. "They say she prefers flowers to all the jewels in the kingdom. You'll see when you reach the field. All the fashion these days, wild flowers."

Lancelot nodded absently and said nothing. An image of Guinevere with a single tiny purple flower tucked away behind her ear had come back to him, as vivid as if he had seen her yesterday. He half expected to see her around the next bend in the road, standing in the door of her old house. The door was dark, though, and he didn't recognize the blacksmith who was working the forge as they passed.

At last the crowds thinned out as they left the public path onto the tournament grounds and moved towards the tents marked out for the contestants. A few of the knights who were preparing nodded at Merlin in recognition, but their eyes passed over Lancelot without seeing him. He wondered if perhaps they thought he was Merlin's servant or a bodyguard, riding along behind him.

Merlin pointed out a tent a little larger than the others, set up right at the edge of the field. It was dyed in bright stripes of purple and orange, designed for a contestant who intended to stand out among his competitors. Merlin jumped down swiftly and held the reins of Lancelot's horse for him so he could dismount and go in.

Lancelot hesitated at the entrance, despite Merlin's encouraging motions. For all his haste to get here, he was reluctant to take the last step. He breathed deeply, forced himself to lift the flap of the tent, and stepped inside.

The interior was bathed in warm, reddish light, much dimmer than the sunshine outside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to what he was seeing. When he did, he found Arthur stepping forward, a surprised but pleased look on his face, and just behind him, Guinevere.

He forced himself to focus on Arthur, who was clasping Lancelot's hands and welcoming him back to Camelot.

"Not much of a reception, I'm afraid, the timing being what it is," Arthur was saying. "I hope you know that while you are welcome to fight, there is no obligation upon you to do so."

Lancelot was already shaking his head. "It would be my honour. In fact, from what Merlin has told me, it is my duty to do whatever I can to clear both my good name- " he allowed himself to steal a glance towards the back of the tent, where Gwen was standing frozen, a helmet dangling forgotten in her hands "- and the Queen's."

Arthur's hands gripped his more tightly. "Good man," he said. "I will not forget this, Lancelot. Not while I live. You must know that there is nothing I value above Guinevere's safety. And I can think of no one else I would trust besides myself to defend her honour."

"My lord," said Lancelot, not knowing what else to say.

Arthur clapped him on the arm. "Now, if you're here, I assume you've brought Merlin back?" When Lancelot nodded, Arthur added in a grim tone, "Good, I'd like a word or two with him." He ducked out of the tent.

"Are you sure that-" Lancelot started, and then he just stared at Guinevere.

"Oh, they'll be fine," Gwen rushed to reassure him. "Arthur's just been nervous and he likes to yell at Merlin. I think it calms him down, honestly. I don't know how Merlin feels about it."

Lancelot had been thinking that perhaps they should not be alone together, all circumstances considered, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Instead he gestured to the helmet she still held and turned over absently in her hands.

"Is that what I'm to wear?" he asked. "Is it Arthur's?"

"Oh! No! I mean, yes, it's yours," Gwen said, looking down at the thing as if seeing it for the first time. "Unless there's another you'd prefer to wear."

Lancelot shook his head. "I keep fighting in borrowed armour," he said wryly.

"But this is yours!" Gwen said. "Really, it is. It was another set I - when Merlin told me you were going to be coming back, I thought - I still had your measurements from all those years ago. I hope you don't mind. I wasn't sure if you'd still have a full set."

She put the helmet down and picked up a shirt of mail finer than he had ever worn. The rings fairly sparkled, even in the dim light. She held it out, inviting Lancelot to bend his head down to receive it, which he did with the feeling of receiving a benediction. She slipped it on and it settled down around his body like a glove.

"I hope it fits all right around the shoulders," Gwen said. "I couldn't quite make out my own writing, so what I thought was an 8 could have been a 5 and that wouldn't have worked very well..." She fussed around him, tugging the mail into place and making minute adjustments where none were needed.

"Stop, please," said Lancelot at last, catching her hands from where they were fluttering about looking for something to do. It was too much distraction. "It's perfect, thank you."

"Oh," said Gwen, looking not at him but where their hands met. Finally, after a terrifying, interminable pause, she raised her eyes to his. "Thank you for doing this. For me and - and for Arthur. I know it's a stupid, horrible situation and everything, but really he's wanted you here as much as I have."

"And I have longed to return to Camelot," said Lancelot, surprising himself with the roughness in his own voice. "Forgive me for not coming sooner? I am ashamed to say that I doubted my welcome."

Gwen smiled a little sadly. "There's nothing to forgive." Then she drew back her hands and took a step away from him. "Be careful out there," she told him, "there's something about this Sir Rothby I don't trust. If he tries anything - tricks, or cheating - just beware. We'll put a stop to it if we can, but it'll be you out there facing him."

"I'm not afraid of him," Lancelot assured her, "but now I should prepare. Tell Arthur... it's good to be back."

