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The party from Camelot meets them at the borders, a flutter of red capes, golden dragons, and chainmail. Elswyth watches their approach through the forest, her elder sister touching a hand to her arm to still her. Azenor, as ever, has forgotten about joy and excitement, her face as flat and still as a stagnant pool. But it’s Elswyth’s first journey to another kingdom – her first experience of feasts and rides and dances beyond the confines of her home.
(And yes, she has overheard the whispered conversations about advantageous matches in reference between her sister and the prince, but true love pays no mind to the plans of kings and nobles – Elswyth is keeping an open mind.)
She spots the prince right away, majestic with his golden hair and a confident air. When she’d asked her sister about him, Azenor had given the slightest shrug of her shoulders, a curl of the lip: the same as the rest, Elswyth. Meet one nobleman and you’ve met them all. Elswyth had rolled her eyes, told Azenor that was like saying once you’d read one book, you’d read them all, like saying once you’d eaten one apple, you’d tasted all of them. Azenor had only looked at her colder still.
No, Elswyth, it’s like saying once you’ve read a number of romances, you begin to realise they are all the same, just words and events in different orders. As for apples, they are the same, just in different stages of freshness and rotten, cooked or raw.
Elswyth could have picked that apart, but she’d decided her time was better spent on other things than discussing fruit types with her sister.
When she’d asked her brother about the prince, Leofstan had told her he was a good swordsman, that he’d been a good sparring partner, equal, almost to himself. Wastes too much time though, Leofstan shrugged, on training and correcting his knights. That had given Elswyth a little hope. If all princes and lords were much the same and all apples were equal, at least Arthur sounded at least a little less rotten and brutish than her brother.
Now she’s seen him, she believes it. He looks friendly, turning back to speak to one of his knights, less stiff and boring than some of the men who’ve visited her father over the years, less rough than the men her brother calls his friends. This trip could be the beginning of a story, or, if not that – at least a little interest in the otherwise slow moving river of her life.
Elswyth sits up straighter on her horse and wills the party’s eyes to fall on her first – to skip over the sharp image of sister or the hulking presence of her brother – wills Arthur to look ahead at her. But he’s not looking at any of them.
A man in a shabby coat, no armour, no Camelot red cloak is riding besides him, and they’re exchanging words, a joke, surely, because one moment their scowling at each other, then their breaking back into grins, settling into conversation.
The man looks like a servant, if Elswyth was to guess by his clothes. But he’s riding besides Arthur, as if he too is head of the party, as if he’s – a knight? – a lord? – a brother? – a friend? Half words drift towards them from across the forest, Arthur’s name, used by the man in the shabby coat. An eccentric noble? The strange cousin? Elswyth turns to her sister.
“Who is that, next to Arthur?”
She expects an easy answer, a curt explanation, and her sister certainly opens her mouth to give one, but no words arrive.
“I don’t know,” she says after eventually, and Elswyth is sure there is a ring of disappointment in Azenor’s voice. That makes her smile, at least.
She turns to Leofstan, but he’s checking the daggers on his belt.
And then, the party is in front of them, her brother and sister stepping down from their horses to exchange all the correct greetings: light presses of fingers, firm slapping of hands together, nods of the head. They speak to Arthur first, then to the knights, and then, with carelessness from her brother and careful deliberation from her sister, to the darkhaired man without the cloak.
Elswyth can’t hang back any longer. She steps forward, before she’s forgotten as the sister too young to know a thing. She steps towards Arthur, but he’s distracted, lips pressed together – to stop a laugh? He takes her hand, smiles at her but he’s watching Leofstan shake his friend’s – cousin’s – kinsman’s – hand, as if her brother is doing something amusing, or worse, clever.
Elswyth feels her heart – not sink – no – but shift. Something is awry, not that Leofstan notices. She checks Azenor’s face. Now the greetings are exchanged, her sister looks bored, blank again. Can she not see that something is afoot? But no, Azenor is too busy preparing for the remainder of the ride.
