Chapter Text
Silence, pervasive and with an air of petulance, dominates a large, well-appointed bedchamber.
The two men who occupy it, the source of that stubborn, thin-lipped quiet, move around the space, and each other, with an air of deliberate nonchalance. Each appears to be waiting on the other to do something, anything, to relieve the silent stalemate. Neither seems to want to give ground.
It builds, slowly, from mildly annoying, to frustrating and is edging towards festering when one of them finally gives in.
“Arthur?” Merlin asks tightly, voice breaking that stilted calm like cracking ice over a frozen river, as his fingers close around familiar material in the depths of a satchel he’s unpacking. He lifts his hands to draw it out and lets the length of coarse, dusty blue fabric unfurl to the floor. “Why did you bring this?”
Arthur looks over from where he’s examining a complimentary tray of assorted fresh fruits, cheeses and generous pitchers of wine left on the table, and eyes the cloak Merlin is holding up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,”–Merlin explains with some exasperation – “this cloak, Arthur. It’s your sneaking-around-and-getting-into-trouble cloak.”
“My what?” Arthur’s eyes go rather squinty at that.
Merlin sighs. “You only ever wear this when you’re sneaking around, or pretending to be someone else.” He gives the rough homespun cloth a shake of emphasis.
“It’s a cloak, Merlin. I brought it in case I need a cloak.” Arthur says the latter with particular condescension.
“This cloak is trouble. A bad omen.”
That statement earns Merlin both a noisy scoff and a very over-dramatic eye roll.
“Nonsense, Merlin,” Arthur protests, though he sounds as much amused as exasperated. He crosses the room and yanks the cloak from Merlin’s hands. “This,” he says, bunching it up and then giving it a casual toss across the room vaguely in the direction of the open wardrobe, “is just another example of your paranoia about this whole visit.”
Now it’s Merlin’s turn to scoff. “It’s not paranoia, Arthur. We’re in Cenred’s Kingdom. When has that ever ended up well for us?” Far too many dark memories try to surface and he has to force them back down into the depths of his mind with some effort.
“It’s not Cenred’s or even Lot’s Kingdom anymore, Merlin; that’s why we’re here, remember?” He gestures toward the wall-hangings: banners of plummy purple emblazoned with a falcon over crossed swords embroidered in white thread. It’s the sigil of the new ruler of Essetir: King Egfrid. “And don’t forget: this time we were invited.”
Several weeks ago, a messenger had arrived in Camelot bearing the news of King Egfrid’s coronation, accompanied by an invitation to visit the newly made king and discuss a treaty.
Not long after the business with the Cup of Life rumours had trickled out of Essetir that Cenred had been betrayed by Morgause. In the years after, rule of Essetir had fallen to King Lot and though neither he nor Arthur had ever met the man, word of his cruelty spread far and wide. Merlin well remembers what Tristan had said about Lot decorating his walls with the heads of his enemies. Lot’s recent demise is still shrouded in mystery; some suggest assassination, others a battle wound gone sour and still others talk of succumbing to a growing madness.
Merlin’s not entirely sure how Egfrid ended up with the crown; as he understands it from gossip they’ve gathered during their journey, there were several of Lot’s nephews and cousins vying for it, but he can’t help but suspect that Egfrid – a nephew by marriage – was simply the most cunning and brutal of them.
He certainly doesn’t trust the motives behind his inviting the King of Camelot for a state visit, talks of peace treaties notwithstanding.
He’d tried to argue as much with Arthur before they left (raising Arthur’s ire enough that it’s still a sour topic between them) but Arthur felt very strongly that it was important for Camelot to pursue peace with all her neighbours. Despite all of Merlin’s (very well-reasoned, he thought) arguments and protests and not-so-subtle attempts at causing delay (‘losing’ all of Arthur’s formal clothes in a ‘laundry accident’), they’re here now, getting settled in a guest chamber in Egfrid’s keep.
At least they’re speaking again. Even if their discourse is still hemmed in with aggravation.
Merlin makes another dismissive noise: a rather inelegant snort. “I remember that very well, Arthur. I also remember that both the previous rulers of this land were dangerous, evil men. And it’ll be just our luck if this one turns out the same. It was a mistake to come here.”
“So you’ve been saying since before we left,” Arthur grumbles. “Not to mention during the entire journey here,” he adds pointedly. “And remarkably, despite my orders for you to shut up, you’ve managed to point it out several times since we arrived.” Arthur waves his arms around again at his sumptuously appointed guest quarters. “So far, they’ve extended me nothing but the courtesy due a fellow ruler. They’ve even put you up in adjoining servant’s quarters instead of sticking you in some public room, or in the barracks with the knights.” He jabs a finger in Merlin’s direction.
“Oh!” Arthurs blurts out suddenly, and despite the incredulity in Arthur’s tone, Merlin knows he’s being facetious. “But what’s this?” Arthur saunters back over to the table and reaches out towards the tray of cheeses, fruits and wine. He hovers a hand over it, close but not touching, as if there’s some barrier preventing him from doing so. “A welcome gift of refreshments. It must be a devious plot to… oh, I don’t know, murder me through generosity?
“Maybe you could stop looking for plots and deception behind every closed door and do your job!” Arthur grabs a pear and chucks it at Merlin.
Having had more objects thrown at him over his years in Arthur’s employ than he can count, Merlin nimbly dodges the fruit and it hits the far wall with a wet splatter.
“Clean that up,” Arthur orders, and then pointedly focuses his attention on sitting down at the table to his refreshments.
Sometimes – no matter what Arthur might argue – Merlin does know that discretion is the wisest course of action, and he quietly (though not without grumbling under his breath) follows Arthur’s instructions. Deep down, Merlin knows there’s something not right about all this. He’s sensed it from the moment the messenger arrived in Camelot.
