Chapter Text
Camelot was lovely, with its late autumn colors and rolling foothills below the White Mountains, but not any lovelier than Cornwall, Gwen decided as they rode. They were three days into their journey, and the squire they’d sent ahead that morning assured them they would reach the Pendragon’s keep well before nightfall. The royal party was jolly with the news. The journey thus far had not been overly strenuous, but few of King Thomas Leodegrance’s household ever travelled farther than the market in the village. There was starting to be grumbling from the maids at the lack of creature comforts on the road.
Gwen sighed. She didn’t mind the travel, or her father’s rather inelegant hints about his goals for their winter sojourn in Camelot—namely that she and Elyan should both end up betrothed, if not actually married. She and Elyan knew who their intended “targets” were as well, though their father thought he was subtle in his insinuations: Elyan was to woo Vivian, daughter of King Olaf. Gwen was to set her signs for one of their hosts, none other than Prince Arthur Pendragon, son of Queen Ygraine. Of course, her father’s schemes were going to have to go head to head with every other King or Queen or Lord’s schemes for their offspring, many of whom were also at marriageable age and hungry for strong alliances, especially with the rising threat of the Saxons in the east.
Her brother cantering up alongside her brought her back to reality. She smiled at him. Truly, the worst part of getting married would be leaving Elyan to fend for himself as sole heir. He hadn’t a great head for ruling, though he was a marvelously kind person, just like their father.
“You’re looking too serious,” Elyan chided, reaching over to squeeze her hand.
She squeezed back. “I’m just thinking.”
“Of?”
“Camelot. Prince Arthur. The future.”
“Wedded bliss, you mean?” he teased.
“I hardly know anything of him,” Gwen retorted, a bit sharp, a bit defensive.
“He’s reputed to be a fine warrior,” Elyan mused.
“And what else could a bride asked for?”
Elyan aimed a lopsided smile of apology at her.
“Besides, Father’s intentions hardly mean the outcome is guaranteed,” she went on. “The prince may already have feelings for someone, or his mother may have other plans. Or maybe we simply won’t like each other.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Elyan returned. “I’m unaware of anyone who has ever disliked you, and you’re too kind to dislike anyone, so I don’t think that’s going to be an excuse.”
Gwen sighed again, but smiled as well. It was true: it was practically always possible, in her experience, to find the good in someone. Surely, the same would be true of Prince Arthur.
~
The castle was in chaos and all Arthur wanted to do was go back to bed. He’d barely had time for breakfast before he had to rush off to greet the party from Gawant, including the Princess Elena, who had tripped on the stairs, tripped on the lintel, and tripped on her own skirts, all in between a loud monologue about how her father’s horse had thrown a shoe and that’s why they were arriving at the crack of dawn rather than the previous evening as they had planned. Morgana was delighted with her.
Arthur, meanwhile, was counting his lucky stars that his mother’s matrimonial plans for him hadn’t tended in that direction. He was sure—well, he was hoping—that Princess Guinevere would have the qualities more befitting a queen, like, for instance, the ability to keep her balance for more than three minutes at a stretch. Perhaps be someone Morgana wouldn’t like quite so much.
But there wasn’t even time to contemplate his possible future marriage because the delegation from Essetir was arriving, consisting of King Lot and his two sons, Cenred and Gwaine, with their entourage. Arthur stood near the top of the front stairs of the castle with his mother and Morgana, feeling hot and irritable despite the coolness in the air.
Morgana was in a vexingly good mood, and his mother would brook nothing but his best behavior, so he was pretty sure that the sheer effort of not snapping at Morgana was going to kill him. It was all well and good for her: she was heir to her father’s lands and title, since her older sister had renounced them to go be a high priestess, and while she was Ygraine’s ward, she was also a political power unto herself, and thus was not facing the prospect of being forced to woo a complete stranger over the course of the winter for the good of the realm. Arthur knew Morgana and his mother had discussed potentially advantageous matches, but whether or not to pursue one was up to Morgana.
Arthur seethed enviously as King Lot mounted the stairs with his sons and greeted them all courteously. While Ygraine gave them Camelot’s welcome, Arthur examined the princes. The elder, Crown Prince Cenred, looked sour and furtive, and seemed to be using his long hair as a curtain to hide his face. The younger, Gwaine, wore his hair like a brilliant, shiny pennant, but his gaze was canny and irreverent. Arthur frowned.
“…and I hear your son is becoming quite the swordsman!” King Lot said, turning to Arthur. “Perhaps he’d give my boys a bit of a challenge, eh?”
Arthur bowed. “I would be only too happy for a good-spirited match, my lord.”
“It will be good to stay sharp,” Gwaine called, tone somewhere between cheerful and mocking.