As they head towards Camelot, Elswyth draws up close beside her.
“Well, that was strange, was it not?”
“Was it?”
“Prince Arthur was finding something very amusing.”
“Was he?”
“Yes! And that man –”
But her sister isn’t listening and before she can push, they’re at the city gates, and it’s time to wave to the people, to admire the castle walls, to be lifted down from her horse in a flurry of yet more greetings. All feels friendly, seamless, smooth, exciting. They are led up the steps, and it’s then that she catches the fuming clouds of her brother’s sinking mood. He looks, not murderous, but embarrassed, as if he’d fallen for an easy trick in a medley.
“What is it?” Elswyth whispers, letting her sister take the lead, guided up the steps by King Uther.
“He let me shake hands with the bloody manservant, that’s what,” Leofstan mutters. “They were all laughing at me – did you see?”
Elswyth shakes her head. “The manservant?”
“Shook his hand like a bloody lord. Bet that’s because he remembers how I beat him last time we sparred. Bet that’s because he knows – well, I’ll show him. I’ll – ”
She lets her brother fume on, glances back to see Arthur and – his manservant then – still at the bottom of the steps – and, to her surprise, no one else seems to find this remarkable at all.
This is a different kind of story to the one she was expecting then, Elswyth decides. This is a story with new words, new directions. And, if nothing else, if it all ends terribly or blandly, Elswyth can, for now, delight in her brother’s slighted rage and the knowledge that her sister was, at least just a little bit wrong. She follows them up the steps, a little more spring in her tread than Azenor would ever recommend.
Their father’s loosely spun dreams of a pragmatic match between herself and Arthur dissipate like a cobweb before the welcome feast is over. Azenor had held little hope as it was that any beneficial union between the House of Roskarrek and the Kingdom of Camelot would be formed by tying her hand to Arthur’s, but she hadn’t been able to dismiss it entirely, for who knew what machinations, unspoken agreements, and promises were made behind her back.
Now, seated as she was with the King to her right and the Prince to her left, she was sure this was merely a display of pragmatic kindness on Camelot’s part. Keep Lord Roskarrek on side, a useful barrier between shared enemies, a useful passage to the sea. Hold out a crumb of promise. Lord Roskarrek will peck at it like any feeble-brained bird.
Azenor did not think her father a complete fool. No, he had left that all to her brother. But he was persistently hopeful of blue skies in a week that promised only rain. Much like Elswyth, in fact, who was watching the proceedings, following the words of conversations with painfully rapt attention.
The prince, for his part, seemed half distracted, polite, but more interested in his dinner than in Leofstan’s spiel on his latest victories, Elswyth’s chatter on her new mare, or even Uther’s congratulatory talk about Lord Roskarrek’s recent outing of a peasant for using magic to ensure his crops grew better than his neighbours’. A fine husband Pendragon would make for sure.
She’d told her sister as much, when she’d been making desperate, romance-addled inquiries about the prince. Much like Leofstan, she’d explained, only a different hue, a different style. For her own sake, Azenor hopes Elswyth will find one of the better men, form a union so great that their father will leave Azenor be. Time will tell. For now, Azenor forces herself to make polite replies and take sips of wine to help the evening go down.
By the time they are on the third course, Arthur seems to have taken up a similar tactic. His servant is at his side with something far more often than is necessary, and, it is perhaps the most interesting element of the evening.
The servant is the man from the morning who her sister had asked after, the one who had ridden besides his master, called him an idiot for all, or at least for Elswyth and Azenor, to hear. The man who she had shaken hands with as if he was a lord. No wonder her sister had needed to cover her smile with her handkerchief when he first approached, carrying a jug.
He wore the same jacket as before, but a different neckerchief, rather than the customary dress worn by the other servants. There seemed to be no reasonable explanation for this, but no one questioned it. In fact, everyone – besides Uther, who was opting to ignore him entirely – seemed to like him. From the knights at the tables below to the other servants, to the prince himself, all were friendly with him.
