Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Gwaine cursed on every breath as he limped through the snow. “Where is that damned horse? WALWEN!” He paused for a moment, leaning against a tree and listening, as if the beast would whinny back. But the forest around him was silent.

“Damnit,” he said for the fiftieth time that day, but the word was beginning to lose its force. Gwaine was tired, his leg hurt like hell, and the snowy landscape was beginning to turn greyish. It would be dark soon, and since he had entirely failed to locate his horse, he needed to find some kind of shelter and wait until morning.

The underbrush to his left rustled, and Gwaine raised his head. Maybe that damned horse had come back after all!

“Walwen? Walwen, c’mere girl.” Gwaine limped over toward the brush. Damn, that ankle was bad. He caught himself on a tree and lifted his weight off of his right foot, wincing. “Walwen! C’mon.” He clicked with his tongue and stared into the brush. “Walwen?”

There was a sound behind him, and Gwaine turned his head. There definitely weren’t two horses in this part of the woods. Then he heard a faint growl from the direction he had come. Two yellow eyes appeared from the darkness—two yellow eyes in a lupine face. An echoing growl came from one side, then another. A hunting pack.

“You’re kidding me,” Gwaine groaned, and drew his sword.

One by one, the three wolves emerged from the underbrush, beginning to growl in earnest now.

Gwaine held his red cloak out to the side, trying to make himself look bigger. “BACK OFF!” he shouted as loud as he could. “BACK OFF, YOU MANGY HYENAS!”

Absolutely no reaction. It had been a hard winter, and these wolves were not giving up their prey that easily. They continued to advance. Turning and running was a bad idea; the only thing Gwaine could think of to do was attack. He raised his sword and stepped toward the nearest wolf—

--and three more came leaping out of the brush. Gwaine moved to retreat, but his injured leg gave suddenly, and he fell backward against a tree as his feet slid in the snow. Time seemed to slow down; he struggled to raise himself, brandishing his sword and expecting any moment to feel the teeth of the wolves sinking into his unprotected legs.

Instead, he heard a dull thunk and a whine. The nearest wolf sank to the ground with an arrow sticking out of its side. The other wolves turned and growled over Gwaine’s right shoulder. He turned in time to see a figure cloaked and hooded in fur come charging forward through the snow.
“BACK OFF! BACK OFF!” the figure shouted, and loosed another arrow into the wolf nearest Gwaine’s legs. The wolf fell, and the others began to back up, still growling and showing their teeth. Pushing himself up with the tree trunk at his back, Gwaine struggled to his feet in the snow and brandished his sword again. One of the wolves stepped forward and snapped at him, and Gwaine lunged at it and made a swipe with his sword. He caught the wolf across the face, and it turned and ran into the woods, yelping. Gwaine and the stranger advanced on the others, still shouting—Gwaine mostly using up the last few curse words he hadn’t gotten in earlier in the day. The wolves had started giving them more ground and were beginning to look less confident. Gwaine turned his head to look at his unexpected ally. The figure swung toward him and drew his bow. Gwaine didn’t even have time to open his mouth as the arrow was loosed—and flew past his face to bury itself in the chest of the last leaping wolf. The animal fell to the ground with a whine, and Gwaine stumbled backward.

“Careful!” the archer said and caught Gwaine’s arm as he lost his footing in the snow once more. “Put the sword away, and let’s get to some shelter before they come back.”

The voice was cheerful, hearty—and distinctly female. Gwaine gave a short laugh as he sheathed his sword and allowed the woman to pull his arm over her shoulders. “My heroine,” he said shortly as they turned westward and began to trudge through the snow. “Do you come here often?”

“Come here? I live here,” she answered. Gwaine tried to see her face, but her fur hood was deep and her head was down, watching their steps. “It’s you who hasn’t been here before, apparently.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I found your tracks in the snow. You were going in circles.”

“Ah.” He thought he should come up with some sort of cheeky comeback to that, but frankly, he was tired, cold, and his right leg didn’t want to hold his weight up—he simply couldn’t be bothered with trying to be clever right now. He hoped wherever his rescuer was taking him, it was somewhere close.

Apparently his luck was back: it was only a quarter of an hour later when she said “Here we are!” and Gwaine raised his head in the gloom to see a small cottage, with a lean-to on the side. He resisted the urge to say Thank God.

It was pitch-black inside the cottage, with only two small squares of brown to indicate horn-covered windows. The archer sat Gwaine down on what felt like a small bed, and he could heard her arranging kindling and then striking a flint. In a few minutes she had fire lit, and was turning back to him. “Let’s get that chainmail off you and warm you up,” she said briskly.

“The words every man loves to hear,” Gwaine said with a grin, unhooking his cloak and removing his belt. The girl gave a laugh and helped him to pull his hauberk over his head. “What’s your name, fair rescuer?” he added as he began to unbutton his arming jacket and she knelt to remove his boots.

“Raynelle,” she answered, pulling off his right boot. He sucked the air in between his clenched teeth and shut his eyes. “Sorry,” she added. She stood and pulled off her own cloak. “Your trousers are wet—but I won’t offer to remove them,” she added with a smile.

In the dim, reddish light of the fire, which was beginning to warm the small cottage, Gwaine saw that she had brown, straight hair pulled back in a utilitarian braid, a squarish face and brown eyes. Under the fur cloak she wore a belted tunic over warm woolen leggings.

“That’s alright—I have braies on underneath,” he answered, and pulled the outer layer off, laying bare his injured leg.

“Eugh, nasty,” Raynelle said sympathetically as his dark bruises came to light. She examined his swollen ankle in a businesslike manner, feeling the joint with the touch of an expert. Gwaine breathed deeply through his nose. “Just a sprain,” she said at last, going to a chest in the corner of the room. “I’ve got some cloth here we can use to wrap it. What did you say your name was?” she added.

“Gwaine—Sir Gwaine,” he corrected himself, and paused. “Of Camelot,” he added lamely.

“And what, Sir Gwaine of Camelot, brings you to Inglewood in the middle of the winter?”

Good question, Gwaine thought. It was what he had been asking himself ever since his horse had thrown him and run off that afternoon. Why, oh why oh why, had he thought riding to Inglewood in the snow was a smart move?

He hadn’t, he admitted to himself. It had been the impulse of a moment, born of boredom, restlessness and—if he were really truthful, discomfort.

Gwaine realized that he had been silent for a few moments. Raynelle, seated on the floor with some old cloth in her hand, was looking up at him expectantly.

“It’s a long story,” he said, waving off her question.

Raynelle began tearing the cloth into long strips. "Well, we have plenty of time. Tell us a story to warm this cold winter evening."

Gwaine grinned at her tone. "Well, I was just knighted about six months ago," he began.

"During the recovery of the kingdom from Lady Morgana," Raynelle observed.

"Yes." Gwaine didn't know why he was surprised that she knew this; Inglewood was part of Arthur's kingdom, after all. "He knighted four of us at once. None of us had any land." So far as it went, this was true. He didn't need to add that he, at least, was of noble blood. In fact, he was pretty sure Arthur didn't know this—he had only told Merlin.

But this was beside the point. He went on. "We were busy for the first few months restoring order and taking care of the last of Morgana's allies. Once things quieted down, Arthur decided he should establish each of us with land. I didn't think that was necessary," he added, "but Leon said that the knights helped to defend the various parts of the kingdom because they had ties to the land. He also said we needed land to establish our authority in the court. Which is bullshit. I mean, a knight should have authority because of his character. It doesn't matter how many acres or peasants or horses you have, people should respect you because of your actions. Anyway," he continued, realizing he had gotten off topic again, "Prince Arthur asked the court historian to let him know what land had defaulted to the crown since so many knights had died in Morgana's attacks, and then he gave us each land according to where the kingdom most needed defense. Geoffrey—the historian—said Sir Gromer of Inglewood had died a year and a half ago, and since he had no sons, the land had returned to the crown in default of heirs male. So Arthur bestowed Inglewood on me. I guess I'm—Sir Gwaine of Inglewood now. And I decided, why wait to see my land and start setting things in order? Why not go now? It's winter—we're hardly training, and there's nothing to do in Camelot…"

He realized he was rambling and trailed off. The silence continued, and he looked back down at Raynelle. She was sitting motionless, staring up at him with an expression that was no longer cheerful. She looked half surprised, half angry.

"What?" he said.

His question seemed to unfreeze her, and she looked him up and down with disdain. "You are not Sir Gwaine of Inglewood," she stated coldly, and dropped her gaze to tear off a strip of cloth with savage energy.

"What do you mean?"

"My father, Sir Gromer of Inglewood, passed his lands on to my brother," she emphasized, looking back up at him with blazing eyes. "His name is Somer, and he is the rightful heir. You will not dispossess my family."

Chapter Text

Gwaine stared at the girl in astonished silence as she resumed tearing off strips of cloth with an energy that suggested she was imagining that the old blanket was his skin. “Your brother?” he said weakly.

“Yes,” she said, giving an angry yank at a particularly tough bit of blanket.

“He—when—” Gwaine seemed to be having trouble forming sentences. He swallowed and tried again “Why didn’t he come to Camelot’s aid when Morgana took over?”

“He was in Gaul,” Raynelle answered coldly, still not looking at up at him. “Visiting my mother’s people—the Joure family. Have you heard of them?”

“Uh…”

“My brother was raised in their court from the age of twelve,” Raynelle continued, not waiting for him to answer. “My grandfather fell ill around the time my father died, and my brother could not leave. Then when my grandfather died and my cousin fell heir to the duchy, there was some unrest in their border lands—and by that time news had reached him that the crossing to Britain was dangerous because of Morgana’s men.”

“The duchy…” Gwaine said weakly.

Raynelle was still pretending she couldn’t hear him. “I had a letter a couple weeks ago that he was finally coming—I expect him within the month.”

“Why isn’t there any record of his existence in Camelot?” Gwaine asked as Raynelle finished tearing the last bandage.

“I don’t know!” She finally looked up at him, her eyes flashing. “I’m not in charge of the court records!”

“I’m sorry,” Gwaine said.

“Uh huh.” She picked up a strip of cloth and started hunting for the end.

“No—really.” He reached down and caught her wrist. “I’m sorry I burst in on you like this. I didn’t mean to give you the impression—I didn’t mean to dispossess anybody. And I didn’t know about your brother. I’m sorry.”

She watched his expression as he said it, and her own didn’t look as angry by the time he had finished stammering out his apology. Maybe it was his uncertain delivery that made the corners of her lips curl up. “You just don’t want me bandaging your ankle while I’m this angry,” she accused him, lifting one eyebrow.

He grinned at the proffered olive branch and let go of her wrist, sitting back up. “Have to admit, I’d prefer you didn’t cut off the circulation,” he agreed.

She began to wrap his ankle. “Well, don’t worry. As lady of the house, I know all about binding up sprained limbs when boys come home crying after hunting accidents.”

“That’s put me in my place,” Gwaine said humbly.

Raynelle grinned up at him. “I should hope so.”

000

They were both silent as she finished attending to his ankle and mended the fire. Despite her light words to him, Gwaine felt she was still angry. The silence had grown uncomfortable, but he didn’t know how to break it, and Raynelle didn’t seem to want to. When she had finished with his ankle she gave him some bread she had been carrying and a bit of salted meat. They ate together, still in silence.

“Guess we better turn in,” Raynelle said at last.

The bed was far too narrow for two, even if he could trust Raynelle not to be offended at the suggestion.

“I’ll take the floor,” Gwaine said.

“No, you won’t. You’ll take the bed.”

“A knight should always give the best place to a lady.”

“And a lady should always give the best place to her guests. And you’re wounded. So you’re taking the bed.”

Gwaine opened his mouth.

“Shouldn’t a knight yield to a lady’s requests?” she added.

Gwaine shut his mouth and looked at her calculatingly for a moment.

“Well, if you’re going to twist my arm.” He pulled up the blankets and furs that covered the narrow bed and stuck his feet down into the cold depths.

“Besides, this means I’m closer to the fire,” Raynelle added, with a smug smile, arranging some furs on the floor.

Gwaine gave a short laugh. “Good night, Lady Raynelle.”

“Good night, Sir Gwaine.”

000

“Mama, there’s someone coming!” Florence came running down the steps into the great hall. “They have banners!”

“Oh God,” Gwaine heard his mother breathe. He looked up from where he was playing with a carved lion on wheels, a gift from his father. He was sitting at the only trestle that had been left set up after the midday meal, the servants having folded the rest of them up and stacked them against the walls. His mother, glancing at him, must have realized that he heard her comment, for she cleared her throat and said in a more cheerful voice, “What banners, darling?”

“A white boar on a red field, a green castle on a yellow field, and a blue clarion on a white field,” Florence answered, obviously proud of her powers of observation.

Gwaine’s mother, her skin already fair as the moon in contrast with her black mourning gown, paled still further, and her hands clenched on the arms of her chair.

“I wonder if they’ve brought news of a pension from the King?” Florence said excitedly, oblivious to her mother’s reaction. Someone pounded at the door, and a servant moved to open it. “I’ll go find out!”

“Florence!” her mother said sharply, and the barely controlled fear in her voice stopped her daughter in her tracks. Florence stared at her mother in surprise. In the silence that had fallen in the hall, Gwaine heard the servant drawing back the bolts of the heavy door. “Florie, Gwaine, come here,” their mother said, calming herself with an effort. Gwaine climbed down from the bench before the trestle and walked over to the side of her chair, Florence to the other side.

In the entryway, they heard the murmur of voices. Their mother leaned back in her chair and lifted her chin, facing her guests with dignity. The voices became less muffled and more angry, and Gwaine held tight to his carved lion, trying to imitate his mother’s attitude. Florence was fidgeting.

“Sir? Sir!” one of the servants exclaimed as a knight in red marched into the great hall. Two others in yellow and white followed him, along with a small retinue of soldiers in red. Gwaine’s family servants seemed to appear from everywhere at once.

“You are the relict of Sir Loth?” the red knight asked casually, pulling off his gloves as he strode forward to the head of the hall. He hardly looked at the lady of the castle.

“I am.” Gwaine’s mother’s voice was as dignified as her bearing. “Who are you and what business have you here?”

“I am Sir Accolon, and I am the Lord of Gwalchmei.”

“My son is the Lord of Gwalchmei,” she answered, and Gwaine looked up at her in surprise.

“The lands of Gwalchmei have been granted to me by King Caerleon.”

“Gwalchmei has belonged to my husband’s family for generations, and we do not recognize your authority here.” She gestured to the trestles against the wall. “I can offer you the hospitality of a meal, but then I must ask that you leave Gwalchmei before nightfall.”

“Llacheu, Ryence.” Accolon gestured toward the chair, and the knights in yellow and white strode forward, forced her out of her chair and frogmarched her toward the door.

“Mama!” Florence screeched, and Gwaine leapt forward, not even noticing when his lion slipped from his hand and broke on the floor. “Let her alone!” He pounded on the back of the knight in yellow and kicked at his legs. “Let her go!”

“Gwaine, stop!” Florence caught him in her arms and held him back. He struggled against her as the men tossed their mother out into the mud and horse muck outside the door. Florence let go of him when he stomped on her foot, and he flew at the knight in yellow again, screaming like a wildcat. Someone grasped the back of his collar and lifted him high in the air.

“Let him go! Please!” he heard his mother cry out, and then the person tossed him out the door. He struck his head on the ground and everything went black. The last thing he heard was his sister screaming.

Gwaine sat straight up in bed, breathing hard. He stared about the darkness wildly, trying to figure out where he was. Finally it came back to him—Inglewood, the wolves—Raynelle.

The fire had died down and only very limited light was coming in through the horn windows, but there was just enough for him to see the furs bunched up on the floor next to the bed.

Raynelle was gone.

Chapter Text

Gwaine sat still in the darkness for a few minutes, deciding what to do. He doubted very much that Raynelle, angry as she might be, would leave him and go back to Inglewood Castle without even a word. She must have gone out for some other purpose—hunting, perhaps? But there was still some salted meat by the fire, enough to last them the rest of the day, at least, if Gwaine remained here. And when he shifted in bed and a stab of pain went up his leg, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to ride all the way back to Camelot without at least another day or two of rest.

Whatever she was doing, he didn’t like the idea of her wandering around the forest by herself with those wolves around, especially when the light wasn’t good. But he reminded himself that she had probably been hunting in these woods from the time she was old enough to shoot, and that she had clearly demonstrated her ability to deal with the wolves the day before.

Finally, unable to get back to sleep—unwilling to, after that nightmare—Gwaine got out of bed, hobbled over to the fire, fed it a bit, got himself something to eat, and got back under the covers as quickly as possible. It was far too cold to stay out of bed.

