Work Text:
Arthur knew something had to be horribly wrong when Guinevere burst into his chambers without warning, stumbling towards his desk and exclaiming, “Oh, Arthur!”
Firstly, because Guinevere knew how to be a proper servant—unlike Merlin—and would never enter a nobleman’s chambers without knocking if circumstances weren’t dire. Secondly, because she had called him by his given name, something she only very rarely did (but that Arthur had rather come to like).
“What is it?” he asked, getting up from where he had been studying some maps. “What happened?”
Guinevere came to a stop before his desk, panting for breath. “Arthur,” she repeated, only for a faint flush to creep across her cheeks. “Your Highness,” she amended. “Please, you must come quickly! It’s Merlin.”
Arthur was at the other side of the desk before he knew it, grabbing his doublet off the back of his chair as he went. “What happened?” he asked again, already slipping into the jacket.
“It’s Merlin,” Guinevere repeated, still catching her breath. “He made a mistake. And it was that, sire, I swear, an honest mistake. He didn’t know. The other servants should’ve told him but they—well, it doesn’t matter why they didn’t tell him, but—”
“Guinevere,” Arthur interrupted her babbling and reached out to gently squeeze her arm.
Guinevere’s blush deepened to a lovely shade of dark pink, but she took a deep breath, then said, “Merlin put up mistletoe in the entrance hall.”
Arthur cursed under his breath, mindful of a lady’s ears. “Did Father—?” he added, then stopped himself. “No, of course he saw. That’s why you’re here.” Abruptly, he let go of Guinevere’s arm and made for the door. “Where are they?”
“They were still in the entrance hall when I left to get you,” Guinevere told him, falling into step behind him as they left Arthur’s chambers. “His Majesty was very upset. He was screaming at him, making all sorts of terrible threats…”
“I can imagine,” Arthur replied darkly, and started taking two steps at once as he rushed down the griffin staircase.
As soon as he reached the bottom, he could hear his father’s voice echoing through the hallway. Unsurprisingly, he sounded livid.
“... twoscore with the whip!” he was shouting. “And the stocks right after! That will teach you, you insolent little worm!”
Falling into a sprint, Arthur turned the corner to the entrance hall, instantly assessing the situation like it was a battlefield.
The King was standing in the centre of the room, one hand raised threateningly, his face turned an alarming shade of purple. Before him stood Merlin, whose usual defiance in the face of royalty was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his head was ducked, his eyes glued to his boots, his shoulders hunched. A few steps away, in a half-circle, a couple more servants had gathered, watching the scene with varying degrees of wariness. On the floor, right at Merlin’s feet, lay a trampled garland made of red cloth and mistletoe.
“When I finally let you out, you will scrub every last inch of this castle. You will clean it on your hands and knees, until you’ve learnt your lesson,” the King went on. “I’ll have you working all night if I must. And then—”
“Father,” Arthur interrupted and came to halt right by Merlin’s side. Uther’s glower immediately turned on him and he squared his shoulders, fully prepared to brave his father’s ire.
“Your servant is out of control!” Uther snapped, jabbing his finger in Merlin’s direction, who promptly cringed away.
Arthur took the opportunity to take a surreptitious step to the side, trying to shield Merlin from Uther’s view. “Father,” Arthur said again, aiming for a firm, calming tone. “He didn’t know.”
Uther’s glare didn’t wane in the slightest. “Do you even know what he’s done?” he barked.
“Yes,” Arthur said. “But he didn’t know. He’s only worked here for a few months. This is his first Yule at Camelot.”
“He did it on purpose!” Uther insisted, his eyes narrowing. He was starting to sound a little mad. “There’s something sly about that boy! He did it to provoke me.” His gaze returned to Merlin who, Arthur saw out of the corner of his eye, had started to tremble. “Oh, but I will teach him a lesson he will never forget!” the King went on. “Pain, I think, will surely do the trick—”
“Father, please,” Arthur cut him off again, knowing he was walking the finest of lines between defiance and respect. “You know Merlin’s a bit simple. It was an honest mistake.”
“I don’t care,” Uther snapped. “That boy is in dire need of correction and I shall have him severely punished—”
“I will take care of it,” Arthur spoke over him again. “I will make sure he is punished appropriately. With your permission, sire, of course,” he amended quickly, dipping his head respectfully. “But—Merlin is my servant. My responsibility. It should be me correcting him. Nothing the King himself should be bothering himself with, certainly.”
Uther took a heaving breath at that. But to Arthur’s relief, he seemed to be considering Arthur’s words. “You’ll be too soft on him,” he said at last. “You always are. He’ll get away with a slap to the wrist.”
Arthur was glad to see sanity returning, the deep puce in Uther’s cheeks replaced by a less alarming shade of red. “I won’t,” Arthur promised. “I’ll make sure the lesson sticks this time. He will never so much as look at a single sprig of mistletoe again.”