Arthur tempered his glare somewhat, but for God’s sake! Arthur was the best swordsman out of Camelot’s knights, and their knights were widely known as the best in Albion! This Gwaine fellow had no reputation whatsoever!
And worse, he was completely unfazed by Arthur’s glare and turned instead to Morgana, speaking out of turn both by superceding his brother and by addressing a lady who hadn’t been formally introduced yet.
“Now here is a beauty whose reputation hasn’t done her justice,” he declared, all smarm and charm. Arthur only didn’t roll his eyes because his mother was right there.
Fortunately, King Lot interceded. “Mind yourself, Gwaine. We are here to honor Queen Ygraine’s hospitality, not flirt with her ward like one of your barmaids.”
Morgana drew herself up, no-doubt intending to inform King Lot that he was the one bringing barmaids into this, but Prince Gwaine bowed, which seemed to resolve matters somehow. He looked up from under his eyelashes though, at Morgana and Arthur both, it seemed, and Arthur had the sinking feeling that Gwaine had a different understanding of ‘honoring Queen Ygraine’s hospitality’ than his father did.
Servants came forward to usher the guests inside, and Arthur allowed himself one single irritable sigh. But it felt so good that he had to have another. And another. But by then it had bubbled up into laughter, and Morgana was laughing too, under Ygraine’s fondly disapproving eye.
“A barmaid!” Morgana giggled.
“We should introduce him to Elena,” Arthur said, wiping his eyes. “Maybe they’ll spend all winter being uncouth together and leave us alone.”
“Oh, but Elena’s a dear little thing,” Morgana protested.
“Your Majesty!” This from one of the men they’d sent out to greet the arriving delegations, and bring back word of how far they were from the castle. “Cornwall and Daobeth have met on the road and travel together. They are but two hours distant!”
Ygraine clapped her hand smartly. “Excellent. Enough time to freshen up and eat before we have to come stand out in the chill again.”
Arthur jumped to alert solicitousness. “Are you alright, Mother? Surely we could meet the last two parties in the throne room if the cold would harm your health. They would understand.”
“I’m quite alright, Arthur dear. One feels the cold more strongly as one ages, that’s all. Nothing a cup of mulled wine won’t solve.”
“You’ll outlast us all, my lady,” Morgana declared. “What god would dare touch your beauty?”
“Says the woman whose reputation doesn’t do her justice?” Ygraine quipped, sending them all back into peals of laughter.
Arthur stepped into the castle with his mother and Morgana, glad of the company and the respite from the cold. But it felt like an invisible two-hour hourglass had been turned, counting away the last of his freedom before his intended spouse arrived.
~
King Thomas’ party met Lord Balinor’s shortly after they’d stopped for the midday meal. Gwen had thought their own party small, with only a half dozen members of the household and as many knights, but Lord Balinor travelled with only three others, and two of them were his wife and son, Lady Hunith and Prince Merlin. Gwen was not completely sure of the fourth member’s status, but his name was Will.
Gwen’s father greeted Lord Balinor warmly, and introductions were quickly made.
“Share our meal, friends!” Gwen’s father cajoled. “We shall travel the remainder of the journey together. I believe we are to be the final arrivals, and how much jollier it is to arrive together.”
Balinor accepted, his smile amused, though not, Gwen thought, at her father’s expense. She liked him for that: too many courtiers and visiting nobles scorned her father for his affable ways, and it made her furious. Thomas was kind and friendly, not weak or stupid.
The combined group arranged itself around the hastily erected pavilion and settled in for lunch. The generations naturally separated, so Gwen and Elyan ended up sitting with Prince Merlin and his… attendant? friend? Will.
“Isn’t this brilliant?” Prince Merlin wasted no time in proving himself friendly and enthusiastic. “I’ve never been to a Decadal Solemnity, have either of you?”
“I went last time,” Elyan said loftily. “I was twelve. There weren’t that many other heirs, aside from Princess Mithian, obviously.”
Gwen considered herself very mature, so she did not roll her eyes, but if she heard Elyan brag about going to the last Decadal Solemnity one more time, she would… well, whatever it was, it would be serious. Decadal Solemnities happened only once every ten years, but the tradition spanned almost three centuries. All the ruling families of Albion took turns hosting the rest for the duration of every tenth winter, so as to firm up alliances and treaties, and discuss matters that affected all of Albion. This time, the alliances would take the form of betrothals and marriages, and the Saxons were the prime concern for Albion as a whole. The importance of these matters was mutually reinforcing. Gwen still did wish she knew anything of Prince Arthur though. Besides that he knew his way around his sword.
Flushing hot at the inadvertent innuendo, she turned her attention back to the conversation and found Merlin—already she found it difficult to use his royal title, he was just so informal—had sat up straighter at Elyan’s mention of Princess Mithian. “Oh? Was she, erm… nice?”