As he sat up, wrapped in blankets and furs, and ate a bit of breakfast, he looked around the cabin in the dim red light of the fire and tried not to think about his nightmare. As his success was minimal, he was doubly thankful an hour later when the door opened and Raynelle walked in.

“You’re up early,” she said briefly as she walked over and crouched down by the fire to warm up. She kept her cloak on her and her hood up and barely looked at him.

“You were up even earlier, apparently,” Gwaine replied mildly.

“I found your horse.” Raynelle answered his unspoken question. “Its bridle became stuck in a thicket and an old man who lives in the forest found it before the wolves did, and housed in his lean-to overnight. I brought it back with me.” She glanced at their slightly diminished food supply. “Good, you’ve eaten. Here.” She picked up his trousers and socks, which had dried overnight.

Gwaine took them hesitantly. Was she going to send him off to Camelot with a sprained ankle?

She again anticipated his thoughts. “I have been too long from the castle; my attendants will be worried about me. And I need to prepare for my brother’s arrival. I will take you to Gwyn ap Nudd—that’s the man who found your horse. His hut isn’t far, so you won’t have to ride far this morning with that bad ankle. He has said you can stay with him for a few days until you are able to ride more comfortably.”

Gwaine didn’t answer, but finished pulling on his clothes. He was as well aware as she was that the difference in comfort between Inglewood Castle and a beggar’s hut would surely have made up for the difference in distance. While she was providing a place for him to recover, she was still subtly insulting him by not taking him into her home. But Gwaine certainly did not hold it against her. For a moment he remembered with distaste his mother’s offer of a meal to the men who had taken Gwalchmei—no, he did not blame Raynelle at all for not wanting him to come anywhere near the castle.

Raynelle silently helped him on with his chainmail and his cloak—easier for him to wear them than to carry them—and supported him out the door and helped him onto his horse. Walwen tossed her head and whinnied with happiness at the sight of her master.

“Foolish beast—runs off and leaves me to the wolves, and then is so happy to see me return,” Gwaine said, patting her neck—but his tone was affectionate.

Raynelle took the bridle and led Walwen herself, saving Gwaine the trouble of guiding the horse or using his legs—and swollen ankle—to help direct her. They headed off in silence through the woods, the only sounds those of boots and hooves on snow, and Walwen’s noisy breath in the still winter air.

“Gwyn was an old servant of my father’s,” Raynelle said at last, breaking the silence. “He was his Master of the Hunt. My father taught me to shoot, but Gwyn taught me to track.” Her tone talking of the old servant was more tender than any Gwaine had heard her use so far: very different from her usual bluff and hearty—or pointed and angry—voice. “He also taught me herblore—he is, in fact, a far better healer to have charge of you than me.” She glanced up at him for a moment with a small smile. “Meanwhile, he will probably tell you terribly embarrassing stories of all the beginners’ mistakes I made when I was first learning to hunt. I will only ask you to remember that they all took place many summers ago.” Gwaine laughed. “My father used to say that I should not be embarrassed when an old servant told tales of my childhood: it meant I had gained their affection and loyalty through long years of friendship.”

She broke off here, and Gwaine frowned—not at her words, but at the connection he could not help but make with them. If the records had been right, if Raynelle had had no brother, how would her servants have reacted to Gwaine’s usurping of her father’s place? If Sir Gromer had died with no issue, the servants would surely have welcomed someone to come and take charge. But perhaps Raynelle was competent to do most, if not all, of the business of a lord of the manor. The only thing Inglewood lacked with her in charge was a man to lead the men-at-arms in defense of the castle or the King, if need be. If this was the case, the servants would certainly have considered Gwaine an interloper. How would they have reacted to him? Probably no better than Raynelle had, and possibly worse. Would they, perhaps, have even fought to defend Inglewood from him, as an intruder and usurper?

But perhaps they would instead have responded as his own mother’s servants had done. Cowed by Sir Accolon and his cronies, aware that without the income from the land of Gwalchmei she was destitute and without support from the King she was friendless, most of the servants had not done more for their former mistress than offer her clothes, food, and shelter the first few nights while Gwaine recovered from his head wound. (He unconsciously reached up and rubbed the old scar, which was still visible along his hairline on the right side—one of the reasons he kept his hair long.) But they had not been able to tarry, and had moved on and away from Gwalchmei as soon as possible: Accolon would not have reacted well to them if he had found them there. And none of the servants had accompanied them.

It was not that Gwaine blamed them, precisely: after all, the servants’ position had been precarious, and his mother, now destitute, had had nothing to offer. And times were hard. It was no wonder they had chosen to keep their source of income rather than throw in their lot with a poor woman who did not know how to work for her keep. But he wondered now, with Raynelle’s words echoing in his head: had his family so treated the servants that they felt no loyalty to their former mistress?

Gwaine shook his head to clear it. His mother had worked hard to support them after the King refused to restore her husband’s lands to her. She had persevered with quiet dignity, and he could not imagine her mistreating a servant. And his father, whom she rarely spoke of… But he preferred to imagine that his father had been noble, chivalrous, generous. Since he was old enough to think about such things, Gwaine had come to believe—or made himself believe—that the reason Gwalchmei had become so poor in the years leading up to his father’s death was because Sir Loth had been too generous. It was not that he had been irresponsible or taken too much out of the land without putting enough back into it—he had given too much away to his servants and his friends. Being part of a royal court was expensive, and perhaps Sir Loth had allowed his friends to borrow from him too freely to cover their expenses. Those friends certainly had not come to the aid of Loth’s widow and orphaned children when he was slain in battle: maybe it was the result of a guilty conscience.

Gwaine’s daydream was interrupted when Raynelle broke the silence once more. “We’re here,” she said. They rounded a copse of trees and Gwaine saw a small hut with smoke curling into the sky through a hole in the roof, and a lean-to large enough for two horses. Raynelle helped him into the hut, said the briefest of goodbyes, barely allowing Gwaine time to thank her, and slipped out again to unsaddle his horse and then head to Inglewood Castle. Gwaine found himself face-to-face with an old man with a soot-smudged face and bright black eyes. They stared at one another for a long moment. Gwaine felt a little self-conscious before that direct and piercing gaze. Sir Leon, he thought, would never have allowed a retired Huntmaster to stare him down, but Gwaine felt his own eyes dropping to his lap. Then Gwyn moved, holding out a bottle.

“Whisky?” he said.

000

It wasn’t long before Gwaine was seeing things in a brighter glow. Even the old man, whose aquiline Roman nose and hard black eyes he had found intimidating when they first met, was beginning to look cheerful and friend-like. Gwaine wasn’t drunk, precisely—he had had too many years’ practice with his good friend, fermented grain, to be drunk already—but he wasn’t exactly sober, either. Gwyn ap Nudd had put some kind of warm poultice on his ankle, telling him it would be good as new in the morning. That was the only thing that made Gwaine think maybe Gwyn was drunk, too. Otherwise, he seemed stone sober, though he was matching Gwaine drink for drink.

Gwyn had already pried from Gwaine the story of what he was doing in Inglewood—though after the second shot, Gwaine was not averse to sharing what was on his mind. Gwyn offered no word of judgment, for which Gwaine was thankful, and in fact seemed pleased that Gwaine had been honest with him. At least, that’s how Gwaine thought Gwyn reacted—it was hard to tell when your drinking companion hardly gave more than a twitch of the lip for a smile, and when you yourself were not-exactly-sober.

“But enough about me, Gwaine—er, Gwyn,” Gwaine said genially, leaning back in his chair and shaking his hair out of his face. “Tell me about yourself.”

Gwyn shrugged. “Not much to say. Served in Sir Gromer’s household since I was a lad. Retired to this cottage a few years ago. Nice and quiet.”

“Lady Raynelle said you taught her to hunt.”

Gwyn’s lips tilted up in the closest thing to a smile Gwaine had seen yet. “Aye, that I did. I remember the first time she ever encountered a boar…”

Raynelle was right: Gwyn was fond of telling hilarious stories of her childhood. “And then there was the time Mabon told her a great beast lived in the forest—a dog-headed monster with massive antlers that roamed the forests at night and had a taste for human flesh. Mabon said the monster liked little girls the best, because they were the tenderest and sweetest. No one could ever kill the beast, he said, because no one could get close enough—he hated the stench of grown men. We were all laughing up our sleeves when she believed him, wide-eyed. We weren’t laughing so hard when we discovered she had sneaked out of the castle into the forest in the middle of the night. She had decided that since men couldn’t get close enough to kill the monster, that it was her responsibility: she was a little girl, so the monster would be drawn to her. Absolutely fearless, she was—went and sat in the middle of the woods all night, waiting for the beast, while we ran around the castle like chickens with our heads cut off, calling for her. We thought she was being naughty and hiding somewhere: we never guessed she’d gone out into the forest. There might not have been a dog-headed beast, but there were wolves, and she knew it.

“She came trotting back to the castle before sunup, all pleased with herself. Her father was scolding too hard to listen to her at first, but then she told him that she’d killed the dog-headed beast, and she’d wanted to bring it home, but it was too heavy for her. So we all went tramping out to the forest, and what do you think? She’d shot a twelve-point buck—a buck that had eluded all our best hunters for three seasons. Shot it clean through the heart at twenty paces—in the dark. She was disappointed to see, when the sun was up, that it wasn’t a dog-headed creature after all. But Mabon told her that was part of the legend. ‘When a person who is pure of heart shall slay the beast, it will turn into a deer,’ he said. ‘And the prophecy says that the one who kills it is destined for great deeds and great honor.’

“Her father only gave her a token punishment—helping the cooks to prepare the animal for the feast that he held. He told her it was in celebration of the death of the monster, and he looked stern and told her never to run off in the forest at night alone again, but everyone could see he was tickled to death that she had done it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Always full of spunk, was Lady Raynelle. And always a good shot. She was a natural. Decent with a sword, but a beautiful shot with a bow.”

“The sword?” Gwaine was surprised. “She learned the sword?”

“Of course!” Gwyn snorted and offered Gwaine the bottle again, but Gwaine waved it off: he was interested now, and wanted to make sure he stayed sober enough to remember this conversation. “She was raised almost entirely by men, after all. ‘Course, it may have been her idea, not her father’s. Knowing Raynelle, she probably wandered in on her father’s men practicing one day and started copying their movements. Next thing you know they’d have been critiquing her form. She always had them wrapped around her little finger. Everybody’s darling—except when she was angry.” Gwyn whistled. “She would do the most outrageous things.”

Gwaine already knew about Raynelle’s temper, and he didn’t want to dwell on it. “What about her brother? Is he a good swordsman?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Gwyn answered, taking another sip of whisky and glancing at Gwaine sidelong. “He was raised in his uncle’s court from the age of twelve. I remember him with a sword in his hand when he was younger, but don’t know how he did with it. I imagine he must be alright, though—he’s fought in tourneys in Gaul, and if he were an embarrassment, his uncle wouldn’t have let him. Very proud family, the Joures.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure he’ll make a fine landlord. And Raynelle will be glad to see him again; they were thick as thieves when they were young.”

“About the same age, are they?”

“Aye. Somer’s just a little older. They both took after their mother in looks, God rest her. Lady Belphoebe was no beauty, but brave. Well, she fell in love a knight off the tournament field and left Gaul to live with him in Britain—and His Grace her father wasn’t pleased with the betrothal, either. Duke Riothamus was a proud one. But she and Gromer wore him down in the end. And after the Duke saw Gromer’s worth in the battle of Bourges and the retreat of Déols, he was more than willing that his daughter should marry such a doughty and loyal knight.”

“Mm.” Gwaine had heard of Riothamus, though his family name, Joure, had been less familiar. They might call Riothamus a duke, but in terms of influence, he was basically the King of Armorica—the part of Gaul that was being heavily settled by Britons. He was a great warrior, too: when Euric’s Visigoths attempted to conquer Gaul for themselves, Riothamus had sided with the Romans. Emperor Anthemius had called for aid, and Riothamus had answered the call and marched on Bourges. But without backup from Rome, he had been unable to hold off Euric’s innumerable army, and had had to retreat back over the Loire. He had secured his own borders when safely back in Armorica again, and now he was only occasionally harried by the Visigoths, like Camelot had the occasional skirmish with the Saxons. It was probably the Visigoths whom Somer had been helping to fight along his grandfather’s borders just after the latter’s death.

No wonder Raynelle had made sure to mention her mother’s family. If the widow of the Lord of Gwalchmei had been insulted by an unknown knight usurping her family’s estate, how much more so the granddaughter of the Duke of Armorica!

Thankfully, at this point in Gwaine’s thought process, Gwyn brought out some cheese, bread, and salted meat. Gwaine, thankful for the distraction, ate a hearty meal, and soon felt his eyelids growing heavy. Gwyn helped him to bed, and as Gwaine shut his eyes, Gwyn murmured, “Sleep dreamlessly, Sir Knight.”

And Gwaine did.

Chapter Text

When he woke the next morning, Gwaine’s first thought was that Gwyn would have disappeared in the night like his former mistress. But Gwyn was sitting at the table by the fire as if he hadn’t moved all night.

“How’s the ankle?” Gwyn asked, and Gwaine realized with surprise that it was indeed ‘good as new.’

“Um—fine,” Gwaine answered blankly.

“Oh, good,” Gwyn said. “Then I suppose you’ll be on your way this morning.”

“Yeah… I suppose I will,” Gwaine answered, a little dazedly.He had expected to be holed up in Gwyn’s hut for a couple of days at the least, but when he got out of bed to help Gwyn build up the fire, there was no pain in his ankle at all.

Gwyn gave him some breakfast, helped him on with his hauberk, saddled Walwen, and was waving a farewell before Gwaine even had time to catch his breath. He wondered whether it was just his imagination Gwyn was really just that eager to get him gone. He had rather gotten on with Gwyn (he thought: it was hard to tell) and was a little surprised and hurt that Gwyn seemed to want rid of him as much as Raynelle did.

On the other hand, he was glad to be leaving Inglewood. His visit here had been one of the most embarrassing experiences of his life, and he had no desire to extend it. He was less happy, however, when his ankle began to throb again the moment he left the eaves of the forest behind him.

Whatever it was Gwyn had done to his ankle, it hadn’t lasted long. Nor did Gwaine. By mid-afternoon his ankle hurt so much that he made his way to a small village and told the local innkeeper he was staying the night.

He stayed out of the taproom that night—an unusual move for him—and rested his ankle as much as possible. His two-day journey ended up taking three, and his ankle was again throbbing painfully as he rode into the courtyard of Camelot, just now covered in a light dusting of snow.

A stablehand took his horse, and without more than a cursory word of greeting, Gwaine gritted his teeth and limped off in the direction of the Archives.

It was a room Gwaine had only been in once before, when the new knights had been taken on a comprehensive tour of the entire castle they would be defending. Geoffrey, the Court Historian, had been polite, but had not expected Gwaine or any of his comrades to be interested in the contents of the archive. Neither had Gwaine, for that matter, until now. He really couldn’t blame Geoffrey for his look of utter surprise when Gwaine dragged himself through the door and demanded to be told about Sir Gromer of Inglewood and his family.

“Particularly his children,” Gwaine added as he dropped into a chair with a grimace.

“But Sir Gromer had no children, as far as I know,” Geoffrey answered, still looking shocked at Gwaine’s presence in his scholarly sanctum.

“Oh yes, he did,” Gwaine answered grimly. “You’d better check your records again.”

Geoffrey did so, coming back with the right tome in a far shorter time than anyone would have expected, given the number of books in the archive. Gwaine wondered briefly how Geoffrey kept them all organized.

“Let’s see, Sir Gromer. Oh yes, married the daughter of Lord Riothamus,” Geoffrey said, nodding. “Took part in the battle of Bourges. Mmhm.” He traced along the lines of the text with his forefinger, humming in agreement. “Honors for wounds sustained in battle… Two hundred fighting men from Inglewood took part… No,” he said at last, looking up again: “there’s nothing in here about any children.”

“But he has two,” Gwaine insisted. “A boy named Somer and a girl named Raynelle.”

“How do you know this?” Geoffrey asked suspiciously.

“Because I met the daughter,” Gwaine answered grimly.

“Well, she wouldn’t appear in the records anyway.” Geoffrey shrugged. “Only if she has married another noble family and thus created an alliance…?” Gwaine shook his head. “Well, then. But this son—his birth should have been recorded. When was he born?”

“Er…” Gwaine closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with a pained expression. “Raynelle looked about Arthur’s age, perhaps a little younger, and her brother’s just a little older than her.”