And he also knows that some – probably the majority – of Arthur’s current attitude is because he is anxious about this entire endeavour. He’s trusted Merlin’s instincts in the past, and may even want to now, but they’re not necessarily aligned with the best interests of the Kingdom. Peace between the kingdoms is something to strive for. Merlin can’t blame Arthur for putting Camelot first, above even his own safety, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop speaking his mind.
He’ll just have to keep on his guard while they’re here, and not let Arthur out of his sight.
Merlin’s just finished getting all of Arthur’s clothes arranged in the wardrobe and is turning down the sheets on the – once again large and well-appointed – bed, when there’s a polite knock at the door. Merlin looks to Arthur for instruction. He gets a nod and answers it.
A man that was introduced upon their arrival as Gerold, Egfrid’s valet (at their disposal and quite obviously disappointed to see that Arthur has brought his own personal servant along), stands outside.
“Begging your lord’s pardon, but King Egfrid wonders if he is refreshed enough after his travels to meet for a private word before tonight’s banquet.” He leans into the room, ever so slightly, and though he’s addressing the question to Merlin, he’s looking at Arthur.
“I’ll ask him,” Merlin replies pointedly, fighting the urge to glare.
Arthur waves it away with a friendly, “I heard, Merlin.” He inclines his head. “And Gerold, you may tell King Egfrid that I’d be delighted to meet him.”
Gerold’s acknowledgement – too deep to be called a nod, but not quite a bow – is almost formal. His officious and yet toadying manner puts Merlin in mind of both George, the brass-obsessed, stuffy and pompous man who’d filled in as Arthur’s manservant when Merlin had been a captive of Morgana, and of Jonas, Catrina the Troll’s fawning lackey. It’s not a pleasant combination.
“I shall escort you, then, and make your announcement to the King,” Gerold replies crisply.
Arthur lifts a finger. “I’ll be out in just one moment, Gerold.” He smiles as he says it, but Merlin catches Arthur’s cue to close the door.
Gerold sniffs somewhat haughtily, but repeats that exaggerated nod again. “Very well, my lord. I’ll just wait out here.” He backs a step away from the door and Merlin very happily closes it practically in his face.
He hurries to Arthur’s side and keeps his voice low – figuring that Gerold probably has an ear to the door. “What is it, Arthur?” Perhaps Arthur’s finally beginning to share in his suspicions.
Arthur leans in conspiratorially and when he speaks his voice is also hushed. “It’s very important, so listen carefully,”–there’s a pause–“I need you to lay out my good blue tunic, belt and the new jacket for the feast tonight.”
“What?” Merlin asks, genuinely perplexed for a moment, because none of what Arthur just said sounds like him agreeing that he might be in danger and that this trip was a bad idea.
The slap upside the head should really come as no surprise…
“Merlin, pay attention, would you? I need you to do your job.”
Merlin smooths down the hair that Arthur’s light cuff unsettled, but isn’t cowed. “You want me to stay in here while you meet with King Egfrid?”
Arthur stares at him like he’s just coughed up a live toad (it really is quite similar to his expression when they’d watched the Witchfinder do just that). “You’re my manservant, Merlin. There’s absolutely no reason for you to come with me to a private audience with Egfrid. You can stay here and finish unpacking and,” he hurries on before Merlin can protest that he’s already done with that task, “get my clothes ready for the feast. Are we clear?”
When Merlin doesn’t answer immediately Arthur’s eyes narrow and he has to repeat, “Are we clear?” through gritted teeth.
“Fine,” Merlin shoots back irritably. He steps away from Arthur, shouldering past him, and takes a deep, calming breath. When he turns back, Arthur is already heading for the door. “Look,” he says before Arthur can open the door, “just… keep your eyes open, all right?”
When Arthur looks as if he might protest or chide Merlin yet again, it’s his plaintive, “Arthur, please, just be careful,” that stays Arthur’s tongue. His face softens, lines around his narrowed eyes disappearing as they open wider and stare at him for a silent moment. Finally he gives just the barest incline of his head and then leaves the room.
Merlin pointedly ignores the sound of Gerold’s voice carrying in through the door before Arthur closes it behind him.
With nothing else to do except wait for Arthur to return, Merlin lays out Arthur’s dinner clothes on the bed as instructed and then performs a thorough search of the room. He has no idea what he’s looking for, but at least it satisfies his urge to do something to keep Arthur safe.
Despite checking behind wall-hangings and under all the furnishings and even turning all the bedding inside-out, he comes up empty-handed. At least setting it all to rights again kills more time, though when he finishes there’s really nothing else to do but wait… and worry.
Reluctantly, he settles at the table and helps himself to a goblet of wine and some of the fruit and cheese. Everything really is quite good. Whatever Egfrid’s plans, they don’t involve serving their guests substandard fare.
“Maybe I am being paranoid,” he mutters and plucks another grape from the bunch. Before he can pop it in his mouth, the door swings open and Arthur strides in. Merlin watches, curious, while he seems to take extra care when he shuts it and even locks it behind him. Then he walks over to the table slowly, almost reluctant, and stands before Merlin, staring down at him. His mouth is both pursed and trying to frown and deep wrinkles furrow between his brows.
“Arthur?” Merlin asks, when the silence goes on an uncomfortable amount of time, especially given that odd expression.
Like the words are being forced out of him, Arthur says, “I think you may have been… right, Merlin.”
Merlin blinks. “About what?”
“About agreeing to this visit.” He swallows around what is clearly a knot in his throat. “I think Egfrid may be plotting something. In fact, I’m sure of it.” Unburdened by that – apparently awful – admission, Arthur heaves out a sigh and then slumps down into the chair next to Merlin’s. “Go ahead,” he adds with a flip of his hand, “tell me that you told me so.”
“I’m not going to do any such thing,” Merlin says with a dismissive wave of his hands. Belying that, he can’t help but add, “Except that if you had listened to me, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
Something that might be amusement … or even fondness (though Merlin’s probably just seeing what he wants to see) flashes across Arthur’s features. He schools it quickly into very obvious derision. His reply is a predictable, “Shut up, Merlin.”
