Chapter Text
The barracks training ground was a small affair, shielded from the prying eyes of Camelot's court and common folk alike. It was here that Arthur had first learned to swing a sword, and where he still came to practice new moves without fear of being judged.
Now, as the noonday bell rang out across the citadel, he knew he had made the right choice. If news of this got back to his father, there would be questions, and he did not have any of the answers necessary to appease the king's brutal curiosity.
'Why am I doing this?' he muttered to himself. It was no secret that Camelot needed more knights than the nobles could offer, and this was the perfect opportunity to prove that commoners were inferior fighters to anyone else, but neither reason rang true. No, he was doing this because Merlin – his hapless, useless, infuriating manservant – had looked at him with dark blue eyes agleam with hope. Never, in all his days, had Arthur met someone so disgustingly earnest. If it weren't so charming it would be repulsive.
Heaving a sigh, he glared at the man who approached the training field, taking in the armour that fit across his chest and the pale tabard that marked all would-be trainees. The sword in the scabbard upon his hip was plain but functional, a far cry from the ornate and gaudy monstrosities others brought to the ring.
He moved well, too, each footstep firm and confident, but with just the right amount of deference carried in the angle of his shoulders. There was no cock of the walk swagger and no sneer tilted his lips. Dark hair curled around his brow and ears, and serious eyes regarded Arthur solemnly. Yet a glimmer of fire lingered in their depths. Good. A knight was nothing if he did not have some passion and pride in his craft.
'My lord, I thank you for this chance. My name is Lancelot.'
That was not a name he was likely to forget in a hurry, and he felt a glimmer of petty pleasure at mocking it yesterday. He liked to think he was better than that, but there had been something about Merlin's breathless praise of the man that set Arthur's teeth on edge.
'Well met.' He reached out, shaking his hand without thinking. Lords and knights were, of course, entitled to such respect. As a commoner, Lancelot required no such niceties, but the idea of not welcoming this man – one who rose to Arthur's challenge with neither arrogance nor fear – felt like an insult.
'Before we begin, I must emphasise that this is not an official test for knighthood. My father's rules are clear, but when my manservant mentioned your skill with a blade, I wanted to see it for myself. I can offer you no more than this.'
He expected Lancelot to turn away. Many others of Arthur's acquaintance would have done so, dissatisfied at the prospect of putting forth so much effort for so little gain. It was a pleasant surprise when the man unsheathed his sword, raising the blade in salute.
'You honour me, my lord. By what rules do we spar?'
'Last to the count of a hundred against me, if you can. We fight to test skill, not to cause harm or dishonour. Sir Leon will be the judge and let us know when the time is up, should we both still be standing.'
Lancelot turned to offer Leon a bow, and Arthur freed his sword, looping the blade around in a silver arc to loosen his wrist before raising his voice. 'Begin!'
Within no more than a handful of heartbeats, he came to a dazzling realisation: Merlin was right. Lancelot was an excellent fighter, falling victim to none of the grandiose gestures and bold swipes that so many nobles favoured. Sweat trickled down his back as he parried time and again, lunging for openings in Lancelot's defence only to see them vanish before he could make a hit. All the while Lancelot harried him, taking advantage of every minuscule weakness Arthur possessed.
They ebbed and flowed across the practice ring, the clash of their swords echoing around them as they gave and won ground in equal measure. It was the best fight Arthur could recall, and by the time Sir Leon's voice rang out, he was panting hard, stunned by the sheer skill Lancelot put on display. With training and a wider variety of drills under his belt, he could be as good as Arthur.
Probably better, though Gods forbid he utter that out loud, least of all to Merlin.
Lancelot's expression was one of triumph and delight, and Arthur could see reflections of his own joy in those features. 'I do not think I've ever fought anyone more skilled than yourself, my lord,' he gasped, his chest heaving as he reclaimed his breath. From many, it would be shallow flattery, but from this man it sounded as honest as the sun in the sky.
'And you far exceeded my expectations. Come.' Arthur beckoned him over to where Leon waited, a water-skin in each hand. They both swigged greedily, quenching their parched throats. Arthur finished first, propping his sword against a nearby barrel before turning to face Lancelot, looking him over with a critical eye.
He had clearly done all right for himself before he came to Camelot. A stocky frame, well-nourished without giving way to a paunch, suggested he'd survived with neither land nor lord to call his own. Merlin had said nothing of how they met, and Arthur narrowed his eyes as he considered the possibilities. 'Tell me: why do you want to become a knight?'
'It's been my purpose for almost as long as I can remember. My village was attacked by bandits, and I swore to myself I would never stand helpless in the face of tyranny again.'
'A noble sentiment,' Arthur conceded. In truth, it was better than most others he'd heard, which came more down to familial expectation than any sense of calling or duty. 'Which village?'
'Lianham, on the northern border.'
