Work Text:
Guinevere sweeps from his chambers in the wake of the kitchen maid and Arthur stares at the closed door for a moment.
She has been acting odd all day. And not just her. There was something off with Merlin too. He has been far too compliant and obedient all day. It throws Arthur’s entire equilibrium out; having a servant that does what he is told with no witty come back? It’s… unsettling to say the least.
He turns back to his report, trying to force the details on the parchment past this odd annoyance in his mind, but after a few moments he gives up with a huff.
His eyes are drawn back to the closed chamber door.
Something is going on in this castle today. And he intends to find out what.
-
The hallways of the castle are deserted as he wanders warily through them. As a child he loved to explore the hidden passageways and crevices of the building, but his father had soon put a stop to that with a firm lecture about princely conduct and safety of the sovereign. Ever since then he has always found something furtive about wandering the castle walkways by night.
He makes his way towards the kitchens. That is where the maid had come from, that is where Guinevere had said she was going. Whatever is going on hasn’t given him any reason to doubt his wife’s word just yet.
The murmur of voices up ahead tells Arthur he is at least going in the right direction.
As he turns the corner into the kitchen corridor, the small kitchen maid darts out of a small opening off the main walkway. She doesn’t even glance his way before she rushes away towards the kitchens. Arthur frowns at her hasty retreat and peers down into the small hallway she had appeared from.
The flickering of candlelight reflects off the white stone walls, highlighting a large figure stood before two down by the ground. They’re talking quietly and it doesn’t take Arthur long to recognise the voices of Guinevere and Merlin, even in the shadowy dark.
What his servant and wife are doing huddled on the floor of an abandoned corridor of the castle is beyond Arthur, but he intends to find out. He doesn’t even think before he starts walking toward the pair. As he approaches, he catches his name being spoken.
“-If you tell Arthur-” Merlin is saying.
“Tell Arthur what?” he can’t help but butt in.
Both Guinevere and Merlin freeze like children caught in the kitchens. Arthur takes perverse pleasure in that for a moment.
And then he gets a look at his servant’s face.
Arthur is on his knees in front of Merlin before he even thinks of it. He pays no mind to the cook stood uselessly in the walkway or the layer of dust at his knees. He rakes his trained eye over Merlin and finds his fury build with every note.
“Merlin,” he growls, mentally calculating the actions that could have led to the state his servant is in. “Who did this to you?”
A bleeding lip, caused by an impact of some kind, not hard enough to bruise terribly, perhaps by an open hand.
A blossoming bruise high on the cheek, circular in shape, probably caused by a blunt instrument or a closed fist.
A slight dazed look to the eyes, a probable blow to the head.
A stiff posture, carefully leaning against the stone wall, injuries to the back or shoulders.
These are not small injuries. Someone has beaten his servant. Someone has beaten Merlin.
Merlin glances at Guinevere and Arthur can see the excuses fly across his thoughts and away again. He is trying to think of a way to lie. He is trying to think of a way to protect the person that did this. And that is not happening on Arthur’s watch.
“Tell me now!” he orders.
-
As the story is unfolded before him Arthur cannot help his disbelief. Cynric is one of his father’s oldest friends. He has visited the castle for years. He had helped Arthur learn to ride when he was a small boy. Arthur just cannot comprehend that the man would do something so unbelievably cruel as hurt someone like Merlin.
A shuffling in the corner of Arthur’s awareness brings him back to the moment. And more importantly, reminds him of where they are.
“This is not a conversation to he had in the hallways. Come on, up. Back to our chambers.”
He moves forward, hooking a careful hand underneath Merlin’s elbow to help him stand, mindful of his servant’s back and ribs which are plainly hurting. The pained grunt Merlin tries to smoother as he gets upright tells Arthur he wasn’t entirely successful.
Then Merlin – the stubborn idiot that he is – shrugs off his hand of support and limps the entire way back to the chambers on his own.
-
The fire is still crackling warmly in the hearth when the trio enter the room. Guinevere takes charge immediately, manoeuvring Merlin to the large chair before the fire and getting to work.
As he watches Guinevere fuss over a reluctant Merlin, he wonders how many times they have done this before.
Guinevere wipes the vestiges of blood from Merlin’s lips and presses a cold cloth onto the darkening bruise on his cheek.