“Hm. Then he would have been born in about the time of the Great Purge,” Geoffrey responded, setting the tome down on the desk in front of Gwaine. “Sir Gromer did not take part—he was in Gaul when it began, and when he returned he went straight back to Inglewood.” He looked for a moment like he was going to say something else and then changed his mind. “The Purge did not reach that far, and Sir Gromer claimed that problems on his own land prevented him from coming to Camelot to help the King to remove all the wizards and witches from the land. Genealogical records from this period are occasionally somewhat patchy, even for knights who were in close contact with the court, so it is unsurprising that a son of Sir Gromer’s, born in Inglewood or Gaul, might have been overlooked.”

There was a knock at the door and Geoffrey excused himself to answer it, but Gwaine barely noticed, putting his face between his hands and staring at the entry on Sir Gromer’s family. Sir Gromer. Took part in the Battle of Bourges. Married Belphoebe, eldest daughter of Lord Riothamus, Duke of Armorica. And the dates of his birth, marriage, and death, the last a year and a half earlier. There was space underneath for the recording of offspring, but it was still blank. Gwaine saw it filled in his mind’s eye: Children: Son, Somer. Fostered in Gaul. Daughter, Raynelle. Temper like a mother bear.

Someone tapped his shoulder and he jumped. “Oh. Merlin.”

Merlin was looking at him strangely. “The stablehand said you were limping.”

Trust Merlin to be worried. Gwaine didn’t even bother telling him it was nothing. “I sprained my ankle.”

Merlin was silent for a moment, calculating. “On the road to Inglewood.”

“No. In Inglewood.”

“Then what are you doing back here already?” Merlin wanted to know. “You should still be there, resting it.”

Gwaine dropped his gaze. “I… it’s a long story,” Gwaine answered, shutting the book.

“Well, you can tell me about it while Gaius wraps your ankle,” Merlin said, setting the book aside and pulling Gwaine to his feet.

“Suppose it wouldn’t be any use to argue?”

“None at all.”

000

So while Gaius examined Gwaine’s ankle and wrapped it, Gwaine told them both the whole, embarrassing story. They listened in silence, Gaius only looking up sharply when Gwaine got the part where Raynelle mentioned her brother.

“So that’s why you were in the archives,” Merlin said when he had finished. “You wanted to check the records. You thought maybe Arthur made a mistake.”

“Yes. And there’s definitely a mistake, but it’s not Arthur’s. Neither of them appear in the records.”

“Well, Raynelle wouldn’t anyway,” Gaius commented.

“That’s what Geoffrey said.”

“But I’m surprised they didn’t record the birth of Sir Gromer’s son.”

“He was probably born around the time of the Great Purge. Geoffrey said that the records from that time are sometimes incomplete. And that Camelot might never have had word of Somer’s birth, because Sir Gromer stayed in Inglewood for a time.”

Gaius was silent for a moment. Then he turned and walked over to a large cupboard. After rummaging around in it for a moment, he came back with a cane. He handed it to Gwaine.

“You will stay off that ankle as much as possible,” he said firmly when Gwaine made a face. “And try to keep your ankle elevated when you can.”

“Thank you, Gaius,” Gwaine said, trying to hide a grimace as he stood up.

“I’ll help you down the stairs,” Merlin volunteered.

“Whose bright idea was it to put Gaius’s surgery up all these stairs?” Gwaine grumbled as he and Merlin made their slow way down the steps. Merlin had put Gwaine’s arm over his shoulders, which Gwaine actually found a little uncomfortable, since Merlin was an inch or two taller than him. They shifted so that Merlin was a little ahead of him on the stairs.

“I’ve asked Gaius that myself,” Merlin said with a small smile.

“Gwaine!” Elyan was coming up the stairs. “What on earth happened to you?” he said, stopping a few steps below them.

He put on a big grin. “Sprained my ankle. Merlin is carrying me off to bed.”

Elyan narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Trust you to get out of training.”

“If you start spreading that entirely false rumor, I’ll beat you with my old man cane!” Gwaine answered, shaking it menacingly.

Elyan laughed, clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, and disappeared up the stairs.

Gwaine and Merlin started moving again. Merlin was quiet for a long moment. “Are you alright?” he finally asked. Gwaine looked at him. “The whole thing with Raynelle—that can’t have been easy for you.”

In spite of himself, Gwaine smiled. He hadn’t editorialized in his story at all—he had kept to the plain facts, and not said a thing about how he felt about them. But Merlin knew about his family history, and had realized immediately how hard it had been. This was why, no matter how close he became to his comrades among the knights, Merlin would always be his closest friend. He didn’t have to pretend with Merlin—Merlin always knew how he felt already. It was like he had the magical power of reading Gwaine’s mind.

“I’ve been better, but I’ll recover my dignity in time,” Gwaine answered as lightly as he could.

“It was an honest mistake, after all,” Merlin added. “And not even your mistake. And you backed down immediately.”

Gwaine remembered Raynelle’s reaction to his pronouncement that he was the new knight of Inglewood and resisted the urge to shudder at the sheer humiliation. Yes, he had backed down quite meekly. There was nothing else to do after an affront like that. Gwaine could only hope that he never saw Raynelle ever again.

Chapter Text

Gaius was sitting at the table deep in thought when Merlin returned to their rooms.

“Very unlucky for Gwaine that the records weren’t complete,” Merlin said as he took the chair opposite.

“Yes, unlucky for Gwaine. But not necessarily an accident,” Gaius answered.

“How do you mean?”

Gaius’s sharp eyes met his own. “Inglewood has always had a reputation for being haunted.” Merlin stared. “It is said that hidden in the forest is an entrance to the Otherworld.”

“So the lack of communication between Inglewood and Camelot during the Great Purge…?”

“Was not because of distance,” Gaius finished. “It was said that the forest was inhabited by powerful witches. Not priestesses,” he added. “Inglewood’s magic was of an unruly and unpredictable kind. The high priestesses of the Old Religion considered it too dangerous to try to harness. But some witches and wizards who lived close to nature and understood its ways sometimes made their homes there, and participated in the Wild Hunt.”

“Didn’t Uther try to carry the Purge to the forest?” Merlin asked, puzzled.

“Oh yes, he tried,” Gaius answered. “Twice. He sent soldiers to Inglewood. They returned two weeks later with tales of a forest that made you walk in circles and pools of water that made you forget what you came for. So he sent soldiers again. They returned much more quickly, all bloodied and bruised, with a story that the forest itself had attacked them. They also said that the next men who went would never return. So Uther chose not to send any more.”

“Did you have something to do with that decision?” Merlin asked shrewdly.

Gaius shrugged with a small smile. “Perhaps a little.”

“Wasn’t the King suspicious that someone had caused all the mayhem? Like Sir Gromer?”

“Sir Gromer wasn’t even there,” Gaius answered, leaning forward a little. “And when he did return, he wrote to the King and assured him that investigations had been made and that no one in Inglewood knew anything about the men who had been sent there. And perhaps they didn’t. Anyway, Uther decided that Inglewood was far enough away from Camelot that magic there didn’t pose an immediate threat to the kingdom, so long as the witches and wizards of Inglewood did not attack the rest of his lands. And they never have.”

Merlin was quiet for a long moment. “Then the fact that Gwaine’s ankle was fine when he got up in the morning, but started hurting as soon as he left the eaves of the forest—maybe Gwyn is a wizard?”

“Or perhaps the temporary cure was effected by the forest itself,” Gaius added.

“You talk like it has intelligence and will.”

“And it might. It is a strange place, Inglewood. Strange things happen there.”

Merlin thought some more. “I would think that someone who was raised there would have more of a chance of having magic themselves.”

Gaius shrugged. “Yet there are plenty of people who live near sacred places who are born perfectly normal, with no magic whatsoever. Though I do wonder if there was more to Somer’s being fostered in Gaul than meets the eye.” He leaned back. “Of course, it’s not unusual for a young man to be fostered in another court—to see something of the world, get an education, learn to fight. And the opportunity to send one’s son to the court of Riothamus is a golden one. But maybe Sir Gromer had ulterior motives, as well. Maybe he wanted to get him away from Uther.”

“You think Somer might be a wizard?”

“It is possible.”

“That might explain why Sir Gromer never tried very hard to have his name inserted in the court records. And he couldn’t know that his own death would come while Somer was still in Gaul, or that Somer would have things to keep him there, instead of returning and taking his place in the court at Camelot.” He spread his hands on the table and stood. “But this is all speculation. We cannot know anything without meeting him.” He moved toward the stove to get supper.

“I’m looking forward to it.” Merlin began to set the table. “But I bet Gwaine isn’t.”

000

There was someone else Gwaine wasn’t looking forward to facing, either: Arthur.

Gwaine had taken Gaius’s orders to keep off his ankle as an excuse to laze all morning and get one of the servants to bring him breakfast in bed. He was just beginning to enjoy his convalescence when Arthur walked in.

“How’s the ankle?”

“Eh.” Gwaine waved his hand.

“So how did you manage to sprain it?”

“I was thrown from my horse. She got spooked by wolves.” Gwaine was starting to get sick of telling this story. Embarrassing.

“So you never made it to Inglewood Castle, I take it,” Arthur concluded.

“No. But it’s just as well—I don’t think I have a claim on it,” Gwaine answered, shifting in bed to give himself an excuse to look away from Arthur’s face.

“How do you mean?”

“I met Sir Gromer’s daughter. She says she has a brother.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “Says. Did you meet him?”

“No, he’s in Gaul.”

“Convenient.”

“Are you saying she invented a brother? On the spot?”

Arthur shrugged. “If she wanted you to leave badly enough, she might have.”

“But her former servant mentioned him, too.” And Gwaine remembered Raynelle’s fury and indignance. She surely would not have been so angry if the King really did have the right to dispose of Inglewood as he chose. Her anger was that of someone who had been treated unjustly: he was sure of it.

Arthur looked unconvinced. “I’d like to see her produce this brother of hers.”

Gwaine felt unaccountably annoyed at Arthur’s reaction. “Raynelle expected him to return to Inglewood within the month. I’m sure when he learns that claims have been made on his estate, he will come to Camelot to settle them.”

“Mm.” Arthur’s raised his eyebrows once, as if to say that he would humor the invalid. He turned to leave, but at the door he threw over his shoulder, “Let’s hope this brother isn’t the bloodthirsty type!” He grinned around the door and closed it behind him.

Gwaine leaned back against the headboard with a groan. If Somer were anything like his fiery sister, this meeting was not going to be pleasant.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was echoing with talk and laughter. The men were enjoying their wine and the few ladies of the court were enjoying the company of the men: it was summer, and young men from all over Uther’s lands had come to Camelot to train and show off their skills to Arthur in hopes of joining the Knights of Camelot. There were more than usual this year, since word had spread that Arthur’s new knights were all commoners. A number of men who had trained with the sword but had no family name or coat of arms had shown up—one or two of them without even a sword, because they couldn’t afford one. Arthur had allowed them all to stay.

They had only been training for one day, but already Gwaine was sore. He and Arthur’s other knights had done a number of demonstrations, and they had gone all out, feeling as if they had to prove themselves to these men, some of them good swordsmen themselves, and some of them of noble families. Even Percival had exerted himself more than usual—and fighting against Perce even when he was acting normal was an experience. In fact, the only knights who didn’t seem bothered by the pressure were Leon and Lancelot. Leon was an old hand at this—and had nothing to prove, anyway—and it took a lot to shake Lancelot’s quiet, steady manner. But Gwaine, Percival and Elyan were more nervous than they liked to let on. From the stiff way Elyan was moving, Gwaine guessed that he too was going to be very stiff in the morning.

“A toast!” Arthur’s voice rose above the roar, and everyone turned. “To all the brave men who have met here today—both new friends and old. To the warriors of Camelot!”

“To Camelot!” the men cried and raised their glasses. Over the cheering, Gwaine suddenly heard the great wooden doors of the hall creaking.

“Sire!” one of the guards shouted.

The noise died down again as a figure in mail stalked into the hall. He wore a tunic and cape of white with the black pattern that designated ermine fur, quartered with a black chevron and three ravens, and carried a white shield with the same pattern. He was a shortish man with short brown hair and beard, and the bearing of a nobleman. He stopped short before the high table and bowed gracefully and respectfully to Arthur.

“Arthur Pendragon, Prince Regent of Camelot,” the man said in a clear and steady voice, “I am Somer Joure, son of Sir Gromer of Inglewood. You have wrongfully given my lands to Sir Gwaine. I have come to seek redress. I challenge Sir Gwaine to single combat for possession of Inglewood.” He pulled off his glove and threw it on the floor before the high table.

Arthur motioned to Gwaine. “Sir Gwaine will accept your challenge, I’m sure.” Somer turned to look at him expectantly.

Gwaine had been standing speechless at Somer’s announcement, but indignation at Arthur’s response lent him a voice. “If Sir Somer here is indeed the rightful lord of Inglewood, I have no desire to accroach his lands.”

Arthur beckoned to Gwaine in a manner that reminded him of Uther, and Gwaine approached, brow furrowed.

“If you do not take Inglewood, I may not be able to find another estate for you,” Arthur said in a low voice.

“That’s fine with me,” Gwaine said, annoyed.

“Not having any land may damage your reputation in the court,” Arthur explained sternly.

“Since when have I cared about reputation? I’m not displacing someone else in order to get their land. I’d rather keep my honor than kiss up to the court.”

Arthur reigned in his temper with a visible effort. “We don’t even know if that is Sir Gromer’s son.”

Gwaine turned to scrutinize the young man. Somer held his gaze, undisturbed. Now that he could see him more clearly, it was obvious to him that Somer was Raynelle’s brother. He had the same brown hair, though shorter, and the same square jaw, though it was of course covered with a short beard. His eyebrows were thicker and his voice deeper than hers, but they could have passed for twins.

“He’s certainly Raynelle’s brother,” Gwaine offered. “I suppose that whether you believe them to be Sir Gromer’s children or not is your own affair, but I do.”

Arthur turned back and stared at Somer himself for a long moment. Finally he raised his voice so that the court could hear him. “Camelot is willing to recognize your position as the rightful lord of Inglewood, provided that you can prove your ability to defend that land, and Camelot, from attack. Men from all over the kingdom have come to prove themselves worthy knights: join them and claim your rights to the land.”

Somer nodded, then stooped and retrieved his glove. “I accept your offer, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur made a sign to the servants, and they made a seat for Somer at one of the tables, taking his shield up to the room they would prepare for him. Gwaine returned to his seat and answered his neighbors’ insistent questions about Inglewood and Sir Gromer’s family, but as soon as he could he glanced surreptitiously across the room at Somer. The young man was eating heartily, and was apparently making friends with the people around him. That was a good sign, anyway. Gwaine wondered how similar Somer’s temper was to his sister’s. Raynelle had been quite charming until she had been made angry, at which point she had turned into fire and ice. Somer at least wasn’t freezing out the other men. Whether he would show the same friendliness to Gwaine—and Arthur—was another matter.

Dinner finished without further incident, and Gwaine realized before the end of the night that Somer had already retired to his room. He was relieved that he no longer had to decide whether to approach him or not that evening. But when most of the other men had gone to their rooms for the night, Gwaine found himself taking his time in getting to his own. In a minute he saw the person he’d been waiting for.

“Merlin!” he said, as casually as he could manage. Merlin, bless him, stopped and waited for him even though he was probably already late to Arthur’s chambers. “Have you met the newcomer?”

“Not personally,” Merlin answered, “but I was talking to another one of the servants who has. He said Somer was very friendly, but wouldn’t let him do much for him. He very kindly said he wouldn’t detain him and wished him good night.”

“Hm.” Gwaine digested this for a moment, then saw that Merlin was watching his reaction. “Well, I suppose I should say the same.” He grinned and clapped Merlin on the back. “Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Goodnight.” Merlin watched him go. He himself had been trying to find a good time to meet the new recruit. He was going to have to keep his eyes open for opportunities: you couldn’t just walk up to a stranger and ask him if he knew magic—especially in Camelot. This was going to need some more thought.

“Merlin,” someone said, and he turned. Gwen was giving him a half smile. “I passed Arthur in the corridor. He was muttering imprecations. I assume it has something to do with you.”

Merlin grinned. “I’d better get to his rooms before he decides to put me in the stocks again.”

“Come, Merlin, he hasn’t done that in years,” Gwen scolded, still smiling.

“No, he doesn’t bother anymore. He just throws the vegetables at my head while I’m still indoors.”

Gwen laughed.

000

The next morning Gwaine arrived on the practice field just as Arthur was addressing the recruits.

“So I’m going to pair you up with each other and see what you already know,” he was saying.