Will snorted and Merlin elbowed him, ears going red. Gwen glanced between them and did some quick mental calculations. Daobeth and Nemeth shared a border, and although Daobeth was a relatively small kingdom, the power they wielded as dragonlords was not inconsiderable. An alliance with Nemeth, a large kingdom with rich farmland, would bolster their standing when it came time to negotiate what to do about the Saxon invaders.
“Prince Merlin,” she said hesitantly, barely remembering his title in time. “Have your parents also told you to try and woo a stranger this winter?”
Merlin looked startled as a hare for a moment, but then a crooked smile broke through. “Am I that obvious?”
“Yes,” Will said, just as Elyan said, “No, Gwen’s just clever.” She smiled at Elyan, forgiving him for bragging earlier, then giggled obligingly at Will’s snark. He and Merlin were clearly close.
“Regardless,” she said, smoothly overriding all three young men’s attempts to speak. “Elyan and I have similar instructions.” She lowered her voice, even though her father and Lord Balinor and Lady Hunith were engaged in lively conversation. “I’ve been told that Prince Arthur of Camelot would make a suitable husband, and Elyan is to seek Lady Vivian’s hand as future Queen of Cornwall.”
The three listeners seemed to take this with the seriousness it was due, right up until Will snorted.
“Well, the lot of you had better sow your wild oats before the wedding bells start ringing!”
“Will!” Merlin exclaimed.
“What? People need to do something or they’ll go mad. This many people who know that if things go wrong, they won’t have to see each other for ten years, cooped up together all winter? Why not bump uglies with anyone willing? I know I will be. You ought to know, Merlin: you’re turning twenty next summer.”
“What has that got to do with…?” His confusion melted into shock and mortification as the maths added up. “WILL!” They both leapt to their feet, Will fleeing from Merlin, who was righteously outraged at having been tricked into thinking about his own conception. (Gwen completely understood—she was turning twenty next summer as well.)
This disturbance was enough to attract parental attention, little though it was desired just then, and they all subsided back into the meal.
Will’s words stayed in Gwen’s mind though. Wild oats… Gwen had never so much as kissed anyone before: she had never had very much interest in boys. But perhaps it would be nice to have some kind of experience before the marital pressure of producing and heir set in… and Merlin seemed nice enough….
~
The arrival of the combined Daobeth-Cornwall party was a relief, in some ways. The castle was full to bursting with royal guests, and servants ran thither and yon with no regard whatsoever for who they were jostling on their way past. Even unflappable George had a hair out of place, so Arthur knew it was serious. Stepping back outside into the chilly afternoon sun meant escaping all that. But it also meant facing the moment of truth about Princess Guinevere. If his mother’s plans came though, he was about to make his first impression on his future wife.
The group that rode through the gates was quite small, not even a score of people. King Thomas, recognizable in green velvet and golden crown, rode at the front with Lord Balinor and Lady Hunith, both in silver-chased blue. Their various children came directly behind, and Arthur’s eye was drawn at once to Princess Guinevere. She was beautiful, looking regal and sweet at the same time somehow. The man on her right was unmistakably Prince Elyan, who was reputed to be a superb horseman and hunter. The man on her left was twisted about in the saddle to speak to his companion, but the dark hair and silver-and-blue doublet identified him as Prince Merlin.
At Arthur’s side, Morgana let out a soft breath that he might, if she were anyone else, have called admiring. But they’d seen half a dozen royal parties arrive already, all with a great deal more glamor and ceremony than the Leodegrances and dragonlords. (Arthur couldn’t help thinking of the last time he’d seen a real dragon, five years ago. He didn’t like thinking of it often, it was so unpleasant, but sometimes it happened anyway.)
There was a flurry of dismounting as the newcomers were announced and approached Arthur and Morgana and Ygraine. Arthur kept one eye on King Thomas and Lord Balinor and the other on Princess Guinevere, noting that she also kept glancing at him with nerves mirroring his own. But just as Ygraine stepped forward to greet them all, an angry shout brought it all to a crashing halt. “You!”
Arthur looked around confusedly and found the man he’d identified as Prince Merlin staring straight at him, anger and accusation writ wide on his features. And Arthur knew those features.
Five years ago. An ill-advised quest into the Darkling Woods to hunt a marauding griffon. He had been a stripling of a lad, too eager to fill a man’s shoes and be the warrior his father was reputed to have been. He hadn’t known the lad he met was Prince Merlin, he hadn’t known… “You,” Arthur replied, stunned.
Prince Merlin rounded on Lord Balinor. “Dad! This is the idiot who shot Aithusa!”