He watches and mentally catalogues each wound as Guinevere expertly tends to them. The bruised face, the split lip, the lump on his skull, the defensive wounds to his hands… and those are only the injuries Merlin lets Guinevere see. Arthur has known Merlin for too long and far too well to believe there are not things hidden below those easily seen.
Suddenly Arthur can taste his dinner in his mouth and must turn to the fireplace to maintain his composure.
“Why did you never tell me?” he asks into the fireplace, not daring yet to turn around. “Either of you?”
There is enough of a pause for Arthur to know that his wife and servant are having a silent conversation behind his back. His knuckles whiten on the mantel as he grips it, struggling to keep hold of his burning anger.
He is slightly surprised that it is Merlin that answers him, his voice low and calming.
“Because when your Father was alive it would have put you in an impossible position and now…”
“And now I have no idea,” Guinevere says with a huff. “I wanted to but Merlin refused.”
“I didn’t refuse,” Merlin retorts. “I simply pointed out there may be political ramifications to Arthur bludgeoning the Lord of Wessex around the head when he learns that he used to torment his wife.”
Horror surges in Arthur’s chest and he turns quickly, opening his mouth to ask a question that he is not sure he wants the answer to.
Guinevere – his sweet Guinevere – can tell the storm of thoughts clouding his mind and quickly sends him a reassuring smile.
“He never touched me. Merlin would never have allowed it. But I spent enough time in his presence to learn that he is not a man to be trifled with.”
“Did he…” he starts to ask Merlin then stops, suddenly not wanting to know.
But Merlin – the self-sacrificing idiot – just shrugs. “A slap there, a thrown goblet here. But luckily I am well trained at dodging those.”
His servant smiles as if this is a joke. Does he think that Arthur would laugh? Does he think that anything about this situation is even remotely amusing?
How many times has Merlin been hurt by this Lord and needed seeing to? How many times has Guinevere had to patch Merlin up after one of Cynric’s visits? How many times has the abuse of his citizens occurred underneath his nose without Arthur even realising it was happening?
The thought of this man – this sorry excuse for a Lord – sleeping soundly in his castle makes fire rush through his veins.
“No,” Arthur says suddenly, interrupting Guinevere and Merlin’s argument. “She’s right.”
“Arthur think about this,” Merlin starts to say but Arthur has had enough.
“I will not have a man here, as a guest in my castle, who thinks it is OK to treat my servants with such disrespect!”
Merlin stares at him, the bruises on his face darkening with every moment, the cut on his lip reopened. He has no sword, no armour, no station of power within the castle. He has no way of defending himself against a Lord will ill intention. That is Arthur’s job. Merlin is his servant, is his subject and it is his job to defend him to his dying breath.
“Guinevere,” Arthur says to his wife, sending his servant a look of warning when he seems poised to argue further. “Please make sure that he doesn’t injure himself further. I will be back in a moment.”
As he slams his chamber door with a satisfying thud Merlin’s fearful face swims in his mind.
No more.
“You there,” he calls, a passing guard stumbling to a stand still and standing to attention. “Fetch Sir Elyan. He is to guard these chambers until I return.”
With a mumbled acquiesce the guard hurries off.
-
Arthur feels none of his previous hesitance as he storms through his castle’s hallways towards the East Wing.
This is his castle; he repeats to himself. He rules this castle. He rules this kingdom. He sets the laws and decides what is right and what is wrong.
He marches forward, his mission clear and purposeful. He almost doesn’t notice when he turns into and stairwell and charges past Sir Leon and Sir Gwaine.
“Princess!” Gwaine’s happy voice calls out. “Just the king we were looking for. We are carrying on the festivities in Percival’s chambers. Care to join us?”
“Sire?” Leon asks as he approaches. His look of pleased surprise quickly morphs into concern as he sees the look on Arthur’s face. “Sire, what is it?”
“Cynric,” he manages to bite out around the swell of fury in his throat.
Arthur doesn’t pause as he walks past his two knights without even glancing in their direction. He can’t. If he stops, if he paused, he might punch something; something other than Cynric’s face.
There is a small silence behind him. He imagines Leon and Gwaine sharing a look and then he hears the hurrying of booted feet.