“Thank God,” Gwaine murmured to Lancelot. “I’m so sore, I think my bruises have bruises.” Lancelot smiled.

The knights walked around observing the recruits and occasionally throwing in a word of advice or encouragement. Gwaine tried at first to ignore the corner of the grounds where Somer was, but eventually found himself watching the young man fight.

He was good with the sword—steady, strong, and agile. He was mostly beating his opponent, but occasionally the other man got a hit in. Both of them were laughing and calling both praises and joking insults to each other. Somer’s laugh was loud and hearty.

Eventually Arthur called out that the knights would trade off and spar a little with some of the recruits. Gwaine made sure he was at the other end of the field from Somer. One of the two recruits he fought with, Sagramor, turned out to be quite a good swordsman, and a personable man. Gwaine didn’t have time to watch how Somer did, fighting Lancelot at the other end of the field. But he didn’t even have to ask: as they were taking off some of their armor after the training session, Lancelot volunteered the information that Somer was quite a good swordsman.

“Needs a little practice and a little more technique, but he has all the makings of a good fighter,” he said, loosening the straps on his vambraces.

“He certainly has the guts,” Elyan added. “He was as cool as ice last night in front of Arthur.” He glanced over at Gwaine, who was trying to act like he wasn’t listening. “But we’ll see.”

000

The recruits improved noticeably over the following week. Gwaine didn’t fight Sagramor again, as Sagramor and Somer struck up a friendship a couple days later, and Gwaine couldn’t be near one on the training field without being near the other. He did, however, have the dubious pleasure of fighting with the other young man again. Lionel, as he was called, was a somewhat sluggish fighter: hard-hitting, but easily distracted. He seemed far more interested in boasting about his exploits on the hunting field than paying attention to the field of battle.

“Lionel seems mean-spirited,” Lancelot commented one afternoon, when he and Gwaine were returning to the castle from a patrol. They had been discussing the young candidates, and for the most part, Lancelot had been far more forgiving and less judgmental than Gwaine. When Gwaine had spoken slightingly of someone’s skills, Lancelot had been much more likely to say that there was no telling how much he might learn, and that he might still surprise them all. His judgment on Lionel was the most negative thing he’d said so far.

“What makes you say that?” Gwaine asked, a little amused, and more interested in finding out what had prompted so harsh a comment than in defending Lionel, whom he had himself not cared for much.

“Well, most of the recruits have been pretty encouraging to one another,” Lancelot explained. “They’ve had a good example set for them by Arthur and Leon, for one thing.” Gwaine nodded; Arthur had been unusually kind to everyone. Gwaine was used to him being a little more of a prat. “And Somer and Sagramor—they’ve become popular, and the others follow their example. And they’re encouraging toward their fellows. But Lionel…” Lancelot shook his head. “He has a few cronies who follow his lead, and he’s been instigating them to talk about the others behind their backs. Even his younger brother Bors, who might be a nice enough boy on his own, is being led astray.” Lancelot shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

“Hello Gwaine; Lancelot,” Arthur called cheerfully, striding up to them before Gwaine could answer. “Anything unusual happen on patrol?”

“Nothing, Sire,” Lancelot answered. “Everything seems quiet.”

“Excellent.” Arthur ran his gloves through his hand. Gwaine waited for him to say what was obviously on his mind. “I’ve been thinking. We never had any sort of celebration for the four of you when you were knighted. We should have one.”

“Um… really?” Gwaine and Lancelot exchanged confused glances.

“Yes. Soon, in fact.”

“Shouldn’t we wait until after the new knights are selected? Feast everyone then?”

Arthur paused and frowned. Then he argued, “But then the men who aren’t selected might leave—hurt feelings and all that. Better to have it now, while everyone’s still here.” He grinned at them absently and walked off.

“Why is he so anxious for a banquet?” Lancelot asked, mystified.

Gwaine watched Arthur go and saw him wave to someone across the courtyard. “Guinevere!” he called and jogged over to her. She was smiling at him, carrying a basket. He laughed. “I think I know,” he said nodding his head in their direction.

“Ah.” Lancelot gave a small smile.

000

The banquet was arranged far faster than Gwaine would have thought possible. But then, everyone at the castle seemed to put their entire souls into it, so maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Other than small affairs for Yule and the new year, there had been no feasting in Camelot since Morgana’s forces had been defeated, and everyone seemed to feel it was past time for a little celebration. In what seemed like no time at all, the Great Hall was decorated with garlands of summer flowers, musicians were hired, food was made, invitations were sent, and guests arrived.

With so many recruits in Camelot, the men far outnumbered the ladies, so all the young women—and even some of the not-so-young ones—were greeted with enthusiasm as they arrived. Conversation during the feast itself was lively, but most of the young people, Gwaine included, were really looking forward to the dancing. It had been years since he had done any sort of formal dancing—normally the only dance he got was a swing with a barmaid.

As the guests were finishing their meal, there was a new buzz of excitement: everyone knew the dancing was soon to begin. Gwaine, like many of the guests, left his seat and moved about the room, looking for prospective partners.

“Oh, Sir Gwaine, I am so looking forward to watching the dancing,” Ettarda, a plump matron, said at his elbow. “I don’t dance much myself, these days, but I do so enjoy watching others dance. You like to dance, don’t you?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “All the young men know how to dance. And such a wonderful way to meet people.”

Gwaine saw out of the corner of his eye that the musicians were tuning up and men were beginning to ask the ladies for the first dance. “Yes indeed, and as a matter of fact—”

“But then a handsome young man like you doesn’t need an excuse to introduce himself!” she giggled and tapped his arm flirtatiously. “I asked Sir Leon where you were from—I’ve known Sir Leon for simply years, you must understand—and he said you were from Caerleon. And I asked him, ‘Were all the ladies of Caerleon as infatuated with Sir Gwaine as the ladies of Camelot are?’ Well, he had absolutely no answer to make, so you see, I must be right! I’m sure you’ve had ladies falling at your feet to dance with you everywhere you’ve gone, Sir Gwaine.”

“If they fell at my feet, I’m not sure I’d want to dance with them,” Gwaine answered. “Shows a lack of coordination, don’t you think?”

Ettarda opened her mouth in surprise, and Gwaine took the opportunity to bow and walk away. Everyone was already taking their places in the dance, and it seemed to Gwaine as he glanced around the room that all the young ladies were already spoken for. He suppressed an annoyed sigh.

“Over there, sitting with the chaperones,” a voice said near him, and Gwaine looked to find Lionel, Bors, and Pellias, one of Lionel’s cronies, standing next to him, with Somer and another young man on their other side. Lionel seemed to be pointing out a person on the other side of the room. “Can you imagine dancing with her?” he continued. “She’d knock over all the other dancers! There wouldn’t be room for her and them on the floor.”

Gwaine looked across the room and eventually spotted the young woman Lionel was talking about. She had been announced on her arrival as Lady Alexi, daughter of an Irish lord. Not having been asked to dance, she was sitting with the chaperones, looking a little dejected. Alexi was somewhat overweight, and homely—her face seemed a little too small, and she had a nose that was just a little too large for it.

“She’ll sit there all night, I bet—scaring off suitors with that beak!” Pellias laughed.

Gwaine opened his mouth, but was stopped by a loud whisper from Bors. “Hey, look!”

Somer had approached Lady Alexi and was bowing to her gracefully. Alexi smiled up at him, spoke, and took his proffered hand. He led her out into the dance as the musicians struck up the opening music.

Lionel snorted. “Everybody stand back! The other dancers are going to go down like bowls on a green!”

“Somer isn’t tall enough to control her—with her momentum, she’s going to go flying!” Pellias laughed.

Somer did look a little small standing next to Lady Alexi. With their chainmail off, all the men looked a little skinnier: Somer particularly so. But any expectations that they were an ill-matched pair of dancers were quickly contradicted. It was clear from the moment they began to move that Alexi was a very beautiful dancer, and Somer, as his bows indicated, an unusually graceful man. They spun and glided around the floor, laughing and chatting. They took the shine out of all the other dancers; the chaperones, who had begun whispering about the King’s offensive decision to open the dance with a serving maid rather than the highest-ranked lady present, were ooh-ing and ahh-ing with delight. Lionel, Gwaine noticed with amusement, had fallen silent.

At the end of the number, Somer bowed gracefully to his partner, and they exchanged a few more words of laughing conversation. But he found himself edged out almost immediately by other men clamoring to dance with Alexi, so he left with a good-natured smile and sought out another partner. They both proved to be popular that evening, never wanting for partners. Gwaine himself danced with Alexi, and ended up having a spirited conversation with her at the same time about hunting, a subject about which the lady was clearly passionate.

In all, the dance was a success: the men were happy to have so many beautiful women to dance with and so many comrades to drink with; the ladies enjoyed the unusual experience of being out numbered by the men at a dance, which meant they rarely lacked partners; Arthur got to dance with Gwen to his heart’s content—and the chaperones were too distracted by the sight of Alexi’s newfound skill and the conversation of so many handsome young men to notice how many times he did so. Arthur himself was so distracted by his partner that he didn’t notice a few of the servants snagging a dance with one another—Gwaine had a hard time keeping a straight face when he saw Merlin spinning around the floor with a delighted-looking kitchen maid while assiduously avoiding Arthur and Gwen’s side of the room.

“Breaking hearts, Merlin?” Gwaine asked when the music ended and the dancers left the floor.

“I’ll leave that to you, Gwaine,” Merlin answered. “A handsome young man like you!” he added, tapping Gwaine on the arm in a terrifying impression of Lady Ettarda. He smirked and batted his eyelashes.

“Oh my God, no,” Gwaine said, shutting his eyes with a pained expression. Merlin laughed.

Chapter Text

It was no wonder the men were sluggish and bleary-eyed at practice the next afternoon. Gwaine felt a little sluggish himself—alcohol, food, and merriment were a great recipe for sleeping in. But Arthur and Leon were both full of energy, and although they let the men have the morning off, they hauled them all out to the practice field again as soon as the midday meal had been eaten and the other guests had been seen off.

Leon paired off the recruits and had them duel, one pair at a time, while the others watched. Leon and Arthur gave critiques and pointers after each fight. Leon put Bors up against Somer, which Gwaine thought unfair. But the younger boy surprised him: Somer defeated him, but Bors got in a couple good hits, and lasted much longer than Gwaine expected.

“The kid’s not half bad,” Percival murmured as they applauded and the combatants saluted one another and Arthur.

“I wish we could say the same for his brother,” Gwaine answered as Lionel was called up to fight Sagramor. The bout didn’t last long. Lionel got in only a glancing blow, and Sagramor both disarmed him and knocked him down quickly and neatly. Lionel’s salute to Arthur was desultory and to Sagramor was brief enough to almost be insulting.

The duels were finished without incident, and the men all went to the armory to put away their weapons. As Gwaine was unbuckling his vambraces he heard a clang and then a commotion of voices around the corner and rushed over to see what the trouble was.

“Sagramor? Sagramor,” Somer was saying, kneeling next to his friend, who was lying crumpled on the ground with a small gash in his forehead.

“Look out,” Leon said, pushing aside the crowd of recruits who had gathered around them. Sagramor opened his eyes as Leon knelt next to him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Sagramor said, looking embarrassed. He sat up and winced.

“Careful—you’ve had a pretty bad bang on the head,” Leon said as Somer tore off the bottom part of his surcoat and pressed it against the wound, which was bleeding freely. “We’d better get you to Gaius. Can you stand?”

“Yes, it’s nothing,” Sagramor said, bright red, as Leon pulled him to his feet. Sagramor did seem steady on his feet as they left the armory together and headed in the direction of Gaius’s surgery.

“What happened?” Gwaine asked one of the men standing near him.

“He was just standing there, perfectly fine, and then Boom! Down he goes! Looked like a corpse. And he hit his head on the edge of the bench as he came down.”

Lionel, whom Gwaine had not noticed standing in the corner, snorted. “And he has the gall to ask Arthur to knight him, with fits like that? Freak.”

“And yet that freak,” Somer said, his eyes flashing in a way that made him look very much like his sister, “beat you hollow today in less than a minute. Who do you think has the better chance of being knighted?” He turned and stalked out of the room as the other men tried not to smile. Lionel’s face turned as red as Sagramor’s had been.

000

Gwaine went to see Sagramor that evening after supper and found that Arthur was before him. He and Sagramor were sitting on either side of the table and Sagramor was laughing. They both looked up as Gwaine came in.

“Sire,” Gwaine greeted the prince. “Well, you don’t look too bad!” he added to Sagramor, who grinned. Gaius had stitched up the wound in his forehead, and although he had a nasty bruise, he looked fine.

“He has a slight concussion, so I’m keeping him overnight,” Gaius said from the other side of the room.

“But otherwise I’m fine,” Sagramor added quickly.

“Glad to hear it,” Gwaine said, clapping him on the arm. “Hello, Merlin,” he added as his friend entered the room.

“Gwaine!” Merlin smiled. “Sire,” he added.

“I hope you’re doing the laundry?” Arthur said.

Gwaine thought Merlin was trying hard not to roll his eyes. “It’s soaking downstairs.” He turned back to Gwaine. “I hear the recruits were fighting one-on-one today?”

“Yes, and Sagramor here kicked his opponent’s arse.”

Sagramor smiled. “Just wait until tomorrow,” Arthur said.

“What’s tomorrow?”

“The recruits are fighting the knights.”

Gwaine groaned. “Tell me I’m not going up against Sagramor,” he teased.

“Certainly not,” Gaius said. “He’s not to do any strenuous activity for at least a day or two.

“Oh, come on!” Sagramor begged.

“Not unless you want to risk permanent brain damage from a second concussion,” Gaius said, leveling his piercing eyes at the young man.

“Is there any risk of you, um—” Gwaine tried to think of a way to put it that wouldn’t embarrass him—“that you’ll have another fall?”

Sagramor shook his head, a little pink. “I don’t have these fits very often—only every several months.”

“And since they don’t last long and have no negative aftereffects—except being banged up from the fall—they shouldn’t be a problem,” Arthur finished, answering the question Gwaine hadn’t asked, about Sagramor’s eligibility to be a knight. “But follow Gaius’s instructions,” he added, pointing a finger at the young man. Sagramor nodded. “I have to go,” he added, standing. “Goodnight, everyone. Oh—hello,” he added to someone outside as he opened the door.

“Hello, Sire,” a voice replied, and Somer walked into the room.

“Well, I just stopped by to see how you were,” Gwaine said quickly to Sagramor.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“And I’ll see you tomorrow. Good evening Merlin, Gaius. Somer.”

Somer exchanged nods with him. As Gwaine left the room he heard Somer exclaim, “I’m glad to see you looking well—someone needs to whip Lionel into shape!”

000

And someone did. Lionel went up against Percival the next morning. It was chance, not malice, that paired them up—Arthur was drawing lots from a bowl he swiped from the kitchen. Gwaine couldn’t say the same: his reaction to Lionel’s swift and humiliating defeat was certainly malicious pleasure. A just pleasure, he decided to call it. Judging from the suppressed smiles of the men around him, he wasn’t the only one. News had spread of Lionel’s comments in the armory after Sagramor’s fit, and it was clear from the hearty greeting Sagramor had received when he arrived on the field that morning to watch the fighting that the recruits were siding with him rather than Lionel. Lionel’s defeat at Percival’s hands was swift and rattling: Percival disarmed him with a cool and detached air. Lionel was fuming when he returned to the benches.

Gwaine himself fought Pellias, and another man named Kahedin. Both of them put up a pretty good fight; Pellias in particular took him awhile to get the better of. He watched in interest as his fellow knights, including Leon and Arthur, tackled the other recruits one by one. Lancelot fought Bors, who acquitted himself rather well—he smiled with pleasure as Lancelot complimented one of the hits he had gotten in.

“He seems like a nice kid,” Merlin said quietly as they all applauded. He had come out to check on Sagramor and had stayed to watch.

“He would be, if not for his brother’s influence,” Gwaine answered in an undertone.

“Somer! You’re up!” Arthur announced, gathering up the lots. It was the last fight of the day, but they had just finished a cycle, so the names of all the knights were in the bowl. He mixed them around a bit.

“We should put him up against Elyan,” Percival muttered to Gwaine with a grin. “They’re about the same size.”

“I heard that,” Elyan said dryly.

“And your opponent is…” Arthur said dramatically, “…Sir Gwaine!”

Somer, who had been smiling appreciatively, dropped his gaze to the ground and silently adjusted his armor. Gwaine stepped forward, trying to appear expressionless, as the spectators applauded politely. They didn’t whisper. There was no need to: everyone was thinking the same thing.