Merlin’s hands flick towards Arthur again, protesting. “You just said that I could tell you ‘I told you so’.”
“Well, you’ve done that and now you can shut up.”
For as confrontational his words are, his tone is much more resigned. Merlin can tell that Arthur is mostly going through the motions of their usual back-and-forth – telling him to shut up, glaring at him – and that he truly is troubled. Merlin settles back in his chair, forcing his restless hand to the armrests, and gives Arthur a moment to collect his thoughts before he can’t help but ask, “What happened?”
Arthur sighs. “It wasn’t so much anything specific that happened. Nothing untoward, at least; just a rather serious discussion couched in casual words. No, it was more the questions he was asking: who stood in my stead at Camelot while I was away, what combat experience did they have, how was Camelot positioned for troops. Things of that nature.” He frowns heavily as he recounts the conversation. “What troubles me most is that he must’ve known that I’d see it for what it was, and he didn’t seem at all worried how obvious he was being.”
That is troubling. “We should leave here, immediately. Go back to Camelot.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Merlin knows that Arthur is going to disagree.
“No.” Arthur’s head shake is quick and firm. “To leave now would be showing the weakness he’s looking for. He’d have half his army on our heels before we were a mile from the keep.” He scrubs a hand over his face, pushing his fingers into his temples and rubbing hard enough that when his hand falls away there are smudges of pink left in their wake. “Hell, for all I know, he wouldn’t even let us meet up with Gwaine and the rest of the knights.”
“So what do we do then?” If they’re not going to leave, Merlin hopes that Arthur isn’t going to take any foolish chances.
“What we came here for. To try to talk peace.”
Merlin can’t help it when his hands fly off the armrests to spread in a rather flaily way. “He’s not going to honour those talks, Arthur.”
Arthur's whole head rolls along with his eyes. “You think I don’t know that, Merlin? Of course he’s not going to sign any treaty with Camelot. Whatever he’s plotting, I think Egfrid’s banking on my caution. I think he’s hoping I’ll try to slip out during the night so that he’ll be able to spin whatever tale he wants about why I fled, and try to cover up committing flat-out murder.”
Merlin wrinkles his nose and cants his head. He’s not following. “I don’t understand. Why would he need an excuse? If he’s going to try to assassinate you, why not just go ahead with it? Why would he need the subterfuge?”
“Ah, now that’s something I picked up from him while he was asking his own questions.” Arthur’s expression suddenly goes almost gleeful. He’s clearly quite pleased with himself. “I don’t think his position on the throne is as secure as he’d like us to think it is. There were some specific questions he asked about how I dealt with challenges to my claim to the throne and the like that clued me in. I get the distinct impression he muscled his way onto the throne, but that a large faction of the populace, and even his own court, are unhappy about it.
“If he were to have me murdered outright, it would mean war with Camelot. A war he cannot win. He knows this. And his people wouldn’t stand for it.” Arthur lifts a finger, pointing it toward Merlin. “However, if I were to do something that provokes attack... And honestly, all of us sneaking out of the kingdom, or leaving on some flimsy excuse, could easily be explained away as subterfuge or betrayal.”
It’s still not coming together for Merlin. He asks, “If that’s the case, then why do you think we’re in trouble? Why would he want to have you killed?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Arthur replies, though not unkindly. When Merlin shakes his head, he explains. “If he can bully me into sneaking out, or force my hand in some way, then it would mean a huge boost in his favour. Assassinating the King of Camelot and starting a war would be bad. Defeating the treacherous King of Camelot and rallying his kingdom to defend itself could only be seen favourably.”
Merlin slumps back into his chair again with a heavy sigh. This is so much more convoluted than he was expecting. He’d anticipated trouble, yes, but not such a snarl surrounding it. “Well that’s just wonderful,” he bites out. “No matter what we do, he’s going to try to find a way to force you to do whatever he needs to give him that excuse.”
Oddly, Arthur just smiles at that. “He’s not going to find that way, Merlin. I’m going to be on my best behaviour. I’m not going to let him provoke me.”
“Um, you do have a bit of a temper sometimes, Arthur,” Merlin suggests tentatively. “What if he goads you into it? Remember the unicorn? The curse and the trials?”
The smile goes a bit self-deprecating. “I think I’ve grown past the days when a man could prod me to lashing out just by saying nasty things.”
Merlin just lifts an eyebrow pointedly.
Arthur scowls. “Well, anyone except you.”
“Seriously, Arthur,” Merlin is forced to press. He knows there are a couple of topics that are guaranteed to raise Arthur’s ire.
When Arthur nods, Merlin pushes harder. “What if he talks of your father?”
Arthur lifts his chin. “I’ve made my peace with all of that. There’s nothing he could say that would cause me to react.”
Merlin swallows, but again he forces himself to say, “And what… what about Gwen?” The name is tremulous on his tongue and he braces for a reaction.
This time Arthur forces a swallow. Merlin watches the long line of his throat and can’t bring himself to look back up to meet Arthur’s eyes.
There’s a long pause, but Arthur’s voice is even when he replies, “I’ve made my peace with that as well. Gwen and I are both better off. No matter what he says, I’ll not respond. If he should cast aspersion on her honour, of course I’ll disagree, but I won’t challenge the man over it.”
Merlin’s gaze flicks up. He’s expecting fury, and is surprised by how level, how calm, Arthur looks. “That’s… good,” he manages after a moment, the words somewhat breathless.
They stare at each other in silence for several long seconds.
Arthur drops his gaze to shake his head, again giving that faintly self-mocking grin. “I don’t doubt I’m in for quite the challenge these next few days, Merlin. But we’ve weathered worse, I’m sure.” He looks up again. “Just be sure you remain on your best behaviour as well.”
Merlin nods dutifully.
“And we’ll need to get word to the Knights.” His grin goes sideward. “Especially Gwaine. They’ll be at the banquet tonight and…”
He doesn’t need to finish that statement.