“You want to fill us in there, princess?” Gwaine asks as he catches up to Arthur’s back.
“If Lord Cyrnic has displeased you surely it would be best to address it in the morning?” Leon suggests.
“Storming the man’s chambers in the dead of night isn’t going to do much for diplomatic relations.”
The trio sweep around a tight corner into the long opulent hallway. Cynric’s chambers are at the far end of this vast walkway. He always requests these particular chambers. Arthur overheard Cynric tell his father once that the view from the windows of Camelot’s sunrise was one of the best in the castle. But now Arthur looks on these chambers with a fresh perspective.
They are far away from the main thoroughfares of the castle. No nobles or lords would have any reason to walk down this corridor other than to get to these chambers. It is quiet, secluded, leaving a Lord to what he wished without anyone being any the wiser.
Arthur finds his feet picking up speed.
“The Lord… Cynric,” Arthur grits out through angry pants. “Has seen it fit for him to… discipline my staff.”
“What?” Gwaine asks in disbelief, but it is Leon who catches on quicker. He speeds up, walking shoulder to shoulder with his king.
“Who?” he asks.
“Merlin.”
Arthur hears Leon’s sharp intake of breath, but it is Gwaine’s voice that cuts through the tumbling thoughts in Arthur’s mind.
“Is he alright?” the knight demands, his voice hard and fierce in a way that you didn’t often hear.
“He’s fine,” Arthur bites out, his footsteps hard and unrelenting along the corridor.
“Arthur!” Gwaine growls. And then the knight is in front of him, baring his way. Arthur glances up and sees Gwaine’s face tight with anger, but his eyes… they are swimming with worry. “Is he alright?”
Arthur softens just slightly. These men are Merlin’s friends too. “He will be OK,” he says with a small nod. “Lord Cynric on the other hand…”
Gwaine just nods, his face hardening as he turns and marches onwards with Arthur.
The door to the honoured guest chambers stands large and imposing at the end of the hall. It is a grand suite, set aside for the most important and favoured of the court’s guests.
Arthur doesn’t even knock when he barges into the chambers. Cynric is still awake, sat by the full fire, a goblet of wine in hand. Arthur takes perverse pleasure out of the shrill noise the Lord makes as the door bangs against the wall in Arthur’s wake.
“My… My lord,” Cynric stammers in confusion.
But fury has clogged Arthur’s throat once more. He glances around the room, wondering where it was that Cynric threw Merlin against the wall. Where was it that the lord had Merlin pinned to the floor, a boot between his shoulder blades. Which one of his rings had caught on Merlin’s lip as he slapped him, tearing open his flesh.
The lord’s cloak is hung near the door. Arthur grabs it, throwing it into Cynric’s face, relishing the way the lord sputters, pulling the fabric away.
“Sir Leon,” Arthur says, not taking his eyes of the Lord. “Please inform Lord Cynric’s party that he had to leave urgently in the night. They are to take the morning and leave when they are ready to join him at home.”
“Yes, my lord,” Leon responds with a bow.
Cynric watches, sputtering as Leon exits the room. “Your highness,” he simpers, confusion all over his face. He takes a step closer but before he can even get within swinging distance, he is blocked by Gwaine.
“I would keep your distance if you value your thumbs… My Lord.”
Cynric looks over Gwaine’s shoulder at Arthur.
“Your highness. I have obviously displeased you. Please tell me what I have done-“
“My servant attended you this evening,” Arthur interrupts the Lord’s false honorifics. “He left here slightly worse for wear.”
Cynric’s shoulders fall in relief. “Your servant?” he chuckles, foolishly calmed. “The boy spilt wine all over the hearth. I was merely disciplining him. I am sure there has been a misunderstanding.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes My Lord.”
“So you didn’t strike him?” Arthur asks lowly, taking a step forward into the room.
Cynric glances warily at Gwaine and then back to Arthur, his face losing its mirth. “Well…”
“You didn’t throw him to the floor?”
“You see-“
“You didn’t tread hard enough into his back to leave a boot mark?”
Gwaine growls in the background but Arthur cannot pay him any mind.
“But sire… your father-” Cynric stutters, his eyes darting quickly now between Arthur and his knight. Arthur doesn’t know what his face looks like but if it is even half as fierce as Gwaine’s right now Cynric has a right to be scared.