'Oft disputed lands. I'm sorry that Camelot's forces could not protect you.'
Lancelot shook his head, his expression solemn. 'It was in Mercian territory at the time, Sire.'
'That does not render us without blame.' Arthur sighed, hating how, even now, he could not help this young man. 'I'm sorry, Lancelot, that there is not more I can do. You may not have been born a knight. You may not look like one or speak like one, but you fight like one. If it were down to me, that is all that would matter.'
Lancelot's smile dimmed, becoming wry at its edges as he allowed his gaze to drop. 'I understand, my lord. I expected nothing more than this. It was an honour to test my skills against you.'
'An honour I share,' Arthur promised, reaching out to shake his hand once more. His heart languished, heavy, as Lancelot bowed and turned away, slipping out of the training ground and off into the citadel.
Arthur's father had spent many years impressing upon him the differences between the favoured nobles and everyone else, claiming the virtue of the former and embellishing the sins of the latter. Even now, waited on hand and foot, Uther did not see the servants of the castle as people. He could rarely be bothered to recall their names or the circumstances of their existence.
Until recently, Arthur knew he had been just the same. It was not until a loud-mouth boy with big ears had stood up to him in the marketplace that he had begun to question his father's teachings. He still slipped into his old ways of thinking often, but at least now he could see them for what they were: prejudice, plain and simple.
It galled him that he could not fly in the face of Camelot's laws, but it was out of his hands. Being a skilled fighter would never be enough to earn Lancelot his father's mercy, and bringing him to Uther's attention now could well be disastrous.
'A shame,' Sir Leon murmured, his voice kind. 'He would have been a good knight.'
'Better than many who currently call the barracks their home, no doubt.' Arthur sighed, taking up his sword. 'Worse for too much rich food and drink, with little to recommend them.' He shook his head. He may be the prince, but his influence began and ended on the training field.
'Is there nothing you can do?'
Arthur cuffed his knuckles over his brow. 'You know the First Code, Leon, and how my father sticks to it. No, we'll have to search through the nobles' sons and hope we find some half as good as Lancelot.'
He lifted one hand in farewell, striding across the grass and shouldering his way into the armoury. The deserted room gleamed with weapons and chainmail, all placed neat and tidy on racks and stands. He eyed the empty corners, surprised that Merlin seemed to have done as he was told and stayed away. Arthur had instructed him to clean his chambers. He had wanted to see Lancelot by himself, without Merlin's influence in the background.
Besides, he did not like the idea of Merlin cheering on someone other than him. He was Arthur's manservant, after all. His loyalties should be unwavering.
Arthur snorted to himself, making his way out into the corridor and clattering up the stairs, nodding to the guards who stood sentry. He made sure to steer clear of the throne room, lest his father saw him and started asking questions. Servants bobbed curtsies and bows as he passed, heading for his chambers. There were a few candle-marks yet before he had to sit on the council, and he intended to make the most of it by soaking in a long, hot bath.
'Merlin. Get me a –'
Arthur blinked, pausing on the threshold to stare at the copper tub full of water where it steamed softly near the fire. Merlin, he reminded himself, was the worst servant in all of Camelot. Just because he had managed to beautifully anticipate Arthur's needs did nothing to change that. In fact, the rest of his room looked as if it had been ransacked by inept bandits, precisely as he had left it that morning.
'Are you all right, Sire?' Merlin stood by the bed, absently fluffing a pillow with one eyebrow lifted in puzzlement.
'Yes, I'm fine. I thought I told you to clean my rooms.'
'Sorry. I've been busy.'
Most other servants would be bowing and scraping, falling over themselves in their need to apologise. Merlin, on the other hand, sounded unconcerned by his failure to see to his basic duties. The waiting bath, however, forestalled Arthur's irritation. Besides, what could he do, throw Merlin in the stocks again? The punishment barely made an impression, and he had been in them so often that the townsfolk had stopped throwing rotten fruit and started making friends with him instead.
'Help me out of this, will you?' he ordered, gesturing to his armour and holding out his arms to the side, giving Merlin the space he needed to get to work.
He remembered how hesitant he'd been back at the very start, when Uther awarded Merlin the job for saving Arthur's life. Neither of them had been enthused about the decision, and they had made no effort to hide it. Merlin had been clueless, and Arthur had no patience for incompetence.
Except it seemed that Merlin was the exception to that rule.
To his credit, he was a fast study. He knew some squires who struggled for months to remember how to correctly layer armour, but Merlin had managed to get it right within a couple of days. He must have practised, that brow furrowed and those blue eyes intent, going through it all like a knight moving through his drills.
He'd learnt what Arthur deemed to be the most important things. He could suffer through an unmade bed and late breakfasts so long as he had a sharp sword and strong armour to protect him. Besides, Merlin had survived the first, furious month of his servitude, despite Arthur's best efforts to drive him away with ludicrous demands, unfair punishments and curt, casual cruelty. Now, he had to admit they had found a grudging tolerance for one another. Merlin wasn't going anywhere, and Arthur realised he wouldn't want him to.