“I’ll speak to Gwaine straight away and have him spread the word to the others. They’re to limit their cups, and not accept challenges,”–he grins a bit wickedly–“or offers of any kind.” Arthur’s answering grin tells him they’re both remembering a recent incident with Gwaine and a visiting noble’s daughter. Though, Gwaine had probably been more disgruntled over the whole scene than even her father when she’d revealed her parentage. He still isn’t that fond of nobles (Arthur notwithstanding).
“Speaking of the banquet,” Arthur says, pushing himself away from the table. “I’d best get ready.” He retrieves the tunic, jacket and belt that Merlin had laid out on the bed and carries them over to the privacy screen. There’s the sound of metal clanging softly on the floor. The buckle of Arthur’s belt. The softer slap of cloth follows. Arthur’s tunic. He continues talking, his words occasionally muffled as he changes clothes. “While we’re there, Merlin, I want you to come over to fill my cup often. Now, obviously I won’t be drinking to excess, but we don’t want Egfrid to know that. And as the night wears on, perhaps a cautioning word to me about how much I’m drinking. Nothing insouciant, though.”
Merlin chuckles. “Me, insouciant?”
Arthur’s laugh – low and genuine and echoing strangely behind the folding panels – sends a thrill of warmth through Merlin’s belly. He likes when he can make Arthur laugh, even in the midst of what is (though oddly normal to them) likely to be stress and chaos.
Not to mention that he’s glad he and Arthur seem to be back to their usual selves.
The tension over the decision to journey to Egfrid’s kingdom that’s been hanging between them for the better part of two weeks seems to have melted away under this new shared understanding of the true threat. Arthur didn’t really apologise for not listening to Merlin, but he knows Arthur’s admission of Merlin being right must’ve been a difficult one to make, not to mention letting Merlin get the chance to rub it in, and that’s better than any apology.
“Well,” Arthur says after a moment. “Just try not to do anything that’s going to get you thrown in the stocks, all right?” He steps out from behind the screen and holds his arms out, inviting Merlin’s critique.
“I’ll do my best, Arthur,” Merlin agrees and he gives Arthur a thorough once-over. Which is definitely no hardship; Arthur looks especially good. The tunic is a dark, rich blue and belted at the waist with a strap of black leather that’s adorned with a silver buckle. The jacket over that is dyed black kid-skin and embellished only with simple silver closures.
Merlin had criticised the material when the royal seamstress showed Arthur samples, calling it too delicate-looking, but he was clearly mistaken. It looks sleek and the cut of it suits Arthur’s build particularly well, while the midnight shade of the shirt brings out the blue of his eyes.
He won’t feed Arthur’s ego though, at least without making him work for it. He motions with his finger – circling it in the air – for Arthur to turn around.
Arthur’s lip curls but he complies. “Well?” he asks when he finishes the rotation and is facing Merlin again.
“The dark blue was a good call.” Merlin admits. “As was the black and leather.” He puts a hand to his chin, like there’s something puzzling him, and waits.
“What is it?” Arthur looks down at himself. “Something not right?” He tugs at the bottom edge of the jacket, which pulls it taut over his broad shoulders and chest.
Merlin’s suddenly dry throat clicks as he swallows. “Um.” What was he trying to say? He reins in his drifting thoughts when Arthur clears his throat slightly menacingly. “Oh, just that I think that the only problem is those clothes are too good for the prat wearing them.” He flashes his most irreverent grin.
“Merlin,” Arthur growls. He glances around – likely looking for something that’s in reach to throw – but there’s nothing at hand. “What did I say about being insouciant?”
“Ah, now that was only at the banquet.”
As expected, Arthur rolls his eyes. “Just fetch my cloak and crown, would you?”
Merlin retrieves the cloak – the formal one that Arthur reserves for occasions like this – and helps him don it. He gets it settled evenly over his shoulders before tying off the cord around the clasps. Next he goes to the small wooden chest with the velvet lining to pick up the crown – the smaller, less formal one that he’s willing to carry outside of Camelot – and returns to stand before Arthur with it held in both hands.
“Shall I?” he asks, feeling a sudden weightiness to the moment.
He thinks that the small frown on Arthur’s face as he stares, first down at the golden circlet in Merlin’s hands and then up into Merlin’s eyes, is because he’s feeling that same significance.
Arthur nods finally, and then keeps his head angled slightly forward.
Merlin slowly lifts the crown, which also seems heavier than it should, and places it gingerly on Arthur’s head. He lets his fingers touch Arthur’s hair just a moment, feathering through the fringe when Arthur lifts his chin, before his arms fall back to his sides.
He takes a step back, and then another and looks Arthur over once again. The flashing gold of the crown and the deep crimson of the cloak draped over his shoulders add a formality to his look. “Regal,” he decides. One side of his mouth quirks in a half-smile. “You remind me a bit of your father,” he adds softly. It’s not so much his look, just that he’s so used to Arthur in either his chain mail or a simple tunic, that the more formal attire puts him in mind of the way Uther used to dress.
Luckily, Arthur takes that in the spirit intended. “He always did dress to impress,” Arthur says with a pleased grin. “Bit of a peacock sometimes.”
Merlin likes it very much that Arthur’s willing to share little bits of himself and his memories and can do so without them being clouded by everything that came after.
Before either of them can say anything else, they’re interrupted by a knock.
“I’ll bet that’s Gerold,” Merlin mutters darkly, even as he turns to go to the door. He hears a noise behind him from Arthur that is either a laugh smothered behind a hand, or Arthur’s choking on thin air. The prat.
It is Gerold.
“Good evening.” Gerold says, once again looking past Merlin as if he’s not there. “I’m here to accompany milord to the banquet. And to see to his needs during dinner.”
Before Merlin can even begin to voice his outrage, Arthur speaks over him. “Thank you, Gerold,” he says (far too kindly, in Merlin’s opinion), “but that won’t be necessary. I’ll have Merlin tend me during the feast.”