Azenor found herself, much against her will, taking an interest in the dynamic. Words about crops and medleys and tournaments, about trade agreements and the possibility of smugglers and bandits half slipped away, as she took note of the way the servant hovered at Arthur’s shoulder far too often, of how, when he leaned over to replenish still full goblets of wine, he was, in fact holding conversations with Arthur, who seemed quite well practiced in replying without evoking notice, least from his father.
Azenor couldn’t hear the exchanges, and she wasn’t truly listening – what concern of hers was it if Prince Arthur would rather talk to his manservant – but she was half-certain she had the word cabbagehead muttered and the phrase now what would you do if he really was trying to kill me? And the reply take a week off, while you slept off your injuries, I suppose. And then, not sit by my side? Merlin, I’m hurt.
It must be the influence of the wine, she decides, when she finds herself paying too much attention to these going-ons. It is far stronger than she’s used to, for their cellars are being slowly and increasingly watered down, she is certain, by a group of the servants who are selling it off. She has yet to raise this with her father, mostly because it is better for all that he and her brother are less raucous, not matter how much of it they seem to drink. Her head certainly feels slightly more wooly than normal, and she makes herself ask for water instead.
It must be the wine though, why else would she be entertained by listening in to the what she can hear between Arthur and Merlin? Why else would she find herself amused when she watches Merlin snaffle a bread from Arthur’s plate, then go as far as taking a whole leg of chicken?
Perhaps the most remarkable element is that Arthur lets him, switching between mock insult and pretending not to notice.
And then – as they come on to the sweet course, she observes how Arthur eats around a slice of apple tart, and when Merlin comes to collect his plate, indicates towards it with. Not chef’s best, he says and Azenor might have put it down to pompousness if she hadn’t eaten the same meal and known it to be perfectly cooked, crisp but sweet, not at all bitter, not all soggy. She might have put it down to that if not for the delight in Merlin’s eyes as he carries it away.
When they retire for the evening, Elswyth links an arm through hers as they walk back to their rooms. Her sister is excitable again, and Azenor feels her heart drop for her a little. How like her sister to fall in love when there is no hope at all. How like Eslwyth to get carried away, and how predictable that Azenor will be wiping away tears or soothing disappointment,
But then her sister giggles, prods her irritatingly in the side. “You were wrong,” she says. “I’ve never read a story like this one.”
“What are you talking about, Elswyth?”
“Oh, I saw you watching, sister dearest. The prince and his manservant. Oh, Leafy was in a rage earlier when Arthur let him shake Merlin’s hand. I wonder what he’d think if I told him he let him eat that delicious apple tart too! Oh, he’d be livid! But it is so – exciting. And – even better – you,” she prods again, and if Azenor hadn’t been all too aware of her sister’s absolute aversion to the taste of wine, she would have assumed she too was addled. “You, Azenor, were absolutely wrong!”
“About what? Do stop that, Elswyth.”
“You said he was the same as every other prince and noble. That every story is the same. But he’s not. They’re not –”
“Elswyth. He is not about to fall in love with you, you silly girl. Will you –”
“Oh, I know that! But this – might be better. It is so – exciting – to watch.”
Her sister is giddy, she tells herself, but it is, she admits, a little interesting. She settles her shoulders, smooths her dress.
“Keep your voice down. You’re behaving ridiculously.”
Elswyth rolls her eyes as they reach their respective chambers. “Do relax, Azenor. You don’t have to worry now. There won’t be any unwanted match – and we’ll get to go to a dance. And a tournament – ”
“Such joys.”
“And whose favour shall Arthur have, I wonder?” Elswyth’s eyes are sparkling – and for a moment, Azenor does let herself wonder, imagine the scandal, imagine some other secret – but no, she pushes it aside. There are other more pressing matters: it is not her business; it is the stuff of flimsy stories and childish imaginations.
“I am going to rest – you should do the same.”
Her sister looks disappointed, briefly, then takes herself off, far too cheerful at something so simple. It hurts, a little, wondering when it will be pressed out of her, that hope and joy in life. Azenor shakes herself again, but when she does lie down, it is not with all the dread she had been expecting from this visit.