They started out slowly, circling one another, judging each others’ speed. Both of them seemed to be waiting for the other to attack. Finally Somer made a feint and they began to fight in earnest. Somer was fighting well, but it seemed to Gwaine that he was holding back: Gwaine was getting in more hits than he felt he really should have been. But they were both keeping the fight to a stalemate.

The men were shouting encouragement to both combatants. Gwaine was deaf to most of it—until Arthur’s voice rose above the din.

“Come on, Somer! If you don’t win I may have to give Inglewood to Gwaine after all!”

Gwaine, internally wincing at Arthur’s comment, saw Somer’s eyes flash again, and felt as if he had been suddenly attacked by a violent storm as Somer abruptly advanced, sword flashing in swift, hard strokes. Caught off guard, Gwaine stepped backward incautiously and lost his balance. In a moment he found himself on his backside, staring up the length of a sword into the fiery eyes of his opponent. The field had fallen into a total hush as Somer loomed over him, panting more with anger than with effort.

Gwaine suddenly surprised himself by going off into a shout of laughter. Somer frowned down at him in confusion. Gwaine managed to catch his breath long enough to declare, “There’s your answer, Arthur!”

The spectators began to laugh with him, and an irrepressible smile appeared on Somer’s face. He withdrew his sword and extended a hand. Gwaine took it, and Somer pulled him to his feet.

“Good fight,” Gwaine said, clapping Somer on his back. “It’s been a long time since someone beat me with the sword.”

“Well, I was fresh,” Somer offered. “You had fought two others already today.”

“No, no,” Gwaine said, picking his sword up off the ground. “Accept your laurels. You earned them.” There was the sound of a bell from the castle, and the men turned and headed back into the armory to prepare for luncheon. “Come on,” he added, setting his sword over his shoulder and putting his other arm around Somer’s shoulders. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Merlin, left unnoticed on the field, watched the men all disappear into the castle. Then he walked up to where the bowl sat, with the lot Arthur had last drawn out of it lying on the ground beside it. He picked the lot up and smiled.

“Come on, Merlin!” Arthur’s impatient voice came from inside the armory. “You’re slower than an arthritic mule!”

“Coming!” Merlin answered, dropping the lot bearing the name “Arthur” back into the bowl.

Chapter Text

Gwaine was sitting with Somer and Sagramor at luncheon before the potential awkwardness of his situation even occurred to him. But with Somer all seemed forgiven and forgotten, and there was nothing but friendliness and ease between them. However, Gwaine couldn’t resist asking, when they got away from the crowded hall, “So I guess your sister told you what a fool I made of myself in Inglewood.”

Somer frowned at him in what Gwaine thought was surprise. “No-o,” he said slowly. “She only said that you came to Inglewood under the mistaken impression that our father had had no children, and left again as soon as you realized the truth.”

Gwaine stared at him. “That’s all? I mean, I made her pretty angry.”

“Well, that’s not exactly difficult,” Somer laughed. “Did she come the harpy with you?”

“Not at all. She was very polite.”

Somer sucked the air between his teeth in sympathy.

“Exactly.” Gwaine laughed. “You seem to have inherited all the family diplomacy.”

Somer smiled. “Raynelle stayed in Inglewood and learned how to hunt and fight from our father while I went to Gaul and learned how to dance and recite poetry to the ladies.”

“Oh, but you fight well.”

“Not very well. My education was more administrative than martial. I’ve learned a lot since I’ve come to Camelot. I hope to learn more.”

“What a lesson to me. I was beaten by a man who doesn’t fight very well.”

Somer laughed and punched him in the arm. “That was a fluke, and well you know it. You were distracted.”

“And you were angry. And there was Arthur, goading you on!”

“I shouldn’t have risen to his bait,” Somer said ruefully.

“More than a Joure could take? Or do you and Raynelle get your temper from your father?”

Somer smiled and Gwaine knew he had hit the mark. “That was the benefit of my diplomatic education. Teaches you to keep a level head. Raynelle has never had to learn to control her temper. What did you think of her?” he added when Gwaine fell silent.

“I did wonder what the lady of the manor was doing hunting alone in the forest the middle of the winter instead of overseeing her servants.”

“She probably felt she didn’t have to. They’re very loyal and trustworthy: our steward in particular—Glewlwyd. His brother Gafaelfar is the chief of men-at-arms. She would have nothing to worry about with them in charge.” He paused. “But you’re right—it was rather irresponsible of her nonetheless. I think she’s been bored since our father’s death—restless. She needs more occupation than just calculating land usage and ordering around servants.”

“My sister would say that you should get her married.”

Somer lifted his lip. “Can you honestly see my sister submitting to the will of a husband?” he asked dryly. “And probably one with half her abilities.” He stopped, and Gwaine could see his diplomatic education in action as he cooled his anger. “No,” he said in a lighter tone, “she would never marry unless she found a man who saw her as an equal. And I would never make her do anything against her will.” Gwaine nodded. “So,” Somer said, crossing his arms and smiling expectantly, “what did happen in Inglewood?”

“Gwaine!” Percival called from the other end of the colonnade. “We’ve got patrol this afternoon, remember?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Gwaine said quickly.

“Uh-huh.” Somer smiled disbelievingly.

“No, really. I’ll see you at dinner!”

000

After dinner, Arthur stood and the hall hushed in anticipation. “As you all know, I will soon be choosing men from our new recruits to join the knights of Camelot. As a final test of your skill, Sir Leon and I have decided to hold a mêlée.” Everyone began to murmur. “It will be held in four days’ time. The current knights and the recruits will be split evenly onto two teams, who will then compete on foot with blunted weapons. The object is to capture as many knights from the opposing side as possible. Sir Leon will be acting as Marshall of the Lists, and I will be presiding over the mêlée.” He looked disappointed.

Merlin smiled, grimly satisfied. “Did you talk Arthur into that or did Leon?” Merlin asked Gwen, who was standing beside him.

“Both of us,” she admitted. “Leon tried first and it didn’t quite work so he asked me to help.”

Merlin shook his head and smiled.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it. We can’t do anything about it right now anyway.” She sighed. “Not with the king in his precarious state. If we married and he realized it…”

“There might be another scene like the one with Gwaine a few months ago.”

“You heard about that?”

“Everybody heard about it. They said he responded well to you.”

Gwen nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said slowly. “The king responds better to me in general than he does to his regular nurse. I might… I’m thinking about volunteering to care for him.”

Merlin frowned at her. “Are you sure? I mean, I can’t think it’d be easy, serving him every day. Not with—” he gestured—“his past behavior.”

“I know. But Arthur needs his father, and his father needs me.” She squared her shoulders and puffed out her cheeks. “That settles it. I’ll speak to Arthur tomorrow.”

Merlin put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re a good woman, Gwen.”

000

Merlin had not forgotten Gaius’ theory about Somer. Though he had watched the other young man as much as he could, he had held off so far on investigating more deeply. He had thought of sneaking into Somer’s room, but the corridor was so often busy with recruits or servants who might ask him what he was doing there—he wouldn’t have any chance to get in. But the day after Arthur announced the mêlée, the housemaids were scrubbing down the corridor that the recruits were staying on, from top to bottom. The doors to the rooms stood open, and maids were going in and out with scrub brushes, buckets and dust rags. One of the men came back to change and left muddy footprints on the floor. He was chivvied back out of the corridor by three angry serving women: they were meek and mild most of the time, but God help the man who sullied a freshly-scrubbed floor! After that the men kept clear of the corridor for the rest of the day.

It was the perfect opportunity to take a look around. Merlin picked up a dust rag that was left in a corner and walked down toward Somer’s room—first checking to make sure there was not a particle of dirt on the bottom of his boots. The maids, used to seeing him cleaning Arthur’s rooms or clothes, or helping out with larger preparations in the castle, ignored him.

Somer’s door was the fifth on the right. Merlin counted. Each room he passed was full of chattering maids, gossiping and giggling as they tidied up clothing, beds, belongings. But the fifth door was shut. Merlin tried it: it was locked.

“Um… Siriol?” Merlin snagged a passing housemaid. “Why is this door locked?”

“Oh, that’s Lord Somer’s room,” the girl said, smiling a little as the girls behind her giggled at the name. Merlin guessed that Somer had been making an impression. “He always keeps it locked. He told us not to bother cleaning it, that he’d keep it clean himself.”

“Oh.” The girls were still watching him, so he went on to the next room and dusted a few things in a desultory manner. When no one was watching he dropped the rag and made an escape. There was no way to magically unlock the door with so many people around; he would have to wait for another opportunity. He sighed.

000

The morning of the mêlée dawned bright and clear. Merlin, having helped to set up Gaius’s tent at one end of the lists, was watching the people of Camelot, both town and castle, dressed up in their best clothes, slowly filling up the gallery and the “pit”—the area around the fence where the common people stood to watch.

“Beautiful weather,” Gaius commented, standing next to him.

“Yes. A lovely background for the sight of knights bashing one another across the head,” Merlin groused.

“Did we get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

Merlin shot him a guilty half-smile. “Sorry. I just…” he glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot, and dropped his voice. “I can’t think of a good time to search Somer’s room.”

“What do you think you’ll find?” Gaius asked. “A piece of parchment containing a confession of magical abilities?”

“There must be some reason he keeps it locked all the time,” Merlin argued, and Gaius shrugged.

“If you really want to search his room, the best time would probably be during the mêlée.” Merlin turned and stared at him. “Most of the servants will be down here, as will all the recruits and knights. Your way will be clear.”

“Oh, but…” Merlin hesitated. “You might need me. Like I said, the mêlée involves a lot of head-bashing. You’re likely to need a hand with the injuries.”

Gaius smiled. “Admit it. You want to watch.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But when, less than an hour later, the combatants took the field, Merlin, standing at the top of the steps that led to the gallery, strained as much as any spectator in the pit to see the teams.

Arthur and Leon rode into the lists first, in the uniform of the Knights of Camelot, with Arthur wearing his circlet. Behind them, on foot, came the combatants, who were all wearing strips of crimson or gold cloth tied around their left arms to indicate their team. They had their helmets off for the procession, and Merlin quickly picked out several familiar heraldic devices on the painted shields they bore. The Knights of Camelot carried the golden dragon of Camelot, but the other knights carried either their families’ arms or borrowed shields painted in simple pales, fesses or chevrons. Sir Lionel, Merlin noted, carried a shield with three frogs on a blue field, with the white “label” across the top that marked him as the eldest son, while Bors carried the same shield with a white crescent to mark him as the second son. They had both been assigned the gold team. Somer, on the crimson team, carried the black and white arms he had borne when he arrived at Camelot. The crowd was cheering, and Merlin saw Somer wave to someone in the galleries. Following his gaze he saw Sagramor, in a seat near Arthur’s, applauding good-naturedly. Though allowing him to return to training, Gaius had straitly forbidden him from participating in the mêlée. In training the chance of a second concussion so close on the heels of the first could be kept to a minimum: in the confusion of a mêlée it became far more likely. Sagramor had groaned, but obeyed.

The four knights who would be participating had been divided up evenly: Gwaine and Elyan on the crimson team and Lancelot and Percival on the gold. The other thirty-five or so men had been divided onto their sides by lot.

Arthur surrendered his horse to a squire and climbed the stairs to his seat in the center of the gallery. Merlin, watching him closely, saw him throw a smile to Gwen, who was sitting nearby. Though Gwen, true to her word, had taken over supervision of the King’s care the day before, one of the maids helping her had kindly offered to stay with him that morning so that Gwen could attend the mêlée.

When Arthur had taken his seat, Sir Leon turned his horse’s head toward the combatants and repeated the rules of the mêlée in a voice loud enough that the spectators behind him could hear him clearly.

“When a fighter is disarmed, he shall surrender and remove himself from the lists. Likewise, if a fighter is forced to the extreme end of the list, if he touch or cross the fence, he must surrender. No man is to strike another man when he is on the ground or after he has surrendered. When the Prince throws down his staff all combat must cease immediately. By engaging in the mêlée this day you agree to the rules of combat, or forfeit your honor by transgressing them.” He raised one gloved hand. “Combatants, take your positions!”

The people cheered as the men jogged to opposite ends of lists. The gold team was closest to the end where Merlin stood, but from his place at the top of the stairs he could see Gwaine, at the other end, throw some remark to Elyan, who laughed as they put on their helmets and drew their swords.

When all the men stood ready, a moment of anxious silence fell over the lists as everyone looked to Sir Leon. Then Leon brought his hand down, and the men charged forward with a shout.

The combat was a mass of confusion for the first few minutes. Several men soon left the field, a few heading in the direction of Gaius’s tent. But all of them were walking by themselves, so Merlin left Gaius to it. He spotted Elyan among those heading off the field, though he hadn’t seen how he was disarmed. But with the crowd a little thinned, he could now begin to see what was happening.

The crimson team was doing its best to stay away from Lancelot and Percival; most of those who encountered them were soon forced to surrender. Percival had lost his helmet and was fighting bareheaded. Behind the two of them was Lionel, who seemed to Merlin to be avoiding combat as much as possible—which accounted for his continued presence on the field when many better fighters had left it. Bors and Pellias were both still fighting a few members of the crimson team a short distance away. Somer was engaged one-on-one with a member of the gold team, and… Merlin scanned the field. Sure enough, there was Gwaine, swinging two swords as he took on two men at once. Merlin grinned.

Somer had just defeated his opponent as Bors and Pellias got free of their own. Lionel, seeing the situation, gave a rallying shout to his cronies, and the three of them charged toward Somer, who stood alone in his quarter of the field. The crowd gave a cry at the sight of three men bearing down on one, and Merlin winced and braced himself for Somer’s fall.

But it never came. There was a flash of sunlight on swords, and the crowd roared—Gwaine had intervened at the last moment, and now he and Somer were back to back, defending themselves valiantly. Somer knocked Lionel on his backside as Percival and Lancelot, the only other fighters left on the field, ran over to join in. It was now five against two, and Somer had to step back from Lionel to close ranks with Gwaine. Lionel climbed to his feet, and the seven combatants looked at one another, waiting for someone to make the first move.

What happened next was all confusion. The people gave a cry: Arthur had thrown down his staff and Leon shouted, “Cease combat!” Close on the heels of this, though clearly after the signal, Lionel brought his sword down, and the crowd gave another cry of anxiety and indignation as Somer fell out of sight.

Chapter Text

“HOLD!” Leon shouted, spurring his horse forward and riding down on the group in the lists. Gwaine knocked the sword out of Lionel’s hands and Percival and Lancelot grabbed his arms and held him as Leon rode over. Arthur, disdaining to take time going down the stairs, jumped straight down from the gallery into the pit, ducked under the fence, and stalked out onto the field, his face a picture of wrath.

Gwaine had thrown down his weapons and was helping Somer to his feet. Somer pulled off his helmet a little desperately, as if he were having trouble catching his breath, but after a moment he nodded to something Gwaine said and waved, a little weakly, at the gallery, which responded with a cheer. He had clearly become a favorite. Arthur, who had reached them by this time, touched his arm and said something, to which Somer nodded, and a squire came forward and helped him off the field in the direction of Gaius’s tent. He looked pale and winded, but not too badly injured. Arthur turned back to Somer’s attacker.

“How DARE you?” he thundered at Lionel, who scowled back. “A man who breaks the rules of combat in the mêlée forfeits his honor.”

“How have I broken the rules?” Lionel answered sullenly, but loudly enough that Merlin could hear him in the hush that had fallen over the crowd. “He was on the opposing team. In battle, the fighting doesn’t just end because somebody throws down a stick.”

“Yes, it does!” Arthur answered. “If your king calls a retreat or a cessation of hostilities, continued fighting could cost your comrades their lives! You agreed to abide by the rules in this fight, and you broke them. You struck another man after the fighting had ended—” Gwaine murmured something in his ear—“and you used a sharpened weapon!” Arthur added in a voice of surprise and disgust. “That doesn’t just constitute dishonorable behavior, but wounding with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. Give me his sword,” he added. Gwaine handed it to him, and Arthur broke it over his knee and threw it on the ground. “And his shield.” Lancelot removed it from Lionel’s arm. Lionel gave one convulsive movement, but Percival yanked him back threateningly.

“Bors,” Arthur said, and the boy stepped forward hesitantly. Arthur handed him the shield. “I wish to disgrace Lionel, not your family. Take his arms: they are yours now. I declare you heir to all lands, goods, and chattels of the eldest son of your family.” Bors took the shield gingerly, as if he thought it would burn him. Arthur turned back to Lionel. “I hereby banish you from Camelot. You have twelve hours to leave the town, and you must never return on pain of death.” Lionel made a lunge at him, but Percival pulled him back, none too gently. “Take him away,” Arthur said, and Percival and Lancelot frogmarched their captive out of the lists and tossed him out the gate. The people in galleries cheered.