Gerold frowns, though at Merlin, not Arthur. “But, milord, King Egfrid specifically asked that I…”
Arthur again interrupts, though graciously. “And the offer of your service is very generous indeed, Gerold. But I’ve brought Merlin along with me, and it would be rather silly of me to have had him come all this way and not have him do his job. Besides,” he adds, stepping up behind Merlin and clapping him on the shoulder, “he’s done nothing to earn the evening off and I’m afraid I’d come back from the banquet to find him fast asleep if I don’t put him to work.”
Since he can’t very well argue with a king, Gerold hides his scowl – albeit poorly – and bows his head to Arthur’s decision. “Very well. If you’ll both follow me, then?”
Arthur gives Merlin’s shoulder a little shove, propelling him into step behind Gerold. It’s not necessarily proper – Merlin should be a pace behind Arthur – but he’s not going to let that toadying man any closer to Arthur than necessary. Whatever Egfrid’s planning, Merlin is absolutely sure Gerold is in on it.
There’s no other explanation as to why he’s so frustrated with Merlin being there. Whether he’s meant to just keep an eye on Arthur, or is part of more nefarious plans, Merlin doesn’t know and doesn’t care.
He wracks his brain quickly, trying to think of the ways that Gerold could factor into Egfrid’s plans. If Merlin hadn’t been there, he’d have had unfettered access to Arthur’s guest chambers. Perhaps he was meant to plant something there? Some evidence that could be used to call Arthur’s purpose into question and give Egfrid the excuse he’s looking for to execute him.
Though, Gerold will still have that opportunity during the banquet if Merlin is serving Arthur.
He hangs back just a moment, waiting until Arthur is at his shoulder. He turns enough to catch Arthur’s eye, then inclines his head towards Gerold, who is saying something about the architecture as he leads them down the too-dark hallway (apparently Egfrid doesn’t believe in keeping the all the sconces lit). He lifts an eyebrow significantly.
It’s ridiculously pleasing when Arthur catches his meaning almost immediately. He gives a quick bob of his head and then urges Merlin ahead with a jerk of his chin.
“Gerold,” Arthur begins when there’s a pause in the other man’s stream of meaningless chatter.
“Yes, your Highness?”
“As I’ll have Merlin tending me, I was wondering if I could impose upon your generosity in a different fashion?”
Gerold pauses at that and turns back with a too-eager expression. “Of course, my lord. Anything you require would be my pleasure.”
Merlin champs his teeth down on a growl that tries to crawl up his throat.
“Wonderful,” Arthur booms out. “In that case, if you could see to the needs of my knights during the feast, I would count it a personal favour.”
It’s only through the strongest application of self-control (the kind he exercises when he desperately wants to use magic in some fashion to help Arthur but is unable to do so) that Merlin does not exult in glee at the dark expression that flashes over Gerold’s face.
“Of course, my lord,” Gerold replies stiffly. “It would be my honour.”
“Thank you, Gerold. That’s so kind of you!”
Merlin has to credit Arthur. He sounds absolutely delighted. And a bit vapid, if Merlin’s honest. They all resume walking and once they’ve gone a few more yards down a corridor and are turning a corner, he sneaks a glance back at Arthur.
Who winks at him.
Ahh. So it’s all part of the plan.
Despite all of the build-up and nervous anticipation, the banquet itself begins normally enough. Merlin gets the chance to take Gwaine and Percival aside and explain things to them, getting their word that they’ll share the information (and instructions to be on their best behaviour) with the rest of the knights. He also hints to Gwaine that the man attending them during dinner has King Efgrid’s ear, and that they’ll want to be careful of private conversation. (He may also intimate that Gerold is a smarmy git.)
During the entertainment beforehand – a minstrel troupe who look so nervous Merlin suspects their lives depend on the skill of their performance – Merlin sticks at his place behind Arthur’s chair. He fills Arthur’s cup, or at least tops off the few sips that Arthur takes when he feigns deeper draws, and each time he turns away he uses his magic to remove some of the wine from the pitcher so it’s not a full one he’s exchanging with a passing serving girl.
The feast is as extravagant as Merlin expects. Course after course of exotic foods and free-flowing wine. Egfrid is definitely proving to be the kind of king who uses displays of wealth and excess as a representation of his power.
The king himself also fits the picture Merlin had in his head of the type of man they’d be dealing with.
He’s shorter than Arthur, but broad, and has the look of an older warrior who’s since given up on his training and let himself go to fat. He’s dressed extravagantly, in a purple velvet doublet over a white silken tunic heavy with gold embroidery; the material of the doublet stretches taut over a paunchy belly. His cloak is bright green and trimmed in black fur, and it clashes terribly with the purple. Thick gold rings studded with jewels are set on almost all his fingers, and several heavy chains trailing ornate medallions and pendants hang in ropy strands around his neck.
His crown is the most ostentatious of all: thick burnished gold, ringed with double rows of square-cut sapphire, ruby and emeralds at the base, with tall, wicked-looking points – each set with a grape-sized amethyst cabochon – reaching over a finger’s length above his greying hair.
Egfrid looks like a gaudy game bird next to Arthur’s regal hunting hawk.
He doesn’t speak much, to anyone, during either the entertainment or the feast, though he consumes nearly the amount of wine that Arthur’s pretending to, matching him nearly cup-for-cup. At one point he signals for Gerold and the man nearly upends a pitcher in Percival’s lap in his haste to scurry to his master’s side. They speak softly, Gerold murmuring things into Egfrid’s ear that Merlin can’t make out while Egfrid merely nods and grumbles what may be actual words or just disgruntled noises.
Merlin thinks he overhears Gerold say something about, “the Pendragon King,” though he misses the context or any other surrounding words, so it really tells him nothing. But whatever their whispered conversation, Egfrid doesn’t look at all perturbed when he dismisses Gerold to return to tending the Camelot knights.