Leofstan doesn’t forget a slight. He might not remember details of cornfields and trade agreements, might forget people’s names or where he left his boots, but slights are like bruises, achy until soothed – the balm, in this case, revenge. Hot-headed, they call him, but revenge doesn’t have to be fiery – it just needs to be taken. Call it restoring the balance of the universe: nothing in that not to be approved of.
So here’s how things stand: Arthur Pendragon let Leofstan Roskarrek shake hands with a servant as if the boy were a nobleman. Arthur Pendragon was laughing at Leofstan Roskarrek behind his back and everyone around them was in on the joke. Leofstan’s honest, good-natured mistake was revealed in front of several of his best men – and to his youngest sister, Elswyth Roskerrak, who is still pathetically amused by it. Leofstan Roskarrek has been fuming ever since, while Arthur Pendragon has hardly bothered to exchange a word with him, let alone offer him even a scrap of respect.
Actions necessary: inflict a similar slight on Arthur Pendragon that has everyone laughing at him.
The obvious choice doesn’t quite work out. Beat him in the upcoming tournament. Fine, but not guaranteed. Leofstan is the best warrior there is but anything can happen on tourney day – a rogue injury, a cheating knight, a faulty weapon – and besides, being known as a good sport is, in the end, more important than being a sore loser. Leofstan knows this. Arthur knows this.
If a romance or the like were likely to bloom between Arthur and either of his sisters, then it would do to make sure it failed, but Azenor couldn’t care less and Elswyth is too young, has, it seems, already changed her mind about the fancy.
He’d have Arthur treat his own servant – Wilf? Alf? Elvan? – like a noble – let the boy have a bit of authority – let everyone see Arthur Pendragon bow to a serving boy – but it doesn’t feel like it will have quite the right – what’s the word – punch.
No, not the right punch at all. Not after he sees the man stop to chat to one of the maids as if she’s an old friend – and certainly not in the way you might talk to someone who warms your bed – not after he sees how the fool knows the stable boys by name – not when, to hammer in the bruise, he lets that Merlin man sit and eat with them while they’re out on their hunting trip, and not one of Camelot’s knights raise a fuss, let alone an eyebrow. Not when Wilf? Ralf? got a plate of food too and stared down at it as if he’d never seen food in the Roskarrek house. Traitor.
Wound for wound then, it won’t work out, would it?
What then? Leofstan taps his fingers on his table. What then would equal the slight?
Leofstan is still drumming out a rhythm on his desk when Elswyth comes by, poking her head into his room like a nosy fox.
“Are you trying to compose, Leafy?”
“No. Why would I be doing that?”
“I could hear you from the corridor. What are you doing then?”
“Planning, Elfy.”
“Your strategy for the tournament? Or how you’ll get your socks on?”
“Neither.”
“Oh?” his sister has entered the room, and wandered over to to the window, and she’s watching the courtyard intently. “Did you know, Merlin only became Arthur’s manservant by accident? He saved Arthur’s life and then King Uther gave him the position as a reward.”
“Some reward. Not even any silver?”
“No, just a position in the Royal house.”
“And hasn’t he made the bloody most of it.”
“I think it’s charming. Well, better than half the stories I’ve read.”
Leofstan goes back to tapping on the table. His sister and her stories – only thing he and Azenor agree on really – she should spend less time dreaming over stupid words and tales. A load of nonsense – nothing ever happens like – he stops tapping. It’s like the idea has been flung unexpectedly at him and he’s raised a hand to catch it with perfect precision.
He smiles. If Arthur wants to treat a servant like a noble, well – how far does that go? Only so far, naturally. Now. What if Leofstan were to stretch it? Show how ridiculous it looks from the outside? Reveal how his silly sister is now reading it like a fable. How it’s not noble or charming, but laughable? Well then. What if it looks as ridiculous as a prince entering a tournament with a gift from his servant as a favour? What if it everyone were to see, all eyes on him, and everyone muttering and whispering and knowing the joke?