000

Gaius and Somer were sitting and frowning at one another when Merlin entered Gaius’s tent. They glanced at him and back at each other, and Gaius stood and walked over to the table with his supplies on it. Somer’s face was pale and his expression serious.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asked slowly.

“Nothing’s going on, Merlin,” Gaius said patiently, returning with a bandage and beginning to wrap it around Somer’s arm.

“Aren’t you even going to take off his arming jacket first?”

“This will be fine for now,” Gaius answered, still imperturbable. “Merlin,” he added as he finished tying off the bandage, “would you help Somer to my surgery, please? I’ll follow you as soon as I finish up here.”

Merlin helped Somer to his feet and they headed back toward the castle, Somer leaning on Merlin’s arm with his good one.

“Merlin. You’re Arthur’s servant, right?” Somer was smiling at him, just a little.

“Yep.”

“What’s that like?”

“Hard work.”

“Hard work cleaning his room and his clothes, or hard work holding your tongue when he’s a prat?” Somer was definitely grinning now.

Merlin grinned back. “Oh, I don’t try to hold my tongue anymore. He realized years ago that if he kept sending me to the stocks nobody would wash his underwear. We have an understanding.”

Somer gave a hearty laugh, then winced. “Ooh.”

“Come on. The sooner we get to the surgery, the sooner we can do something about your arm.”

Somer made no objection. When they reached Gaius’s rooms, Somer slumped down on a stool.

“Let me help you off with your arming jacket, and I can get a more comfortable bandage on that arm,” Merlin said, grabbing a roll of lint and a bowl.

“No, that’s alright,” Somer waved him off.

“It’s no trouble!” Merlin reached for Somer’s arm, and Somer pulled back.

“I would prefer to wait for Gaius,” he said flatly.

Merlin frowned at him for a moment, then set the bowl down. “I’ll go see what’s keeping him.”

Gaius arrived in a few minutes. “It wasn’t as bad as you predicted, Merlin. Some bruises, a couple of wrenched ankles, but no one broke anything this year. I think the mêlées on foot are much safer than the ones on horseback. In fact,” he added as he passed Somer, “I think yours was the worst injury this time.”

“How bad was it last time?” Somer asked.

“Two people died,” Merlin answered. Somer’s eyebrows rose.

“Now, let’s see about your arm,” Gaius said, seating himself next to his patient. “Oh, and Merlin,” he added, as he held his hand out for the bowl and the bandages, “I’m sure Arthur will want you to take care of his armor.”

“I’m sure he will,” Merlin sighed.

000

Supper in the Great Hall was unusually subdued that evening—subdued, but hardly silent. Everyone seemed to be murmuring about the events at the tournament that morning. Nobody even seemed to care which side won (it was the gold—minus Lionel, of course). It was Lionel’s disgrace and exile that were the topic of conversation.

Somer, Bors, and Lionel’s friend Pellias were all conspicuous by their absence. Several people had approached Merlin to ask how Somer was, including Arthur.

“Gaius recommended that he rest this evening. But he’s back in his own quarters, and he’ll be fine,” he answered, bending down to refill Arthur’s goblet. Arthur nodded. Merlin hesitated, then leaned back down again. “I’m just wondering. Why did you stop the combat? If it hadn’t been for the distraction of Lionel’s attack, I’m pretty sure Gwaine for one would have been pretty angry with you for robbing him of the chance to show off.”

Arthur smiled. “I suppose that’s one reason to be thankful to Lionel.”

“So? Why did you do it?”

“Five men against two hardly seemed fair.”

Merlin nodded slowly. “You’re right. Gwaine’s opponents didn’t stand a chance.”

Arthur glowered at him, but Merlin just raised his brows. Arthur rolled his eyes and capitulated. “I didn’t want my knights fighting each other. Especially on those odds.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “You’re the one who had them fight in the mêlée in the first place.”

Arthur flared his nostrils and set his teeth. Realization dawned, and Merlin smiled. “It was Gwen, wasn’t it? She disapproved. And she caught your eye—”

“Merlin, go clean my boots.”

“But—”

“BOOTS.”

“Fine.” Merlin straightened up. “I’ll go tell Gwen how badly you’re treating me.”

“Merlin!”

Leon, who had been too engaged with the conversation on his other side to listen to what Merlin and Arthur had been talking about, looked up just in time to see Arthur pelt Merlin squarely in the back of the head with a grape as the manservant dashed from the hall.

“Trouble with the staff, Sire?” His eyes danced.

“Yes. Perhaps I should go back to putting him in the stocks.”

“But then who would wash—”

“Don’t.” Arthur raised a finger. Sir Leon only laughed.

000

The recruits had the next day off from training, and most of them elected to sleep in. Gwaine didn’t have that luxury; he and Elyan had had patrol at six. It was a drizzly morning, and he was glad to get back to the shelter of the castle four hours later. He would even be in time for lunch!

“Merlin!” he said, stripping off his gloves as he strode quickly across the courtyard. Merlin grinned from a dry position under the colonnade. “Eeuch,” he added expressively as he came alongside his friend and stripped off his soaked cape. “Days like this were not meant for early patrols.”

“I think the recruits agree,” Merlin said as they headed in the direction of Gwaine’s quarters. “I’ve hardly seen any of them all morning.”

“Have you seen Somer?”

“No—not since I left him with Gaius yesterday afternoon.”

“Well,” Gwaine grinned, “he’s surely rested long enough! Let me get out of my wet things, and then let’s go wake him up.”

Merlin hadn’t planned on examining Somer’s room while Somer was in it, but at least he’d have a chance to see inside. So he followed Gwaine without argument.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when Gwaine knocked at Somer’s door ten minutes later, but he certainly wasn’t prepared for what did happen. “One moment!” Somer called, and then the door was opened—by one of the housemaids.

Merlin and Gwaine both stared at the girl for a moment, unable to speak. “Come in!” Somer exclaimed cheerfully. He was running a comb quickly through his hair. “Thank you, Faleiry,” he added, to which the maid curtsied, nodded to the two visitors, and retreated in the direction of the kitchen. Merlin and Gwaine stared after her, but were broken out of their stupefaction by a laugh.

“Think no evil, gentlemen,” Somer said, grinning. “Gaius recommended that I ask Faleiry to help me out with—” He gestured to the sling on his left arm. “I can’t do it by myself, and it’s more convenient than running up to the surgery every morning.”

“Ah,” Gwaine said.

Merlin looked around the room, trying to be nonchalant. It was like all the other recruits’ rooms: a bed, which Faleiry had apparently made (Merlin recognized the folds he and all the other Camelot servants had been taught), a chair, a table, currently littered with pieces of armor and writing materials, a screen near the fireplace with Somer’s arming jacket draped over it, waiting for laundry day, a wardrobe, and a chest in the corner. Of course, if Somer really were a warlock, he certainly wouldn’t leave anything suspicious around where Faleiry could see it.

“Well, it’s early for lunch, but perhaps we could take a stroll around the castle?” Gwaine suggested. Somer agreed and Merlin was opening his mouth to excuse himself to attend to Arthur, when there was a knock at the open door. They all three looked up in surprise at Bors, who was standing there alternately blushing and blanching and looking very uncomfortable.

“Yes, Bors?” Somer said, not unkindly.

Bors shuffled more into the middle of the doorway and cleared his throat. “I just—” He dropped his gaze. “I just wanted to apologize for any part I played in my brother’s bad behavior. I—I let him lead me into doing things I knew weren’t right. But I swear,” he added, looking up, “I had no idea he had brought a sharpened weapon into the mêlée. He talked about getting revenge on you and Sagramor, but I thought he only meant to best you in the mêlée. I didn’t—I mean—”

Somer smiled faintly and walked over to him. “I understand. He was your older brother—you wanted to think the best of him.”

Bors smiled shakily and nodded, gulping.

“We’re heading out,” Somer added, after an awkward pause. “Will we see you at lunch?”

Bors nodded again and said a quiet goodbye. The other three all looked at each other for a moment, all waiting for someone to comment on the scene that had just passed.

“Well, shall we?” Somer said at last.

000

Several of the knights and recruits stayed in the Great Hall after the midday meal, just chatting in small groups. Elyan was telling Percival about a recent tiff with his sweetheart, a local girl named Tirion.

“I knew she would enjoy having dinner with Lewys and his wife, so I said yes, we’d come. But when I mentioned it to Tirion, she threw a fit! I said, ‘Don’t you want to have dinner with Lewys and Tegwen?’ and she said ‘Yes, I just wanted you to ask me if I wanted to!’” Elyan threw up his hands in despair as the men shook their heads. Then he spotted Gwaine and Somer, listening nearby. “Somer! You’ve spent time in Gaul; you must know a lot about women. What is it they want?”

Somer smiled faintly. “Sovereignty.”

The other men stared at him. “You mean Tirion wants to be able to order me around?” Elyan said, confused.

“No—not sovereignty over you, personal sovereignty. Sovereignty over her.” They still looked confused, so Somer continued, “You wouldn’t like it very much if you had somebody telling you what you had to do with your free time, whom you had to marry, how you were to dress. Apart from your uniform, of course.” He smiled. “But women are told what to do their entire lives. First their fathers rule them, then their husbands. Most women only get to decide for themselves what to do with their lives if they’re lucky enough to be widowed and still have some money! They’re taught from childhood to be content with their place in life, but sometimes they can’t stand it—any more than you would be able to.

“What Tirion objected to was that you didn’t let her make the choice of what she wanted to do with her Sunday evening. She might like the idea of dining with friends, but she wanted to make the choice to do so for herself, and not have you making that decision for her. It seems like a small distinction to you, because you have personal sovereignty. But she doesn’t—so it’s not small to her.”

Elyan nodded slowly, and the other men looked thoughtful. “But lack of person choice is the price women pay to be protected,” one of the recruits said.

Gwaine saw Somer’s eyes flash and saw him close his mouth on a retort, and he spoke up instead. “I’ve spent a lot of my time wandering in rescuing women who trusted men to protect them,” he said gravely. “They are taught that they should rely on men rather than themselves. Then if they’re young and beautiful too many men are ready to take advantage of them, and if they’re old or ugly men will not help them, and they are forced to rely on themselves with no knowledge of how to do so or ability to stand up for themselves in a world that does not want to listen to women. We ask them why they do not let men speak for them, and then we ourselves refuse to do so when they ask.” He realized the men were staring at him, and stopped, afraid he had gone too far in telling the truth.

“Apparently we don’t need to be educated in Gaul to understand women,” Lancelot said with a smile, breaking the tension. The men chuckled.

“Certainly not,” Somer agreed. “Everything I know about the hearts of women I learned from my sister.” He glanced at Gwaine for a moment and then away, coloring slightly. Someone changed the subject, but Gwaine was silent, thinking.

Somer’s explanation of sovereignty shed some more light on Raynelle’s reaction to him. He had assumed her anger was based on her indignation that Camelot was ignoring Somer’s right to Inglewood. But now he realized that at least part of it was probably at Gwaine’s whole manner.

He had never stopped to ask who was left in Sir Gromer’s family, had never considered how a widow or daughters might react to his sudden appearance. If not for her brother, Raynelle would have been robbed of sovereignty twice: her father’s lands would have been forcibly taken from her guardianship by the King and the laws of the land, and Gwaine’s thoughtless behavior took from her the right to invite him to Inglewood or deny him—the right to do as she wished in what should have been her own house, in her own lands. Gwaine found himself suddenly very uncomfortable—not for his own behavior, but for how the law automatically passed lands from father to son or from knight to knight, ignoring daughters and widows who should have had equal rights to hold the land. He was a knight, not a legislator—but what kind of knight would he be if he ignored the claims of women? He had condemned men for not taking care of women, who had always been of special concern to him in his long years of wandering and knight-errantry. He wondered what action duty called him to now.

Somer noticed his uncharacteristic silence. When the group in the Hall broke up, he asked, “What is bothering you?”

Gwaine rubbed his forehead. “When I was young, all I wanted was to be a good knight. Like my father.” Somer looked at him in surprise, but he didn’t notice. “Now that I am a knight… I want to be more than that. I’ve seen men who were ‘good knights’—men who followed orders, managed their land, cared for their servants…” He looked up at Somer. “But we could be more. We have influence, money. I don’t want to be just a good knight. I want to be a good man.” He realized how unusually serious he sounded and gave a slight chuckle. “But I don’t know where to start. The problems are so big, and how much influence can one man have?”

Somer was watching him with a curious expression on his face. After a long moment, he said, “I’ve heard second-hand stories, even since I arrived, of your adventures before you came to Camelot. I’m sure many of them are apocryphal,” he added quickly as Gwaine laughed, “especially the one about you taking on a three-headed giant! But if even half of the stories of you rescuing women from bandits and tavern-keepers from gangs of thugs are true, then I think you were already a good man before you were a knight. You just have more opportunities to be one now.”

Gwaine unexpectedly found himself unable to speak. So he clapped Somer on the arm with a shaky smile, and they both headed in the direction of their quarters.

000

An hour later, Gwaine stood in his room, staring out the window at the rain and the occasional servant dashing across the courtyard. He had heard from Elyan that morning that a stablehand who worked for the King had died suddenly a few days before, leaving an old widowed mother. Elyan had mentioned that Arthur would likely pay her a pension, but Gwaine wondered how much it would cover. What about funeral expenses? And all the things her son had surely done around the house that she would now have to pay for on top of her daily expenses? And he had almost a year’s worth of salary in the chest in the corner: living in Camelot, he had not needed to buy food or lodging, and had only spent money on some nice clothes for special occasions and a few items of comfort.

He went to the chest and counted out a good number of coins, wrapping them up in a bundle. He hesitated, then opened a drawer in the chifforobe and pulled out the ink, pen and parchment that a servant had placed there when he had first taken these rooms, and that he had rarely used. Sitting down at the table, he wrote a note of condolence then paused, sucking on the end of his quill. At last he added, “If I can ever be of any service to you, please do not hesitate to let me know. Sir Gwaine.” With a smile he folded and sealed the note, then strode out into the corridor with the package, looking for a servant to carry it to the town.

Chapter Text

Merlin returned to Gaius’s surgery before dinner. Since there were so many recruits at the castle, most of the staff had been required to serve at table and help in kitchens for the last few weeks, Merlin included. But Arthur had been busy all day, conferring with Leon, so Merlin found some time around sunset to take a short break and tell Gaius about his chance to see into Somer’s room.

“I didn’t see any evidence whatsoever,” Merlin concluded. “But of course, he wouldn’t leave anything lying about.”

Gaius was quiet. “I don’t think Somer does have magic,” he said at last.

“Why do you say that?” Merlin sat down across from him.

“Well, think about it. Arthur seems likely, at least for the present, to follow along with Uther’s laws rather than changing them—he has made no move to legalize the use of magic. Why would Somer be so interested in becoming one of Arthur’s knights if he could just assert his rights legally and claim lordship of Inglewood? But he took Arthur up on his offer to train as a knight without any argument. A warlock would be unlikely to choose to work for a man who executes warlocks.” He smiled at Merlin, tacitly acknowledging the irony of the statement. “We have no evidence whatsoever that Somer has magic. I think you should stop investigating him—it might eventually lead to someone suspecting you.”

Merlin sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I just so hoped...”

“I know.” Gaius nodded. “But we must have patience. If he is hiding something, time will tell. Speaking of which,” he added, “isn’t that the dinner bell I hear?”

“Oops!” Merlin was on his feet and out the door before Gaius could even say goodbye. He laughed a little and returned to his work.

000

No one could help noticing that Pellias was missing from dinner again that night. It was whispered around the Hall that he had left with Lionel. Bors was still there, a little quieter than usual. Otherwise, the dinner conversation was very much as usual. The men were perhaps a little merrier and louder than usual, having escaped training all day.

As the dinner ended, Arthur rose from his chair and the Hall fell silent.

“A few weeks ago, many of you came to Camelot in the hopes of proving yourselves worthy to be called knights,” he said. “You have worked hard and shown strength, skill, and bravery. In a few days’ time, Camelot will hold a knighting ceremony, and the best fighters and most worthy men among you will be recognized as knights of Camelot. I encourage the rest of you to continue training: this does not mean you will never become knights. The following men will be accorded this honor in four days.” The Hall held its breath. “Erec. Kahedin. Sagramor. Somer. Loholt. And Bors. Congratulations to you all.”

There were some cheers and congratulations, and some fallen faces. Bors was wide-eyed with shock; the men around him laughed and clapped him on the back.

“To the new knights!” Lancelot said, rising from his chair and raising his cup.