It’s after the final course and the plates are picked down to scraps and Merlin is just starting to hope that Arthur will get through this dinner unscathed, that Egfrid finally turns ponderously toward Arthur and – clearly continuing a conversation he was already in the middle of – says, “Ah, but it’s not a difficulty to fill the seat of the man before you when he did a piss- poor job of the thing. Isn’t that true, Pendragon?”
Arthur, who's been nodding politely along at the minor noble seated to his left expounding on the details of some land agreement he’d just brokered, fork tapping listlessly on the table as he twirls it around his fingers, turns to Egfrid and his face goes blank. His restless hand stills and then slides off the table entirely. Merlin glances down to see his fingers are clenched in a fist around the silver utensil.
Arthur recovers quickly though, and he forces what Merlin would call a ‘calculatedly neutral’ expression.
“I’d imagine it would be,” Arthur agrees and then gives the barest… well, Merlin would hesitate to call it a grin. The corner of his mouth is turned up a fraction, but it’s almost closer to the way a wolf just starts to curl its lip as it begins to growl in warning. “I wouldn’t know from experience though, I’m afraid. Whatever our differences, my father was a successful king.”
“Successful?” Egfrid booms out with a hearty, vicious laugh. “The man got himself assassinated. I’d hardly call that the mark of a successful ruler.”
“If staying alive is the measure of success,” Arthur concedes, “then perhaps you’re right. But in that regard, we’re all bound to be failures sooner or later.” The lip curl grows into a grin that shows teeth.
Egfrid laughs again, but there’s menace in it. “Well, he’d have done a better job to arrange your allegiance to a strong ally before he went and got himself killed. A man your age should have a wife and heirs by now.”
He says this all in such a disapproving manner, clearly citing this as some failure on Arthur’s part, that Merlin aches to jump to Arthur’s defence. He was worried about Arthur holding his tongue, but didn’t consider how hard he’d have to clamp down on his own. And it’s not as if Egfrid is married or has children of his own; at least, not that Merlin’s seen. There’s certainly no queen by his side if one does exist.
Arthur glances at him briefly, just a quick, side-eyed gaze, and Merlin feels a moment of panic that he might have muttered that out loud. But Egfrid shows no sign of having heard anything, nor are any of the nobles surrounding both kings (all hanging onto the words of this conversation desperately, like slavering dogs waiting for the scrap bucket to be emptied) looking towards him.
At least Arthur seems to be holding his temper well enough, even if Merlin isn’t doing so well on his behalf (though Merlin is standing close enough that he can see just the barest hint of an angry pink flush touching the back of Arthur’s neck and the tips of his ears). And he can understand why Arthur might find this response a difficult one, since Uther did try to make several arrangements for Arthur’s marriage to better secure his hold on the throne and gain them alliances with neighbouring kingdoms. But Uther died before he could force Arthur into such an arrangement and Arthur was able to follow his heart. At least for a time…
Arthur takes in Egfrid’s words with another gritted smile. “Perhaps you’re right,” he allows. “I admit that I am getting no younger. But I’m sure there will be time for that yet,” he deflects neatly.
“Well,” Egfrid drawls, and from the eager glint in his eye, Merlin knows this is going to be just hateful, and primed to strike Arthur’s weak spot. “The way I hear it, anyway,” he goes on, “you’re a bit busy tumbling serving girls, so I guess I can’t blame you not wanting to be tied down yet.”
Merlin watches with a helpless sinking in his gut as Arthur goes completely still and doesn’t say anything for a moment. Even the soft, casual chatter of the guests around them goes silent. Against that stillness a movement in his lower field of vision catches Merlin’s eye. He flicks his gaze down to see that the fork in Arthur’s hand is now bent nearly in half, its tines twisted, and Arthur’s fingers are so tight around it they’re turning purple.
He has no idea if it will help, but Merlin shuffles forward a pace, just barely bumping into Arthur’s shoulder with his forearm. He wants to remind Arthur that he can do this, that he’s not alone, and that no matter what, he is strong enough to stand up to Egfrid’s barbs. As Merlin’s knuckles press softly into the wrinkled leather over Arthur’s elbow, Arthur’s fingers loosen and the fork drops to the floor with a soft clatter.
Arthur looks away from Egfrid, just for a moment, to look to Merlin with a sharp, “Fetch that, Merlin.”
This is apparently all the break he needs to recover his control, because when he turns back to Egfrid it’s with a laugh. One that doesn’t sound nearly as forced as it should.
“I see rumours have preceded me,” he says, shaking his head ruefully. “Well, I’m sure you know how things get exaggerated. No, I am holding off on affairs of the heart to focus on matters of state, like this treaty.” He nods towards Egfrid. “Seeking peace between the kingdoms through alliances such as this, instead of loveless arrangements between strangers, has always made more sense to me. Though I believe quite strongly that people should follow their hearts, and that is what I hope to do some day. But, until then...” he spreads his hands, letting the end of that statement trail into a silence that could be filled with any number of conclusions.
Egfrid doesn’t seem to know how to interpret that and he’s quiet a long moment. Is Arthur agreeing with him, or baiting him back? Obviously wanting to maintain the illusion that he has the upper hand, Egfrid just lets out that deep roar of a laugh again – sharp-edged and cruel – and shakes his head. “I’ve always heard you Pendragons were a queer sort. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you take to your own… direction in this as well.”
There’s absolutely no subtlety in the way that Egfrid side-eyes Merlin standing so close to Arthur’s shoulder and raises a suggestive brow.
Surprisingly, that just makes Arthur laugh again, even more open and genuine. He ignores the implication and just says, “Well, if that’s the reputation I’ve gained so be it. As long as it’s also for being fair and just, then I’m satisfied.”