Uther took another, shuddering breath. Then, abruptly, he took a step backward. “Then see to it,” he commanded. “In a timely fashion. And I want a full report on what is done to correct his behaviour.”
“Yes, sire,” Arthur said and bowed his head again, to appease his father as much as to hide any sign of triumph that might have snuck onto his face.
Uther let out a final huff like a reluctantly tamed beast, then turned on the spot and walked off, his crimson mantle billowing behind him.
Arthur waited several moments to make sure he was out of earshot before turning towards Merlin, who was still trembling faintly.
“Merlin,” Arthur addressed him.
Merlin flinched, which was alarming, to say the least. “Sire?” he croaked timidly—even more disturbing. Arthur could count the times Merlin had called him by his title on two hands.
“Look at me,” Arthur said, far more gently than he ever would have under different circumstances.
For a moment, it looked like Merlin would disobey him, but at last, he raised his head, revealing a face even paler than usual. He wasn’t crying, which was good, but he wasn’t looking at Arthur, either, his gaze settled somewhere on Arthur’s chin. Uther’s anger must have genuinely shaken him.
“Are you all right? Did he set the guards on you?” Arthur asked, lowering his voice as he remembered the group of servants watching nearby. “Do you need Gaius?”
Merlin shook his head.
“Good. Go and wait in my chambers, then,” Arthur said. “Don’t worry. I won’t have you whipped. I just want you out of sight in case my father decides to change his mind about your punishment.”
Finally, Merlin looked at him properly, his eyes shimmering and his expression contrite.
Arthur was surprised just how much he hated seeing him like this. “Go,” he said again, more firmly.
Merlin gave another jerky nod, adding something that was perhaps supposed to be a smile, but ended up a grimace instead. “Yes, sire,” he said and was off, practically running from the hall.
Arthur looked after him, then looked at Guinevere, who had been standing off to the side, and beckoned her close. As she approached, Arthur turned his eyes on the other servants, still standing about, some of them craning their necks to look after Merlin, which didn’t sit right with him.
“What are you lot doing, standing about gawking?” he said, hardening his voice. “Get back to whatever tasks you’ve been given!”
The servants promptly bowed, muttering Yes, sire and Of course, Your Highness as they went back to cleaning and decorating the hall, giving the trampled mistletoe on the ground a wide berth.
“Sire?”
Arthur turned back to Guinevere. “He cut the mistletoe himself, I assume?”
“Yes,” Guinevere confirmed, her eyebrows drawn. “He was gathering herbs for Gaius, I think. I’m sure he thought it would be lovely to have it up in the hall for Yule… but…”
“But,” Arthur agreed, then looked back at the other servants. “Why didn’t any of them say anything? Surely, they must have known it would upset the King.”
Guinevere started chewing on her lower lip and looked at her feet, much like Merlin had done.
“Guinevere,” Arthur prodded softly.
Guinevere fidgeted for a few moments, but eventually revealed, “It’s just—you see that servant over there? On the ladder?”
Arthur followed her gaze to a tall, thin figure with a prominent moustache. Arthur vaguely recognised his face, as he did most servants in the Crown’s employ, though he rarely bothered to learn anyone’s name. “Who is he?”
“Hubert,” said Guinevere, lowering her voice. “He doesn’t like Merlin much, I’m afraid. He’s been making it difficult for him in the past months. And he has a bunch of cronies who will do as he says, too.”
Arthur frowned. “Difficult how?”
“Just… small things,” Guinevere explained. “Hiding things he needs to attend you, tripping him in the hallway…”
Arthur’s frown deepened. “Why would he have a problem with Merlin?” he asked. He had so far got the impression that Merlin was well-liked amongst the staff. There was just something about him that endeared him to people. Arthur himself was not completely immune to his goofy smile—not that he would ever admit to that out loud.
“I believe it’s because he would have been the natural choice to replace Morris,” Guinevere said.
“Morris?” Arthur repeated, scrunching up his face.
Guinevere shot him a look that could almost be called disapproving. “Your former manservant?”
“Oh, him,” Arthur said, then cleared his throat. He had almost forgotten about the boy.
“It was rather obvious to everyone that you didn’t like him much, and Hubert… well, I suppose he was hoping he would take his place? I think he even turned down a permanent place with Lord Ashe because he was gambling on getting the post. But then…” With a meaningful look, Guinevere trailed off.
Arthur could put two and two together himself well enough. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Guinevere offered him a warm smile in response and Arthur tried to ignore how that made his stomach flutter.
“Should I go and check on Merlin?” she asked.
“Please do,” Arthur agreed. “He looked rather spooked.”
With a quick curtsy, Guinevere was off, leaving Arthur to approach the other servants. When he came to stand next to the ladder, Hubert was just stepping down. As soon as he spotted Arthur, he gave a very deep, very proper bow. It was the sort of needlessly exaggerated deference that always managed to set Arthur’s teeth on edge.