“To the knights!”

000

“You wanted to speak to me?”

“Ah, Gwaine! Come in.” Arthur gestured to a chair at the table. The morning sun was shining cheerfully in the window of Arthur’s chamber. “I wanted to tell you that Leon and I weren’t just discussing whom to knight yesterday. We were also talking about the defense of the kingdom and what lands require protection. Somer will now be officially recognized as Lord of Inglewood, but there is another estate that needs someone to be responsible for its protection. Caer Ligualid. Its former owner, Sir Meliodas, was wounded by Morgana’s men. He never fully recovered, and died a few weeks ago.

“Caer Ligualid is near our borders—not far from Inglewood, as a matter of fact. It’s a part of the kingdom that needs stronger protection. Sir Meliodas has no sons—I’m sure of it, this time,” he added with a smile. “And I’ve heard that since Sir Meliodas has not been able to do much to protect his lands, there have been problems with bandits in the area, led by a man known as the Carle of Carlisle.” He paused and looked Gwaine in the eye. “I know that you have been… conflicted about taking over land that has belonged to others. But you are needed to get Sir Meliodas’s men into shape and to do something about the Carle. Are you willing to protect Caer Ligualid?”

Gwaine took a deep breath and then nodded. “Yes. It sounds like they need help.”

“Good!” Arthur smiled. “Geoffrey and I will draw up the papers immediately.”

000

Gwaine searched out Leon as soon as he left Arthur’s chambers. He found him at last in the armory, having just come back from patrol.

“Leon, what do you know about Sir Meliodas’s family?” he asked.

“Good morning to you too, Gwaine,” Leon said, faintly amused. “I know he has no sons,” he added, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes, thank you. I mean does he have a widow? Daughters?”

Leon looked more serious. “He has a widow, yes, and at least two daughters—I think a third is married.”

“Thank you.” Gwaine turned to go.

“Don’t forget we having training in an hour.”

Gwaine waved an acknowledgement without turning around.

000

Merlin headed into the armory that afternoon to give Arthur’s things a quick polish. Rounding a corner, he saw a lone figure sitting slumped on a bench. He moved forward silently as his eyes adjusted to the dim light: it was Bors, holding the shield that until recently had been his brother’s.

Merlin stood in indecision for a moment, then walked over and sat down next to him. Bors barely looked up. Merlin waited.

“I still haven’t written to my mother and father about Lionel,” Bors said at last, in a voice so low Merlin could hardly hear him. “If they knew about this, it would break their hearts.” Bors touched the label that crossed the shield and identified the bearer as the firstborn son. “My father was a knight, you know,” he added, looking up at Merlin for the first time. “Sir Ban. He can’t get around very well now.” He turned back to the shield. “He so wanted Lionel to follow in his footsteps. He and Mother both did. They pinned all their hopes on him.” He gave a short laugh, entirely without humor. “Lionel could do no wrong. Maybe that was the problem. They indulged him too much. When I was a kid,” he said in a reminiscent voice, “I used to pull pranks. Letting out the chickens, upsetting things in the larder, things like that. Lionel used to take the blame for it, because we both knew our parents would laugh and call it high spirits if he did it. They weren’t as indulgent with me.”

“Maybe that’s why you turned out so well,” Merlin said with a small smile.

Bors smiled back, but answered, “I’m not so sure I did. I didn’t always approve of the things Lionel did, but I certainly didn’t stop him. I guess I got into the same way of thinking as my parents—whatever Lionel did that was wrong, well, it was because of high spirits. If he was impatient with others’ slowness and weakness, it was because he was so quick and strong himself. It wasn’t until I came here I realized he wasn’t as quick and strong as I thought. It sounds stupid, I know,” he added, looking back up at Merlin, “but our tutors and our trainers took their cue from our parents. Lionel was praised for how quickly he learned, how good he was with the sword. It was only when I started comparing him with the other men here that I realized he wasn’t as good as I’d always thought.”

“But didn’t you spar against him yourself?” Merlin asked. “Couldn’t you tell you were better?”

Bors was looking at the shield again. “He was my brother. I didn’t want to beat him—so I usually didn’t. Our teachers were tough with me, but I think they often let him win, too. It was stupid,” he added, glowering at the shield, as if he were accusing him in their place. “They made him think he could do anything he wanted, that he deserved every privilege—and never taught him how to earn them.

“And now I have to write to my parents and tell them that I’m getting knighted, and Lionel…” He shook his head, and looked up sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

Merlin shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to tell somebody.”

“Yeah. And I can’t talk to the other recr—knights,” he agreed.

“They haven’t been unpleasant to you or anything, have they?”

“Oh, no,” Bors assured him. “In fact, I was paired with Somer today, and he kept giving me pointers. …It was a little annoying, actually,” he admitted, and Merlin laughed. Bors gave a small returning smile—small, but genuine.

“Yes, I’ve found that Somer’s a little…” Merlin gestured.

“Didactic?”

“That’s much nicer than how I was going to put it.”

“But he means well,” Bors said quickly. “And I mean to use everything I can learn from all of them.”

“Just don’t forget,” Merlin said, pointing at him sternly—Bors looked at him in some apprehension—“that you are a knight as much as they are. And I’m sure you’ll be a good one.” He clapped Bors on the shoulder.

Bors smiled. “Thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin grinned back. “I think some of the men are going to take a ride around the Camelot farms soon. You should join them.” He stood up. “Unless you have a really burning desire to watch me polish things.”

Bors laughed. “Not really. A ride sounds like a good idea. And…” he took a deep breath, “maybe when I get back I can write that letter.”

Chapter Text

Three days later, six new men joined the Knights of Camelot. They processed into the Great Hall with their chainmail jingling, their armor shining, and their long crimson capes sweeping the floor. Faleiry had used an extra length of crimson cloth as Somer’s sling that morning. The men all looked very solemn—they even smiled seriously.

Watching their faces, Gwaine remembered his own mixed feelings when Arthur had knighted him and the others in that ruined castle. He had made a joke when he agreed to join Arthur on his crazy, suicidal mission, but he had rarely felt so seriously about anything in his life. From the looks on his new comrades’ faces, they felt the same. That was a good sign, Gwaine thought with a smile.

The feasting lasted all evening, but the next morning found Gwaine up bright and early. Somer found him in his room a couple hours later, staring at a piece of parchment and tapping his quill thoughtfully on his lower lip.

“Writing a love letter?”

Gwaine looked up in surprise, then laughed. “Hardly. Actually, I’d like your opinion on this.” He handed it to Somer.

“Dear Lady Manon…?”

“Geoffrey tells me that’s the name of Sir Meliodas’s widow.” Somer looked at him inquiringly. “Arthur has bestowed Meliodas’s estate, Caer Ligualid, on me. I’m writing to his widow, and I’d like to know what you think of the letter. This is all customary condolences,” he added, waving vaguely toward the first paragraph. “Start… there.”

As Prince Arthur has bestowed Caer Ligualid on me, I thought it best to write to you and assure you that I have no intention of displacing you or any of your daughters who may be living with you. You will always be welcome to remain in the castle, or if you wish you may reside in any of the other available dwellings on the estate. I engage myself to provide you and your daughters with the funds to live in the manner to which you are accustomed, and should any of your daughters marry in future, their dowries will be paid out of the income of the estate.

As to the management of the estate or the castle, I hope that I may soon visit you at Caer Ligualid to discuss what role, if any, you may wish to play in that undertaking, as well as the details of your plans for the future. I look forward to hearing from you soon, and please believe me, Madam, to be

Your obedient servant,
Sir Gwaine of Camelot

“I know it’s a little long and detailed,” Gwaine added hesitantly as Somer reached the end, “but I thought it better to lay to rest any of her major anxieties at once. So what do you think? Will it do?”

Somer swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, it sounds good.” He handed the letter back.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Somer said brightly. “You should send that right away.” Gwaine nodded and began folding it. “Actually, I came to tell you that Sagramor is leaving in a few days.”

“What, already? He gets knighted and then he’s off?”

“It’s almost harvest time. He’s going home to help his family get in the grain.”

“What about you? Does Inglewood need you?”

“Actually, I think I should check on it. After all, I wasn’t home many months from Gaul before I came to Camelot. I need to see how things are going—and how my sister is.”

“At least stay until I get a reply to this,” Gwaine said, waving the letter. “I could use your knowledge of diplomacy. And your arm should be healed by then, too! No need to worry Raynelle by showing up with your arm in a sling, is there?”

Somer grinned. “It takes a lot to alarm her. But I’ll take it as an excuse. I’m not in a hurry to get back to out-of-the-world Inglewood.”

“Let’s go get this to the messenger,” Gwaine said, and they headed out into the corridor. “And I thought you loved Inglewood?”

“Oh, I do. But things are much more exciting here.”

“That’s what you think now. But wait until you have to start doing patrols.”

000

As Gwaine had predicted, Somer’s arm was out of the sling by the time the answer to his letter came from Lady Manon. Its tone was dignified but welcoming—she seemed to appreciate his assurances, and invited him to visit them in a fortnight. So Somer’s diplomatic skills were not needed after all. He repeated his intention to go back to Inglewood in a few days’ time.

“Well, how about we escort you part of the way?” Arthur suggested. They had just finished morning training and a few stragglers were still standing on the field chatting. “We haven’t had any good hunting in awhile. Why don’t we ride with you part of the way, and then we’ll carry on with some hunting? What do you think, Gwaine? Leon?”

“Sounds great,” Gwaine agreed, and Leon nodded.

“How about we take Bors, too?” he added.

“Good idea. Bors!” Arthur waved the young man over. “Care for some hunting?”

Bors lit up. “Sure! Sire,” he added quickly.

“That’s settled, then,” Arthur nodded. “The four of us will have a hunt in three days’ time and see you on your way to Inglewood.”

000

Of course, “the four of us” really meant “the four of us and Merlin.” Not that Merlin minded having a day away from chores to ride through the forest, watching everyone else do the hard work. It was the fact that Arthur didn’t seem to realize he couldn’t do chores in the castle while he was accompanying him on a hunt. So there was just as much to do when he got back and less time to do it in. Nonetheless, he told himself as he stood near the horses waiting for the hunters, he was going to enjoy the hunt while he was on it.

And it was a perfect day for a hunt. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The knights were all in a good mood, laughing and joking as they rode into the forest, carrying crossbows. Somer’s horse was loaded with his armor and his belongings, his black and white shield and his bow and quiver on top of it all.

They finally came to the place that had been designated as the parting of ways.

“You’ll be back as soon as you can, I hope?” Arthur said.

“As soon as my duties at Inglewood permit,” Somer answered quietly.

“Well, good journey to you, and I hope you find everyone at Inglewood well!”

“Thank you, Sire.”

Gwaine rode up beside him and took his arm in a firm clasp. “Don’t be a stranger. My regards to Raynelle.”

Somer nodded. “Good luck with Lady Manon,” he returned with a smile. “So long,” he added to the rest of the group and waved. They bid him farewell and watched as he disappeared into the forest.

“Well, shall we?” Arthur said at last, and they turned aside and began to look more carefully for signs of their quarry.

Soon Arthur and Leon spotted some droppings and hoofprints, and silence fell over the group. They moved more slowly, their path more circuitous than it had been. At last Arthur gestured for them to dismount and continue on foot. Arthur led the way and Merlin, as usual, brought up the rear.

The five of them crept slowly forward, keeping low and trying to make as little noise and disturbance as possible. Arthur paused, examining the tracks, then began giving the knights orders through silent gesture. Suddenly Merlin raised his head and looked around: there was a rustling noise coming from behind them which only he, at the back of the group, seemed to have heard. He took an unregarded step backward, and stepped on a twig. It snapped loudly.

“Merlin!” Arthur turned around to whisper in exasperation. “Could you keep it down?”

“Look out!” Merlin cried, and a figure sprang out of the underbrush, catching the distracted Arthur off guard and knocking the crossbow out of his hands. In a moment, men seemed to spring up around them almost out of nowhere. Gwaine and Leon both managed to get off a shot: Gwaine hit one of the attackers in the shoulder, and Leon missed. But they had no time to reload the crossbows, and they and Bors were quickly disarmed. Their attackers, a group of a dozen or so ruffians, were armed with swords. Nonetheless, the knights tried to fight back with their fists—until one of the ruffians shouted, and they turned to see that Bors and Merlin had been caught, and their attackers were holding swords to their throats. The remaining three knights raised their hands in surrender, and the ruffians forced them to their knees.

Arthur tried for diplomacy. “We don’t have any quarrel with you,” he said calmly. “And we’re not carrying any money. Our horses are tied up nearby—take them and let us go.”

“It is our employer who has a quarrel with you,” one of the men answered.

“Your employer?” Arthur stared up at him. “Who?”

“Me, your highness,” a voice said. They looked up to see Lionel step out of the trees, with Pellias behind him. “I have a grievous quarrel with you.”

Chapter Text

“Lionel!” Bors looked horrified. “What are you doing?”

“Proving my worth as a knight,” he said, glaring at Arthur.

Leon snorted. “You prove your worth by betraying your prince?”

Lionel ignored him. “Arthur impugned my ability as a fighter. He accused me of a crime, simply because I fought on—as any man of courage would do in battle. I disdained his rules, rules that turned combat into a little girls’ game, and he steals my rights as firstborn son of Sir Ban of Benwick. And then he knights that freak and his mouthy friend! It is Arthur’s worth that should be questioned—his fitness to rule Camelot! He’s as crazy as his father!”

Leon put his hand on Arthur’s arm, but it was unnecessary—Arthur plainly knew as well as any of them that they were outnumbered, and unless their captors could be taken by surprise, they had no chance against a dozen armed thieves-for-hire. He watched Lionel, frowning silently.

“How do you know all this?” Bors asked. “They were knighted after you left Camelot.”

“And how did you know the Prince would be riding this way?” Gwaine added.

“Servants don’t think there’s any harm in talking to strangers at the tavern,” Lionel answered, gesturing to one of the men, who looked vaguely familiar to Gwaine. “Especially when they’ve had a few drinks. Oh, you haven’t been properly introduced to Pellias’s men yet, have you?”

Pellias gave a small smile. Gwaine felt sure that Lionel wasn’t smart enough to pull all this off on his own. The planning must have been Pellias’s. Lionel was only his tool.

Bors voiced the question that was on his mind: “What are you planning to do?”

“To you?” Lionel said, looking at him for the first time. “Nothing. But to Arthur—that’s another story.”

But his expression was uncertain. Gwaine didn’t think he had actually thought that far. Catch Arthur, pay him back, regain reputation—that seemed to have been the extent of Lionel’s thinking. So what was Pellias planning?

They didn’t have to wait long to find out. Pellias nodded to the men, and they raised their swords over their captives —and one placed his blade at Lionel’s throat.

“Pellias!” Lionel said in a strangled voice. “What—why—”

“Because I can never be welcomed back to Camelot unless it’s clear that someone else murdered Prince Arthur and his companions. I’ll go back and tell them you and your followers did it—and that I killed you for it. And they will discover your body and know that I am a man loyal to Camelot, a man who only left to try to stop you from committing this heinous deed. It won’t be my fault that I arrived just a few minutes too late.

“And back in Camelot, the Prince Regent will be dead, his loyal second-in-command will be dead—who will assume the throne? There will be chaos, and in-fighting, and I will have my chance to rise. As a knight, with a body of loyal men,” he indicated the ruffians, “I will have power that the other knights do not have. Which among Percival, Lancelot, Elyan, has a retinue? I give myself five years at the most before I have the throne.”

“They will see through you,” Arthur said desperately. “And my uncle Agravaine—”

“Will meet with a sad accident on his way to visit his mad, bereaved brother-in-law,” Pellias said dispassionately. “Goodbye, Arthur Pendragon. Men,” he added, raising his hand. They shuffled into position to deliver the killing blows and waited for the signal. Gwaine set his jaw.

Then two things happened simultaneously. A large limb to the east of their position broke off the tree with a loud cracking noise. And Pellias’s eyes widened. Bloody froth flowed over his lips, and he slumped to the ground—an arrow sticking out of the back of his head.

Arthur didn’t wait for the men to recover from their confusion. He headbutted the ruffian nearest him and grabbed his sword as the man fell. Another three arrows flew into the clearing from the south in quick succession, striking more of Pellias’s men. The knights followed Arthur’s lead. Gwaine dodged a swipe of the sword and punched one of the men in the head, grabbing his sword. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man flying backwards, striking a tree and crumpling to the ground. But who had thrown him? Percival wasn’t there, and who else had the strength to throw someone like that?