Looking a little put out that Arthur isn’t rising to his bait, Egfrid raises two thick fingers and beckons one of his beleaguered servants over to refill his glass. Whether that’s the end of this conversation or not, Merlin figures they’ll find out soon enough, but in the meantime he bends down to pick up the fork. As he does so, he whispers a quiet, “Hælan” over it (it’s a spell he perfected ages ago that helps him get the worst dings and kinks out of Arthur’s armour).
When he sets the utensil back on the table next to Arthur’s hand, it’s flattened back out and perfectly useable. Arthur’s brow goes up in question. “Swiped it off a serving tray,” he murmurs softly, for Arthur’s ears alone, “I’ll swap out the other later.” Arthur nods his acknowledgment, looking quietly pleased.
Fortunately Egfrid seems to be tired of his games, and while he does continue talking with Arthur on-and-off the rest of the evening – occasionally sneaking in little barbs and jabs that Arthur gracefully deflects – most of the discussion is actually related to the reason they’re there. Not directly, of course, because the peace talks aren’t scheduled to actually begin until the next day, but the conversation remains in the political and governing realm instead of personal.
Once a satisfactory amount of time passes, Arthur does actually finish a glass of wine, and when Merlin motions to refill it, Arthur clumsily puts his hand over the mouth of the cup. “No more,” he says. “I think I’ve had enough tonight, Merlin.” He’s definitely starting to slur.
Merlin hopes it’s affectation and not actual effects of the wine.
“Sire,” he says, remembering his instructions from earlier. “May I suggest that I escort you back to your room?”
Arthur blinks up at him blearily and seems to sway a moment before giving a sloppy nod. “Egfrid,” he says overly loud, turning with exaggerated care to face the other king. “If you’ll excuse me. I think it’s time to call the evening done. It was a long journey here, and it’s been a full day since. I’m sure you understand.” He grins toothily. “Not to mention that your wine is both delicious and plentiful.”
Egfrid inclines his head, granting Arthur his approbation. He says only, “Rest well, young Pendragon. We’ve a long day waiting on the morrow.”
Arthur replies with a polite bow in return. “You as well, Egfrid.”
He lets Merlin take his arm to guide him away from the table and then leans rather heavily on him as they make their way out of the banquet hall. Arthur tugs at him as they’re passing the long table where the knights are seated – sharing either side of the table with various members of Egfrid’s court – and Merlin halts them both.
Percival elbows Gwaine (who’s picking through the leavings on the serving trays for more to eat) and they look up to Arthur expectantly. Down the row, the remaining men also turn their attention and lift their heads to their king.
“Sire,” Percival says with an incline of his head. “Calling it a night, then?
Arthur gives a jerky nod. “That I am, Sir Percival. And I think you lads should consider doing the same. We want to be at our best on the field tomorrow.” It’s a warning couched in friendly advice, and from the bobbing heads and echoes of, “Yes, Sire,” one that’s clearly understood.
“Very well.” Arthur jerks his chin once again. “Good night, then.” He turns on a heel and Merlin is forced to scramble to move with him, shouldering a good portion of his weight as they continue their exit.
His steps are just one side of unsteady, but once they’re in a further corridor – out of both eye and earshot of the hall – Arthur takes a deep breath and straightens noticeably; all traces of his apparent inebriation are gone.
“Oh good,” Merlin says softly when Arthur’s arm shifts off him entirely. “I was worried for a moment that you did drink a bit too much.”
Arthur sniffs distastefully. “Even if I had, I can hold my wine better than that, Merlin.”
Merlin allows him that (neglecting to mention a few specific occasions where a drunken Arthur had tried to go wandering around the castle without his trousers). “You’re right, of course. And,” he glances around for prying ears, making sure they’re alone in the corridor and there’s no chance anyone hiding out in a nearby hall or behind a closed door might overhear (he wouldn’t put it past Egfrid), “you did well in there.” He tells this to Arthur with unashamed pride. “It was clear what he was up to, and equally clear that you didn’t let yourself rise to it. That can’t have been easy.”
“Well,” Arthur makes a noncommittal sort of humming noise. “I think that knowing it was coming helped. Had I been caught unaware by some of the things he said?” He shrugs. “I’m not sure I’d have held it together. Although,”–he turns on Merlin with narrowed eyes, as they stop outside the door to Arthur’s guest chamber–“you should’ve watched yourself a bit more, Merlin.”
“What do you mean?” Merlin frowns.
Arthur just shakes his head. “Inside,” he says.
So Merlin waits until they’re back in the room with the door shut – and bolted – and then continues to hold his tongue while he helps Arthur off with the heavy cloak and the crown. He folds the former and lays it in the wardrobe and then returns the crown to its velvet-lined box.
Arthur, meanwhile, has slumped wearily into the same chair he’d sat in earlier.
Merlin locks up the small chest and then goes to join Arthur at the table, taking his former seat as well. He can’t help from blurting out, “What did you mean? About me?”
Arthur lifts a weary brow at him. “You should’ve covered your reactions a bit better in there, Merlin. It does me no good to have my servant look like he’s going to fight my battles for me when I’m insulted.” It’s a chiding, but at least it’s said gently and with appreciation.
Still, Merlin can’t help but splutter, “But, I… didn’t… I.” He tries again. “I wasn’t.”
“You were,” Arthur assures him. “When he made those comments about,”–his voice deepens a fraction–“serving girls. You... Well, let’s just say your expression wasn’t exactly one of indifference.”
Merlin thinks back to that. He remembers feeling disgust and fury on Arthur’s behalf, but he didn’t realize he’d reacted so outwardly. “Sorry, Sire.” He replies, chin dropping, feeling chagrined that for all his fears of Arthur’s behaviour, he hadn’t schooled his own.
Arthur waves it away. “It’s all right, Merlin. It probably does no harm for Egfrid to think I have a very loyal servant.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“And it’s not as if he didn’t already make his insinuations in that area as well,” Arthur adds wearily.