'How was the fight?'
Arthur sighed in relief as Merlin lifted off the pauldron before giving him a considering look. His curiosity seemed innocent enough, but he was no fool. Just because he'd not caught Merlin near the practice ground didn't mean he had not been peeking, despite Arthur's orders to the contrary. The chaos of his rooms rather backed up that theory, and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
'He was awful.'
'He was not!' Merlin yanked Arthur's tabard off over his head none-too-gently.
'So you were watching.' Arthur jammed his hands on his hips, raising his eyebrows as Merlin spluttered excuses. 'You disobeyed me!'
Merlin wrinkled his nose. 'No!' He shifted his weight, grabbing the hem of the chainmail and pulling it over Arthur's head, pinning his arms briefly by his ears as he did so. 'I might have glanced in on the way to the kitchens, that's all.'
'Hah! I knew it.' He shook his head as Merlin stepped back to grab the privacy screen, arranging it in front of the bath so that he could finish getting undressed. He never asked for it, not even when Merlin first came into his service. When you spent a lot of time around the knights, casual nudity did not turn heads, but Merlin was oddly shy at times, and Arthur didn't argue against it. In a way, it was nice to be out from under the feeling of constant scrutiny that seemed to haunt his every moment: a small sliver of privacy that was utterly his own.
He slid in with a sigh, wincing at the heat's intensity. It was almost too much, but at the same time just right. He did not know what tricks the servants employed to manage such a feat, but in that moment, he could not possibly be more grateful. Only once he was settled did Merlin shift around the screen, pouring another jug of warm water over Arthur's head and reaching for the soap.
'He impressed you.'
Arthur opened his eyes, taking in Merlin's appearance: flushed from the steam and with the fine hairs at his nape starting to twist in the humidity. He kept his eyes turned away as he ran a cloth along Arthur's shoulders and over his back, chasing away the sweat and grime of a hard morning's training. He moved onto his arms, scrubbing with smooth, strong swipes that left Arthur both relaxed and breathless, his eyelids heavy and his body torpid.
'Yes, he did.' He swallowed, trying to pull himself together. This was nothing new, but lately Merlin's assistance in the bath had become less perfunctory and more thorough, as if Arthur were something fine worthy of great care. He couldn't recall any other servant touching him in quite the same way, and it left him almost dizzy.
'You were right,' he croaked, realising Merlin was waiting for him to continue. 'Lancelot's a good warrior. Better than most I've seen this year.'
Emotion flashed across Merlin's face, an odd combination of pride and pain that curved his mouth even as it turned his eyes flat and glassy. 'But you won't make him a knight.'
Arthur sighed, taking the cloth from Merlin's grasp. The first day of his service, he had firmly established the boundary that anything below the water was not his concern. He was capable of bathing himself, after all, and he had never been comfortable with the idea of servants washing him everywhere. Now, he was glad of his own insistence.
'No.' He sat forward; sensing Merlin move away as he finished his toilette. 'I can't. My father's rules have stood firm for longer than I've been alive. Overturning them is impossible. If it were only a matter of his skill with a sword, it would be different, but there's more to it than that.'
'Yeah, because "nobility" makes all the difference.'
'It does!' Arthur sighed, standing up and reaching for the bath-sheet that Merlin had draped over the top of the privacy screen. 'Camelot needs knights who can be trusted to act on their word. Men whose honour has been proven beyond a doubt.'
'Men like Lancelot!'
'Yes! No! Merlin...'
'Are you honestly telling me that he is less noble and honourable than men like Sir Locke and Sir Kirrion? Men who drink themselves sodden, gamble and steal? Men who mess with the serving girls without so much as a by-your-leave?'
'What? I’ve received no such reports!' Arthur protested, stepping back out into the chamber proper. He'd heard no such accusations, but he wondered, with a sinking feeling in his gut, if a servant would dare accuse a knight of such a heinous act.
Merlin clenched his jaw tight enough to make the muscle in his cheek twitch. 'I'm only saying that just because a man is born noble, it doesn't automatically mean he is a man of honour. Many commoners would claim that nobility is more a vice than it is a virtue.'
'And they would be wrong.' Arthur lowered his voice, keen to bring this conversation to an end. 'I'm sorry, Merlin, but my answer remains the same. Lancelot cannot be a knight of Camelot.'
The thud of Arthur's boots hitting the floor echoed around the room, and Merlin all but thrust Arthur's clean clothes into his arms before turning his back. 'If that will be all, my lord?'
'What? No. Merlin, I need you to –!'
The door slammed shut before Arthur could finish, leaving him dripping on the flagstones in uncomfortable solitude.
'Well,' he said to himself, eyeing his tunic with a wry grimace. 'That could have gone better.'