“Gwaine!” a familiar voice shouted, and he looked up to see Somer running toward him, bow in hand and his sword at his side. But he looked different than he had when he had parted with them, only an hour ago—

Somer paused in his forward movement and loosed an arrow. It flew past Gwaine’s ear and buried itself in one of the ruffians with a dull thump. The man fell to the ground mere feet away from him, and Gwaine shook himself free of his tangled thoughts and swung into action. In a moment he heard Somer take up his place, fighting back-to-back with him, just as he had in the mêlée. They slashed and parried, and in a few minutes the ruffians all lay dead, except for two, who realized which way the wind was blowing and escaped on foot. The knights all stared at one another, panting. Merlin stepped out from behind a tree—Arthur grinned at him, too relieved at their victory even to tease him for staying out of the fight.

“Lucky that tree branch fell when it did,” he said, sheathing his sword. “And Somer! Thank you for coming to our aid…” He trailed off, staring at him.

Gwaine turned to look at Somer, and frowned in surprise. It was definitely the same person he had trained beside for the last few weeks, the same person he had defended in the mêlée, the same whose opinion he had asked of the letter he had written to Lady Manon. But it was not Somer. The brows were less thick, the beard and mustache gone, and without them the face, which was now rather white and stern, seemed completely transformed. And very familiar.

“Raynelle,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

The whole group was silent for a long moment, all staring at her. “You’re Raynelle of Inglewood,” Arthur said at last. “You impersonated your brother?”

“I have no brother,” Raynelle answered. Gwaine resisted the urge to shake himself—the voice was still Somer’s to him. “I had an uncle named Somer. But I was an only child.”

Arthur’s face was stern. “You lied. To get Inglewood.”

“I lied to keep Inglewood,” Raynelle said firmly, though her face was still white.

“According to law, you never owned it.”

“Then the law is wrong.”

Arthur shifted his weight and glanced away—whether he was holding his temper in check or thinking, Gwaine couldn’t tell.

“The lord of Inglewood must care for the land and the people,” Raynelle continued. “I grew up in Inglewood. How well do you think a stranger would understand those forests? I know the people—have known them since childhood, and they know and love me. Inglewood needs someone who can defend the people at need, and you need someone who can defend your border. I can do that.” She gave a humorless laugh. “You knighted me, after all.”

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Gwaine turned to face him, remaining by Raynelle’s side. “She’s right, Sire. It doesn’t matter if Sir Somer is a man or a woman: he—she—is still our comrade. And she came back to help us, not only at the risk of her life, but at the risk of the thing she wanted most: lordship of Inglewood. She may have lied about her sex, but she was faithful. She defended her prince and her fellow knights.”

Arthur leaned on his sword and stared at the ground for a long moment. Then he looked up at Leon, who gave a slight nod.

“On our return to Camelot, I will make a visit to Geoffrey and tell him to fix the records,” he said at last. Raynelle clenched her teeth. “The rightful lord of Inglewood—is a woman.”

Raynelle frowned in momentary surprise, and the other knights all stared at Arthur. Then Gwaine laughed, breaking the silence, and clapped her on the back.

Her face relaxed into a smile. “Thank you, your highness.”

“But what are we supposed to call you now?” he answered teasingly. “Dame Somer?”

“If you don’t mind, Sire,” she answered with a small smile, “I think I’d prefer Sir Raynelle.”

Arthur gave his lopsided grin and nodded. “Sir Raynelle it is. Knight of Camelot and Lady of Inglewood suo jure.”

“Sire,” Bors’ voice came from the side of the clearing, near a few of the bodies of their foes. “I believe my brother is only playing dead.”

There was a flurry of leaves and Lionel leapt from the ground, dashing off into the forest.

Raynelle had an arrow on the string immediately. “Sire?”

“No.” Arthur waved her off as Lionel disappeared among the trees. “He was deceived by Pellias. I hope he has learned his lesson.” He looked at Bors. “Do you want to go after him? You could tell him… no one from Camelot would ever come looking for him in Benwick.”

Bors looked down at the ground, thinking. “No,” he said at last. “If he returns home, our father and mother will soon convince him he did no wrong. Maybe if he leaves the lesson will stick.” He swallowed, then lifted his head. “I hope he can start a wiser life elsewhere.”

Arthur nodded, and clapped his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “And on that note, we should probably return to Camelot. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve had enough hunting—or being hunted—for one day. We can send some men out to bury the dead.”

“Raynelle, you’re not leaving?” Gwaine said as she headed in the opposite direction. “You can’t leave us in this suspense!”

“Suspense?” She raised her eyebrows.

“About how you knew to come rescue us. And more importantly, how you turned yourself into Somer of Inglewood! You can’t just go home now.”

She glanced at the others. “Certainly not,” Leon agreed.

“Besides, it’s too late in the day to start your journey now,” Gwaine wheedled. “A day or two can make no difference!”

She laughed. “Well, if you twist my arm! But I’ll have to go fetch my horse.”

“Let us get ours, and we’ll come with you,” Arthur said.

000

On the way back she told them what had happened when they had parted ways that morning.

“I finally got far enough away that I thought it would be safe to stop and take off the false beard and eyebrows. I had only gotten that far when I thought I heard something a short distance away through the trees. So I hitched my horse to a tree, grabbed my bow, and went to investigate. When I saw Pellias and Lionel will that group of men, I was sure they were up to no good. So I followed them.”

“Why did you wait so long to interfere?” Bors asked.

“Well, at first I wasn’t close enough to,” Raynelle answered. “And then when I was within bowshot—and earshot—I didn’t know what they were planning to do with you. I had to pick the opportune moment, when the men would be distracted enough that you could fight back. Then Pellias took over and it quickly became clear the perfect moment wasn’t going to come. So I shot him. Luckily for all of you, that tree branch fell at the same time. It seems someone besides me was looking out for you!”

“Merlin, you’re very quiet,” Leon observed. “Saddle sore again?”

Merlin blushed. “No, I was just wondering—did Gaius know? That you were a woman?”

“I told him. After I was wounded in the mêlée. He wanted me to take off my arming jacket and my shirt so he could more easily tend to my upper arm. So I told him why I couldn’t do that—at least, not in a tent, where anybody might walk in. He didn’t like keeping the secret,” she added, turning to Arthur, “but when I asked him to, he agreed, saying that secrecy fell under the Hippocratic Oath.”

“So he was the only one who knew?” Leon asked.

“Faleiry…” Gwaine said slowly.

Raynelle grinned. “Yes. Gaius recommended her—he said she was trustworthy.” The others looked confused. “She helped me while I was recovering. It’s a little difficult to bind your breasts when you’ve only got the use of one arm,” she explained with a laugh.

Other than the time he had had to admit that he had sneaked out of Camelot in a dress, Gwaine had never seen Leon blush before.

Chapter Text

“So you came up with the story about your brother on the spot!” Arthur exclaimed. They were all dining in the Great Hall, and the room was unusually quiet—everyone seated near Arthur and Raynelle was straining to hear. Even the servants were finding excuses to linger near the head table.

Raynelle had made quite a stir when she reappeared in Camelot, sans beard, that afternoon, and even more when she had appeared for dinner, dressed in her customary chainmail and cape as a Knight of Camelot, but without any attempt to disguise her gender. The news had spread through even the lower town like wildfire—Merlin had reported that on an errand there for Gaius, no fewer than five people had asked him if it was true that Sir Somer was a woman. One had asked him if Raynelle had been cursed to appear in a man’s form.

“What did you think broke the curse?” Merlin had asked, after disabusing the woman’s mind of the notion.

“Why, a promise of marriage from Sir Gwaine,” the woman had answered, starry-eyed.

Gwaine laughed heartily at the story. “Yes, I go around asking my comrades to marry me every day,” he agreed.

“Somer’s a homewrecker,” Elyan added. “Gwaine asked me first.” Percival and Leon laughed until the rafters rang.

Everyone was having some trouble remembering to call her Sir Raynelle instead of Sir Somer, and several times even Gwaine accidentally called her “him.”

Now he was listening intently as she answered Arthur’s questions. “Yes, right off the top of my head. I think fast when I’m angry—it’s how I used to get into so many scrapes when I was a child.”

Arthur leaned forward. “Gwaine, I seem to remember that I suggested she might have invented her brother.”

Gwaine acknowledged it with good grace. He remembered that conversation with Arthur well. He had thought at the time that Raynelle’s anger had been that of someone who had been wronged. Now he realized that her indignation was not because she knew her brother had a right to his land under the law, but because she knew she didn’t—and only because she was born a woman.

“But Gwyn knew all about Somer,” Gwaine pointed out.

Raynelle laughed. “Because I told him! When I located your horse and took it to his hut, I told him the whole story. For once he didn’t scold me for getting myself into trouble with my wretched temper. We hatched the whole plan between us, then and there. We decided it would be best if Gwaine didn’t see much of me in the daylight—I was to keep my hood up and my face averted, if possible. That way when I showed up in Camelot with a beard, he wouldn’t recognize me. So Gwaine had to stay with Gwyn instead of at the castle. I am sorry about that,” she added, turning back to Gwaine. “We gave you a very cold send-off. And after you had been so apologetic about the—mix-up.”

Gwaine smiled. “I thought you were furious with me.”

“Oh, I was. At first, anyway. Then I realized it wasn’t your fault. Then I was furious at…”—she gestured—“fate. The world.”

“You keep talking about your bad temper,” Lancelot interjected, “but I’ve never seen any signs of it since you’ve been here. You didn’t even lash out at Lionel when he cheated.”

Raynelle smiled and looked down at her plate. “It’s something I had to work very hard at, believe me. I knew that if I flew off the handle, the chances of my slipping up and giving some sign of who I really was would be much higher. Conquering my temper became part of my training.”

“Your training?”

“In being a man!” Raynelle laughed. “Gwyn taught me how to walk, talk, move like a man. He’s the one who made my fake beard and eyebrows—he’s clever with his hands like that. I already knew how to dance, since I spent a couple of years in Gaul with my mother’s people when I was younger—but I had to make the bow more automatic, and more convincingly masculine. Gwyn also had the captain of the men-at-arms bring my sword-fighting skills up to snuff. I have to admit, even after that I would have had little chance of beating you in that single combat I suggested. But at least then,” she added seriously, “I could say that I had tried, and had been beaten fairly.”

“I have been wondering why you suggested it,” Leon admitted. “You must have known how little chance you had.”

She shrugged. “I figured that if I won Inglewood by combat, it couldn’t be taken from me—even after you found out I was a woman. You would have had to stand by your word. When Sir Gwaine refused, I thought that was it—my chance was lost. But then the option of becoming a knight…” Her eyes sparkled. “It was stupid, probably, since I wouldn’t be able to keep my secret forever. But… the idea attracted me, I have to admit. To learn swordfighting from real experts, to be part of something bigger than the concerns of Inglewood, to have the chance to prove myself as a fighter…” she laughed. “I must sound like a terrible romantic. But I was… restless in Inglewood. I needed something more in my life than harvests and rents and the occasional hunting trip. And this was a chance to have a real adventure for once.”

“Well, since you’ve become a Knight of Camelot, I’m sure you’ll have plenty more,” Arthur said with a grin, and raised his goblet. “To Sir Raynelle!”

“Sir Raynelle!”

000

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her, Merlin, but I gave her my word.”

Gaius and Merlin were sitting in Gaius’s chambers late that evening, after Arthur and the rest of the knights had left the Great Hall and gone to bed.

“It’s alright,” Merlin answered. “You did try to get me off the idea that she had magic.”

“Yes. Although…” Gaius narrowed his eyes. “Did you take a good look at her face without the beard?”

Merlin nodded. “She looks just a little different in the face when she’s wearing it. And she said Gwyn made it.”

“I think perhaps it may have been charmed. Not enough to be very noticeable once one knows the truth, but just enough to look very realistic and to help conceal her identity. It’s so subtle that perhaps even Raynelle hasn’t noticed.”

Merlin smiled grimly. “People don’t notice very much. This afternoon was at least the tenth time I’ve used magic in a fight alongside Arthur, and still no one noticed.”

“You should be thankful for that.”

“I suppose. It does make me wonder about our knights’ abilities of observation. How is it Arthur is able to track deer or his enemies and never notices magic?”

“Maybe because he isn’t looking for it—isn’t expecting it,” Gaius answered. “We only noticed the beard because we were already on the lookout for magic. Whatever Arthur notices, maybe he chalks it up to different causes. Or maybe—he doesn’t want to notice.”

000

There was one thing Arthur had noticed, however, and that was the very grave danger Camelot had been in the day before. He was forced by his father’s indisposition to be both the ruler of Camelot and its military leader, and should something happen to him or he be called away from Camelot for an extended time, the kingdom would be left leaderless.

“I think I will send for my uncle Agravaine,” he said out of the blue to Merlin the next morning. “He has been offering to come, and I’m starting to think it would be a good idea to have him here. His counsel will be useful, and he can have charge of Camelot when I’m called away by other duties.”

“Mm.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘Mm’?”

“Er… It means I’m listening.”

“It sounded disapproving.”

“Why would I disapprove?”

Arthur crossed his arms. “Come on, Merlin. Out with it. What don’t you like about the idea?”

Merlin stood up from where he had been making the bed. “I just think—you should trust your own judgment.” He began fluffing the pillow diffidently. “You may want to make—changes—that members of the older generation wouldn’t care for. I’d hate to see someone persuade you to abandon your own ideas.”

“Oh, well if that’s all it is, don’t worry about it. Agravaine was always a gentle soul—like my mother. I’m sure he won’t persuade me to do anything I don’t want to do.”

Arthur left on the word, and Merlin watched him go, frowning.

000

“I’m sorry you have to go so soon,” Gwaine said.

“I’ve left poor Mabon in charge for too long,” Raynelle answered. They were pacing slowly down the corridor together, Raynelle dressed in traveling clothes. “I wrote and told him when I was planning to arrive—I’ll be a day late as it is. If I wait any longer, he’ll worry.”

“I’m glad you have someone you can trust to take stewardship of Inglewood while you’re gone. We’ll be expecting to see you in Camelot as much as possible.”

Raynelle smiled. “You can count on it. By the way—” She stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you for standing by me yesterday. I was afraid you’d be angry with me for lying to you.”

“I understand why you did,” he answered. “But you kept faith—you put the kingdom’s good before your own. You’re a good knight, Raynelle.” He held out his hand.

“And you, Gwaine,” she said, catching his forearm with a quiet smile, “are a good man.”

Gwaine found himself unable to answer, and they turned and continued on their way.

“You’ll have to save a dance for me when you come back to Camelot,” Gwaine said with a return of his teasing grin as they reached the small group in the courtyard. One of the stablehands was just bringing out Raynelle’s horse, with her things tied on behind the saddle.

She grinned wickedly. “Who’s going to lead, you or me?”

Gwaine paused, then answered, “I’ll leave that up to you.”

Raynelle threw her head back and laughed, then clapped him heartily on the back. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she warned him.

She turned and shook hands with Arthur and Leon, who had come to see her off, and repeated her promise to return.

“And Gwaine,” she added merrily, swinging up into the saddle, “come and visit me at Inglewood on your way home from seeing Lady Manon at Caer Ligualid. I promise, this time you’ll get to sleep inside the castle.”

The knights laughed and made their final farewells, and with a last smile at them and at Gwaine, Raynelle turned her horse and headed out of Camelot.

000

Gwaine was in the orchard, sitting in the branches of an apple tree and swinging his feet in the sunshine. It was summertime, and the apples were still small, green and hard. But there were plenty of them, and Gwaine knew they would make excellent projectiles for throwing at the cows, and when they were bigger, come fall, they would be delicious—crisp and juicy plucked straight off the trees, and sweet in pies with spices bought from the merchants.

Meanwhile, he was being a knight, like his father, taking a perch high in a tree in the darkness to overhear the wicked plots of the king’s enemies. He would warn the king and march out with the army to defeat them, taking on the biggest and strongest himself. He was Sir Gwaine, a loyal knight and true.

The sound of footsteps interrupted his make-believe, and he looked around.

“Gwaine?” a familiar voice said.

“Papa!” Gwaine squealed, dropping out of the tree and hitting the ground running. “Papa, papa! You’re back!”

His father laughed and caught him up, tossing him into the air as Gwaine shrieked with delight. Sir Loth’s warm brown eyes, so like Gwaine’s own, twinkled at his son.

“Did you defeat them, Papa? Did you save the kingdom?”

His father laughed. “Of course we did!” He hugged him tightly. “And I’ve brought back the plunder to prove it. Come on,” he added, setting Gwaine down and taking his hand, “let’s go and surprise your mother.”

Nudging his face deeper into the pillow, Gwaine smiled in his sleep.

The end