There’s absolutely no way Merlin is going to comment on that. He’d rather hoped Egfrid’s implications had slipped past Arthur in the midst of his other unpleasantness. Looking down at the table top, Merlin turns to safer conversational areas. “So, you’ll be in treaty discussions throughout the day tomorrow, is that right?”
“Yes,” Arthur confirms, and he looks equally relieved to have switched topics. “I’ve got a full day of Egfrid’s company to look forward to tomorrow. Though, I’m hoping the presence of his council will temper him somewhat.” He pauses a moment, then continues on speculatively. “He did also mention a tour of the grounds and some time on the practice field to watch his knights and mine engage in a bit of friendly sparring.” A few more moments of silence pass as Arthur clearly worries over this in light of their knowledge of Egfrid’s plans. “But I’m sure my men will be on their best behaviour,” he adds, assuredly.
Merlin nods. “I’m sure they will, Sire. They did well tonight. I kept my eye on their table. No one looked to be drinking to excess and conversations seemed tame enough. At least no one looked to get angry or too friendly.” He grins, but it falls away quickly as he thinks more on what Arthur’s just said.
A similar there-and-gone smile flashes across Arthur’s lips before he says, “I’ll just have to trust that Egfrid won’t try anything tomorrow against my men. I worry he may view them as expendable. Perhaps even hope that I’ll respond the way he wants if the exhibition dueling goes a little more roughly than planned.” He grimaces.
“Oh!” Merlin hadn’t considered that. He wonders if he’ll be allowed to accompany Arthur. Though hiding it would be difficult, he may be able to use his magic to prevent anyone getting killed. He has to ask. “Will I be allowed to accompany you, do you think? Because I could try to slip away to find Gwaine or one of the others to let them know the danger. Remind them to take extra care.”
Arthur shakes his head. “From the sounds of it, Merlin, I think I’ll be tied up in Egfrid’s company for treaty negotiation and we’ll be heading straight to the practice field after that. I get the impression it’s not a situation where I’ll be able to explain away having my servant trailing my heels.” He turns down his mouth in an awkward sort of frown. “Not at least without getting more of those funny looks.” A quick and not-so-very reassuring smile follows that. “Not to worry, though. I’m sure I can find an excuse to talk to my men beforehand.” He gives a light shrug. “Give them a bit of a pep talk, or something.”
If he’s not going to be able to stick by Arthur’s side – which troubles him greatly – Merlin’s not too sure what his own day is going to entail. “What should I be doing, then?” he asks.
“Well, much as I hate to say it, I don’t really know what to have you do.” Arthur props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his palm. “I’ll be tied up most of the day.” He pivots his chin on his hand to look more squarely at Merlin. “You could always visit the town. See if there’s any more information you can pick up on Egfrid. I’m sure if I’m noticing the discontent in Egfrid’s court, it’s going to be a topic of gossip throughout the kingdom.”
He taps the fingers of his other hand thoughtfully on the table for a moment. “Perhaps if there’s anyone who’s in direct opposition to Egfrid, we may be able to get a word to someone if things start to go south.”
Merlin nods. “I can do that.” He’s also already thinking that maybe if he’s exploring the town and keep, perhaps he’ll find a way to observe the sparring practice between Egfrid’s men and the Camelot knights. Because that does sound like the perfect opportunity to goad Arthur into reacting; and it’s likely Egfrid’s arranged it just for that reason. Killing one of his best men, one of his friends, would definitely push Arthur past the point of reason.
Arthur raises his head back up and scrubs both hands over his face. “I think,” he begins from behind the barrier of his fingers, “that it’s time to call it a night.” He trails his hands through his hair, mussing it delightfully, then stretches both arms out on a jaw-stretching yawn. “C’mon.” He stands and waves at Merlin to rise. “Help me out of this.” He gestures to the jacket. “And then you can go.”
Following Arthur’s weary instructions, Merlin stands and quickly works open the silver clasps. “Are you sure?” he asks as he steps around Arthur’s back, tugging the sleeves down Arthur’s arms and drawing it away entirely. “I could always stay in here, you know.”
Free of the jacket’s encumbrance, Arthur turns to eye him strangely.
“In case…” Well, he really has no good suggestion what ‘in case’ could mean.
And Arthur’s eyebrow seems to indicate that he’s also curious as to where Merlin’s going with that.
“Well, I dunno. I just worry…” He shrugs somewhat helplessly – and awkwardly, considering he’s got the jacket folded over his arms.
“I’ll be fine, Merlin. I’ve got the door locked and I’m sure Egfird isn’t going to try anything more tonight. Unless he already has something planned, which I doubt, the man was well into his cups by the time we left.” He sighs. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but it’s been a very long day. Let’s both get some rest and we’ll see what comes tomorrow.”
Merlin just nods and then carries the jacket over to the wardrobe, laying it neatly on a shelf. “All right, Sire. Do you need anything else before I go?”
Arthur shakes his head. “No.” He lifts a hand vaguely towards the door that leads to Merlin’s adjoined room. “Besides, if I do, you’re just in the next room.”
“Oh, right.” He’d forgotten that he wasn’t going to have to go far. “Right. Well… just shout if you need anything, then.”
Arthur sighs, but it’s a bit of a laugh as well. “I always do. Good night, Merlin.”
“Good night, Sire,” Merlin replies, and heads to his room.
Though he doesn’t quite close the door between them all the way.
The small, closet-like space off Arthur’s sumptuous guest chamber is much less richly appointed. He’d not really inspected the room earlier when he’d set his pack inside, but there’s a bed with a feather-ticked mattress, more than one blanket, and a down-filled pillow. There’s even a small cabinet for his belongings and a small stand with an ewer and basin.
After changing into his night clothes and getting into the – rather comfortable – bed, he expects that he’ll be up for quite some time. But once the noises of Arthur getting settled go quiet and Merlin only hears the sounds of a keep and castle quieting for the night – sounds he’s used to falling asleep to – Merlin feels his eyelids grow heavy. He stops fighting it and gives into sleep.