“Oi, Elswyth,” he says, smile broadening. “Fancy helping me out with something?”
“No.”
“It will be good. It involves – a little romance, shall we say. A little – getting into places you shouldn’t?”
Elswyth turns.
“It involves the prince and the servant.”
Elswyth comes over, takes a seat before him.
“Tell me more.”
The weather may be damp and cool, but the air is alive with jaunty music and excited chatter, the rush of knights and servants, lords and ladies, traders and visitors, all awaiting the beginning of the tournament. Elswyth can sense the upbeat competitiveness, the friendly tensions between the participants, the anticipation of the crowds who’ve placed casual bets and official wagers.
Somewhere, Leofstan is preparing himself for battle, laughing, surely to himself, certain that he will not only win, but that Arthur Pendragon will be humiliated, as a loser of the tournament and a victim to Leafy’s vengeful machinations. Elswyth is not convinced on either point, but she’s been happy to play her part anyhow.
It had been simple really. She’d gone down to the physician’s chambers, a flutter of innocence and curiosity, peered around at the potions and books and herbs as Gaius talked of sleeping drafts. Her eyes had landed on the neckerchief – she’d have recognised it anywhere – drying by the fire. It had been so, so easy, to slip it beneath her trailing sleeves.
The neckerchief had been missed. Merlin appeared without it at dinner and she’d seen Arthur frown at him, indicating towards his bare neck, and Merlin had shrugged, said something that made Arthur roll his eyes.
Leofstan had been too busy eating to notice this – an obvious flaw in his plan – but Elswyth didn’t see it as such. In fact, it made it all the more exciting.
Her brother had asked her to deliver it with all those “feminine touches”, but Elswyth had wrapped it in a simple cloth, topped it with a bunch of flowers she’d found in the castle grounds, and asked her servant Hildie to deliver it. Leofstan’s idea was to reveal to the prince afterwards what he’s truly been wearing, but that is all beside the point. He will know, and if he chooses to wear it – well, that shall be very interesting indeed.
It is nearly time for the competitors to show themselves to the crowd, nearly time for the tournament to begin. Besides her in the stand, Azenor is flicking her suspicious glances. Elswyth is too happy, too giddy for her sister’s liking but Azenor won’t say a word, because that will draw attention to the fact. And besides, no amount of dagger glances will dull her mood today.
The musicians change pitch, a bright call, and then it is starting. Elswyth cranes forward to watch, waiting for Arthur – and there he is – and – yes, the red, neckerchief is tied round his arm. Elswyth feels the grin spill across her face, spots Leofstan, who is making obvious gestures to her, his face a picture of righteous success, anticipating that future delivery of revenge.
She peers round, back to the tents, and there’s Merlin, a picture of surprised happiness, a twinkling contentment about him, and Arthur, doing his best to look serious, but throwing a glance first back to Merlin, and then towards Elswyth. She gives the smallest of shrugs, adjusts her face into a look of innocence, as if to say, yes, and? Was I wrong?
“Elswyth.” Azenor moves close to her. “Have you been meddling?”
“It was Leofstan’s idea.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“And his intentions?”
“Not this.”
“I see.”
Azenor nods, says no more, but Elswyth is sure, absolutely certain, there is a tug of a smile at her sister’s lips.
Later, at the evening feast, between the celebrations of sportsmanship and Arthur’s win, Leofstan, slightly slurred with too much wine, makes a point of asking Arthur whose lucky favour had brought him his great and unexpected success. Uther too, leans forward, curious.
Arthur looks to Elswyth when he informs them it was delivered without a name, but that he has a good idea where it came from and that he would like to thank them for the lucky turn it brought – and Elswyth sees a future day where she will be sent back to Camelot to try where her sister failed, sees Uther realise the same – knows nothing will come of it.
She also sees the smile that no one else is watching on Merlin’s face, notices the honey oat cakes left on the side of Arthur’s plate, and is quite delighted with how this story has turned out.