She smiled again, this time more happily, and left him alone with arms and armour.

Sir Gwaine had not slept easily for the last few nights. It was not only because many of the other knights were now avoiding him or giving him disgusted looks. Those few who were still willing to speak to him were not the sort of company he would have chosen. They were like the men he'd met in ale houses in every town, telling bawdy stories they didn't understand and often leaving the barmaids wishing for their absence after the first round of drinks.

It didn't matter how many times Sir Gwaine protested that he didn't want to hear their lewd speculations about the Queen. Since he had first broached the subject and dishonoured her name in public, it seemed common wisdom that there was nothing he would not hear against her. And once the floodgates were opened, once the Queen was torn down in the opinion of a few, there was nothing so foul that some people would not say it about her.

Sir Kay had whispered in his ear one night at supper that he heard rumours that when she was a serving girl, the Queen opened her legs to anyone with a title. Gwaine struck him where he sat, not thinking of the company around them in the hall, but when the King stood to ask the cause of the disturbance, Gwaine found himself unable to answer. He couldn't bring himself to repeat such filth before the royal court. Instead Sir Kay said he had reprimanded Sir Gwaine for an unchivalrous remark and that Gwaine had struck him out of anger.

Arthur had not inquired further after that, but suggested that Sir Gwaine might find clearing out the stables a more suitable way to work off his excess frustration. There could be no doubt in anyone's mind that Sir Gwaine was still being punished for what he had said about the Queen. In truth, mucking out the stables was almost a relief, since it freed him for a time from the distrustful glances and the all-too-friendly ones, both, of his fellow knights.

It was also, his conscience whispered, no more than he deserved.

He hadn't seen Merlin since he had dragged Gwaine out of the royal chambers and suggested he lie low for a while and keep out of sight, until things had blown over. Gwaine had asked, trying for humour, if he could lie low in Merlin's chambers and Merlin could protect him from the King's wrath. Merlin hadn't taken any note of the jest, though, and had merely said that he had too much to do to be in his chambers much right now. Besides, the Queen often spent time there, which might cause some awkward encounters. Gwaine took the hint that he was now persona non grata to Gwen's friend as well.

He couldn't blame Merlin for that. Arthur had probably never wanted Gwaine as one of his knights. A handy man in a tight spot, that was what he had been to the king in their past adventures, but never a welcome companion for his own sake. No doubt Merlin had convinced him that Gwaine would be a suitable addition to the knights. No doubt he was regretting that choice now. Perhaps in his place, Gwaine would be just as unwilling to be seen with someone who had shamed the court of Camelot, and by association the old friend who brought him there. Although - a tug at his heart told him that he could never be ashamed of Merlin.

There was only one way he could think of to make things right again. If the King and Queen would allow it, Gwaine would take up the Queen's defense himself in the tournament, to prove to any and all who doubted it that there was no division in the court of Camelot. Perhaps if he showed that he was willing to risk his own life in defense of the Queen's honour, it would finally be believed that he had meant no harm by his foolish words.

It was with this intent that he prepared himself for battle on the morning of the tournament, resolutely ignoring the chilly looks from his fellow knights as he passed through the ranks of waiting competitors. He found the King standing by one of the tents alongside the field, in close discussion with someone. Then Arthur stepped out of the way and there - for the first time in days - was Merlin, by his side.

Gwaine approached them, ignoring the look of distaste that had appeared the moment Arthur saw him. He didn't want to see what Merlin's reaction was to his presence. Not until he had said what he had come to say.

"Sire, I have come to beg a request from you," said Gwaine, bowing as low as possible without actually getting down onto his knees and grovelling for mercy.

"I hardly think you are in a position to be asking anything from me just at the moment, Gwaine," said Arthur tightly.

Gwaine took a deep breath and straightened. "That is why I have come to ask that you allow me to fight in this trial in your place. Let me show the people of Camelot that I do not believe any slander of the Queen, and that I would die to defend her honour." He felt the back of his neck flush as he spoke, all too aware of Merlin's eyes on him. Gwaine had never been one for speeches, or for talking about honour, but he would do it gladly if it meant regaining his friends' trust.

Arthur smirked in apparent amusement. "Well, I must say, Gwaine, you've surprised me today. That's a very original idea, don't you think, Merlin?" he asked. "A very original idea indeed," he went on without giving Merlin a chance to answer.

Gwaine could feel his hopes rising.

"So original, in fact," said the King, "that at this very moment, Sir Lancelot is inside that tent preparing to fight in my place in the tournament. It's remarkable, isn't it, Merlin, how many people will volunteer to undertake a perilous task? As long as they know someone else will really be taking the risk in the end."

"Sir Lancelot?" Gwaine felt as if the ground had just disappeared from under him. "He's here? but-"

"Yes, Merlin's been making himself useful for a change. Now, if you'll excuse me, since it seems Guinevere won't be needing either of us to defend her honour today, I may as well find a place in the stands. You might want to do the same, if you have no other pressing engagements. See what a truly honourable man looks like. Ah, Guinevere," he said as Gwen emerged from the tent behind him. "Shall we go?"