“Hubert,” he said.
“Yes, Your Highness?” replied Hubert, and Arthur thought he looked rather pleased all of a sudden, perhaps delighted that the Prince knew his name.
Well, he would stop being delighted in just a moment. “Were you here when Merlin put up the mistletoe?” he asked.
“Ah, yes, sire. I’m afraid so,” said Hubert, scrunching up his nose.
“I see,” said Arthur. “And you were aware that my father has banned all mistletoe from the castle?”
Hubert bobbed his head. “Why, yes, Your Highness,” he stressed. “Of course.”
“Then why,” Arthur continued, steel threading into his voice, “did you not tell Merlin, who you must know has only been working here for a very short time, that he would get in trouble for putting it up?”
Hubert’s eyes widened. “Oh. Well—I didn’t—I—” he stammered, then closed his mouth.
“Well?” Arthur demanded.
“It’s not—I mean, it’s not exactly my job to teach him his job, is it, Your Highness?” Hubert went on, though judging from the look on his face, he seemed to sense that he was treading on very, very thin ice. “As manservant to the Prince, surely he should have known.”
He cringed back when Arthur narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “Next time you see Merlin—or anyone else for that matter—make a mistake, you are to tell them. You will not stand by idly. You will not run to the steward, either. Certainly, you will not wait for the King to find out about it. You will approach them, and you will tell them what they are doing wrong, and you will help them fix their mistake. Is that understood?”
“I—yes, sire,” stuttered Hubert, his voice thinning.
“Good.” Arthur leaned in, lowering his voice. “And one more thing, Hubert.”
Hubert’s moustache started to tremble. “Y-yes, sire?”
“If I ever hear again that you’ve been treating Merlin poorly, trying to sabotage him, or harming him in any way, I will see to it that you will be getting a twoscore with the whip. Have I made myself clear?”
Hubert blanched. “Yes, Your Highness,” he whispered and gave another, impossibly deep bow as soon as Arthur had stepped away.
Without another word, Arthur turned on the spot and made for his chambers, clenching and unclenching his fists as he climbed the stairs.
Merlin was sitting on a chair by the table when Arthur entered, nodding at something Guinevere was telling him, but he got up as soon as he noticed Arthur. He still looked more than a little pale, but managed something that actually looked like a smile this time when Arthur approached the two of them.
“Guinevere,” Arthur said. “Thank you for your help.”
“Yes, thank you,” Merlin agreed, with feeling.
Guinevere brushed a hand over Merlin’s shoulder before taking her leave with another quick curtsy for Arthur.
“Did she explain it to you?” Arthur asked, when she was gone.
Merlin’s smile vanished. “Yes,” he said, his eyebrows drawing together as he shot Arthur another, very contrite look. “I’m so sorry, Arthur, really. I didn’t know about—about your mother and the mistletoe. I would have never put it up if I had known.”
“I don’t blame you,” Arthur replied, ignoring the pang in his chest at the mention of his mother. “You couldn’t have known.” He cleared his throat, then added, without really knowing why, “I understand she always had the whole castle covered in it, for Yule. She loved the look of it, but it was also—well, a sign of fertility, of course. Mistletoe, it’s supposed to help with conception. They were hoping for a child so desperately. An heir…” He stopped, his throat suddenly growing too tight.
“I’m so sorry,” Merlin said again, an entirely different sort of sorry this time.
Arthur waved it off, though it did help with the tightness in his throat. “Unfortunately, I don’t think my father will let me get away with not punishing you this time,” he added. “I’ll try to think of something less drastic than the whip, though.”
“Thank you,” Merlin sighed, sounding genuinely grateful.
Arthur’s lips twitched upwards at that. “That’s a first, I think. You, thanking me for a punishment?”
“I’m thanking you for your help, you prat,” Merlin retorted, finally regaining some of his usual cheek.
Arthur gestured around the chambers. “You can start by cleaning this mess of a room. I want it spotless by tonight. That’ll keep you out of Father’s sight, too. I recommend not crossing him for a few days, if you can.”
“I’ll try,” Merlin muttered and went to get started.
“The whip is most definitely out,” Arthur went on. “Though I’m not sure I can spare you the stocks…”
Merlin grimaced, but nodded, already turning towards his task of cleaning the room.
“Merlin?” Arthur added.
Merlin turned back. “Yes?”
Arthur cleared his throat. “Hubert and his cronies… well, they won’t be bothering you again.”
Merlin stilled, blinking at him.
“In fact,” Arthur went on, “I think they’ll be very happy to help you out, should you need anything in the future. Do tell me if that’s not the case.”
Merlin’s mouth went a little slack, making him look every bit an idiot. Then he broke into a smile—that large, goofy grin that made Arthur want to smile back whenever he saw it, though he valiantly fought the urge now.
“Yes, sire,” he said, in a tone that made Arthur feel rather a lot like a giant, and a little uncomfortable, too. “I will.”