“Exactly,” Arthur rumbles, taking a step forward. “My father. Not me. I don’t care what my father allowed under his roof, but it is my castle now. This is my Kingdom, and these are my subjects and will not allow this treatment under my roof. Am I understood.”
Cynric swallows but eventually nods. “Yes, my lord.”
“Then you will be packed and on your horse by the next bell.”
“It is the middle of the night!”
“I am aware.”
“Better get moving,” Gwaine says coolly. “It would be a shame to have to throw you out.”
Arthur turned slightly, offering the lord the dignity of packing without the eyes of the king on his back.
“You do not know what happened,” Cynric says snidely to Gwaine at Arthur’s back. “So I would not be so quick to judge sir knight.”
“Nothing excuses hitting a servant. Especially one that is my friend.”
“Friends with a servant?” Cynric scoffs. “That boy isn’t fit to lick my boots.”
Arthur has turned before he even realises it. His hand launches forward, his fist colliding harshly with the lord’s jaw. Cynric lets out a shrill yell and crumples to the ground.
“You do not get to speak about him!” Arthur roars at the fallen lord. “He has earnt my loyalty ten times over. And you have earnt nothing but my distaste.”
Gwaine’s hand on his arm is the only thing Arthur is aware of as he is moved backwards from the room. Then he is looking at the closed door of Cynric’s chambers.
“Nice swing,” Gwaine says.
Arthur lets out a huff of a laugh, shaking out his stinging fist. He hasn’t punched someone in a long time.
“Thanks.”
“Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“He deserved it.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” Gwaine says, his voice uncharacteristically serious.
Arthur nods, looking down the hall then back to the closed door. “Will you stay here, make sure he leaves?”
“Sure. Where are you going?”
“I need to get back to my chambers. I need to-“ to what. Check on Merlin? He was a grown man, he didn’t need Arthur to look after him, but even so…
Gwaine smiles a knowing smile and nods down the hallway. “Go check on Merin. Tell him I will be by in the morning.”
-
The chambers are quiet when Arthur creeps back through the door, not wanting to wake either of the occupants. But Guinevere looks up quickly from her perch on the floor where her head was resting on his servant’s knee. Merlin is curled in the chair, wrapped in one of Arthur’s blankets. His dark head is leant back, resting against the back of the chair and exposing his pale face to the firelight.
Guinevere catches his eye.
“How is he?” he asks at a whisper, stepping further into the room.
“He will have some impressive marks for a while. But he will live.”
Arthur lets the quiet calm of the room soak into him for a moment, draining his lingering adrenaline and anger as he sheds his boots to step before the fire. He breaths and lets his shoulders sag. It has been a long evening.
But he can feel his wife’s gaze on his back.
“He will be gone in the morning,” he says into the flames, feeing the stinging burn in his knuckles. “We will not see him again in this castle while I reign.”
But that is not what is bothering him. That is not what is clenching in his gut or swirling in his mind. A lord was able to abuse one of his staff – not just anyone, but Merlin. And Merlin – the man Arthur knew like the back of his own hand – said nothing. His servant allowed a lord to mistreat him, just stood there and let a lord hit him… and for what?
Guinevere won’t hear of moving Merlin to his own chambers, and Arthur is secretly glad. Together they are able to manoeuvre him to the servant’s cot in the annex – where his servant is supposed to sleep. The man mumbles and complains but moved along obediently when Arthur supports him into the room and onto the bed, carefully depositing him on his front away from the worst of the bruising.
Merlin is snoring a few moments after his head hits the pillow.
Guinevere smiles at Arthur, squeezing his arm and placing a kiss on his cheek before she retires to her own chambers.
But Arthur stays there for a moment, leaning in the doorway of his servant’s room.
The man before him has faced down armies, dragons and sorcerers by Arthur’s side. He has ridden at Arthur’s back into what they thought was sure death – all with a smile on his face and a set of strong shoulders with which to carry Arthur. And then he had taken on the wrath of a visiting lord to protect the servants of Arthur’s castle.
Then he remembers what Guinevere had said to him.
“Servants keep a lot of secrets from their masters Arthur.”
As he stands and watches his servant sleep as bruises deepen and develop on his face Arthur cannot help but wonder… what secrets could Merlin possibly have?