Gwen smiled warmly at Merlin and somewhat less warmly at Gwaine, although at least she made the effort.

"Thank you," she said to Merlin, "for bringing him back to us." With that, she and Arthur left to take their places for the tournament.

"I didn't know-" Gwaine protested belatedly. "I really meant - I didn't know he was going to-"

"I know - I know you didn't," Merlin said, "no one did. We only arrived this morning. I suppose Arthur's still a little angry about the whole thing."

"You've been gone?" Gwaine asked in surprise, that part of what Arthur had said finally registering.

"You didn't notice?" Merlin replied with a frown. "I thought - I've been gone two days, ever since Gwen was accused. You really didn't - miss me being here? at all?"

"I thought-" Gwaine started. That you'd been avoiding me, he didn't say. "I thought it seemed quieter around here lately," he finished instead and could have kicked himself when Merlin's face drooped a little.

"Just kidding," he added, nudging Merlin gently. "Of course I missed you, we all did."

Merlin seemed to accept that. "I'd better go - you know, help Lancelot get ready. Make sure he's not exhausted from the trip."

"Right, good man," said Gwaine. "That Lancelot, coming all the way here. They don't make them like that anymore, do they?"

He tried to contain the bitterness in his voice. As far as he could tell, Merlin didn't catch it, because he just smiled happily.

"There's no one like him," Merlin said with a grin. "You'll see, this is the best thing to have happened. Have you seen him fight? He's fantastic. Best knight in the kingdom. Arthur's right, you should get a seat soon or you'll miss your chance when it starts. I'll see you later, then?"

"Right," Gwaine muttered, making his way back into the crowd of spectators.

Gaily dressed peasants in carefully mended clothes, new ribbons sewn in for the occasion, looked at him in puzzlement as he passed. Some of them had flowers pressed in their hands or woven into their hair, like something out of a fairy carnival.

Gwaine felt a fool, arrayed for a combat in which he was not wanted, his useless armour making him stand out amid the holiday-makers. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he left. It would be a betrayal of everything he had sworn when he accepted his knighthood, of course, but if no one missed him, would it really matter that he was gone?

Lancelot had years of experience in preparing himself for combat without help from anyone. Most warlords didn't check to see if your plate armour was shined to a polish and they didn't bother sending you servants to help put it on either. Likewise, villagers who wanted protecting from bandits didn't usually inquire about your personal appearance, so long as you were there.

This time, though, appearances mattered. His hands shook on the straps of his buckler.

"Ah, Merlin, thank goodness," he said as he saw his friend come in. "Could you help me-"

"You were pleased to see Gwen, right?" Merlin demanded. He pointed accusingly at Lancelot, who had to force himself not to take a step back.

"I ... yes, of course I was," Lancelot said in bewilderment. He had nothing to feel guilty about, he told himself. Of course he had been glad to see Guinevere again. They were... old friends.

"You tell her that?" Merlin asked harshly.

"Well, I - yes," Lancelot admitted. His brain stalled trying to remember what exactly he had said. It had seemed perfectly innocent at the time. Was there something she had repeated, to Arthur or to Merlin, that had brought on this anger? "I told her I was glad to see her, and Arthur, and all of you again. It's good to be back at Camelot."

"Exactly," said Merlin, gesturing broadly with his arm as if to demonstrate the point to an audience. "Exactly, because that's what you do when you meet an old friend. Sure, maybe it hasn't been years, maybe it's only been a couple of days, but you still say, 'Oh, hullo Merlin! Good to see you again, how was your trip?' That's what you say. You did say 'I missed you while you were gone?' Right?"

Lancelot, who was feeling a bit wrong-footed in this conversation, made a noise of agreement.

"Well, that's it then," said Merlin, actually throwing his hands up in exasperation. "He hates me. I don't know why, I haven't done anything but try to protect him from Arthur's temper - not to mention save him from the consequences of his own stupid mistakes - but I don't know why I bother! He could barely even look at me. And this is the thanks I get? You know, when I think about how I searched the whole of Albion to bring him back here, the number of taverns I had to go into, picking up drunks off the floor to ask if they'd heard of him passing through... well, it just goes to show you what friendship is worth to some people, doesn't it?"

Lancelot grasped onto the first piece of comprehensible information in the maelstrom of irrelevance and asked, "You're talking about Gwaine, then?"

Merlin nodded mournfully. "Do you think he hates me?" he asked. "He doesn't, doesn't he?"

"Merlin, I have maybe five minutes before I have to face an opponent of unknown strength and capabilities, I don't know if I can really..." he trailed off.

Merlin was looking at him with an expression of such profound misery that he couldn't help melting a little. Lancelot sighed.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" he said at last.

Part Ten

Crossposted from http://themadlurker.dreamwidth.org/64053.html at Dreamwidth.
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