Author's Note: These stories I am writing take place post-series-two of the BBC's Merlin, and will become alternative universe once third series starts. This is technically the second story, which is how Morgana's back in Camelot.
XIXIXIXIX
Tristan and Isolde
Uther was on the edge of his seat. Sword met armor and Uther grimaced with the blow, smiling at the hit. In the arena before him, two knights squared off. Each had struck, blocked, swung their swords, hit their targets, and so far, neither had the upper hand. Uther leaned back as the knights circled each other, faceless behind their helmets. One lunged, the other dodged, Uther shifted forward—he was on the edge of his seat.
"I think you miss being in the arena," said King Mark beside him.
"Not a bit of it—oohh," Uther sucked air in through his teeth, his eyes alight.
One knight hit the ground. The other removed his helmet and looked around at the crowd, sweat running into his green eyes, down his cheeks. His auburn hair was plastered to his head and his lips parted as he panted for breath. Women within the crowd glanced at one another as they clapped and cheered. The knight bowed to Uther, bowed his head to Mark and stared at the lady beside him—Mark's brand-new bride, Isolde, beautiful, vibrant in her soft green gown. He bowed low to her. When he rose, he stole one last look.
Isolde was on the edge of her seat.
"I do believe you're beginning to enjoy yourself, my love." King Mark studied her face.
"Perhaps there is something in all this non-fatal violence, after all. My love." Isolde gave Mark a fleeting smile, and glanced at the back of the knight leaving the arena. "Besides, that one looked familiar—I think I've met him before."
Outside by the tents, a servant ran to help the knight, Tristan, remove his armor. Tristan rotated his shoulders and flexed his fingers—testing his muscles and the freedom of the fresh air against his sweat-laden shirt. A few tents away, Merlin handed Arthur his sword and helmet, and trailed after as Arthur entered the arena to a resounding burst of applause.
Tristan, meanwhile, picked up a small harp and plucked a few strings. He closed his eyes, listening to each sound. He started up a tune, and immersed himself in the music, oblivious to the tournament in which he was entered. Around him, squires and servants and ten-year-old boys ran past. They carried equipment, or water, or, in the case of the boys, gossip and news—they ran through the assembly of tents and in-and-out of the arena, gathering the information of who had won against whom, who was injured, and who simply seemed to be off his game. They took these precious goods to the taverns where wagers had been placed; they ran it to the castle, to the servants who had to work; some ran it to their parents; some ran it back to the tents where the yet-to-compete paid well for inside information. The entire city of Camelot was abuzz.
Above this ado, Morgana stared, standing at a window of her chambers. She looked not upon the peasants and knights and townsfolk of Camelot, but at a cat, mangy and orange, that had a sparrow trapped between two barrels and a bushel of hay. The sparrow hopped back and forth within its confines, while the cat crouched, ready to pounce. Neither sparrow nor cat cared a whit for the contest consuming the city around them—they had their own competition, with a prize far more valuable than gold.
But the city was obsessed, possessed by the prowess of swords on display. A cart drew up full of barrels of wine, blocking the cat and sparrow from Morgana's view. She turned around, searching her chambers. Her bed was unmade and her breakfast uneaten; her wardrobe was opened, with dresses scattered about; several books were randomly placed—one even on the floor. She leaned against the wall and turned her head back toward the window to gaze outside again. She knew the scene was different—that different people were passing by, that there were two dogs that hadn't been there before, that various children were running around. And yet—it was the same view she'd watched all her life.
Her fist clenched tighter, her grip rumpling the small strip of parchment in her hand even more. She opened it up again: I'm sorry, scrawled in Morgause's careful calligraphy.
The door opened. Morgana squeezed the paper back into her fist.
"You're missing the tournament." Gwen's face was flushed—all smiles and out-of-breath blushes.
"How is it?"
"Arthur just won his first round." Gwen approached the bed, reaching for the blankets.
"I'm sure he did." Morgana still looked out the window.
"Are you sure you won't come down?" Gwen straightened up from the bed and turned to Morgana, her expression dulling into concern.
"I'm just not feeling well today."
"And you don't want me to get Gaius?" Gwen took a few steps forward.
Morgana turned around to face Gwen, flashing a brief smile. "I'll be okay. I promise." She watched Gwen finish with the bed, crushing the note deeper into her hands.
Lancelot paused at the gates of Camelot, gazing up at the grand arches and taking a deep breath of air. He stepped across the threshold into the city. As he meandered through the streets of the lower town, he caught snatches of tournament news. And something about the price of bread—but most of the words trilling through excited mouths were about who had beaten whom and the contestants of the next match. Thus Lancelot discovered that Arthur had won his first round—in less than a minute—a fact that overshadowed the actual victory, which as far as the people of Camelot were concerned was old news before it had occurred.
Lancelot made his way up the steps into the stands of the arena where he found a seat. All eyes were peeled on the fighters, and Lancelot, too, admired the skill on display. He knew he could defeat them both, but entry into the competition was reserved for those of noble blood, a fact of life he had come to accept. He cast his eyes over the crowd, settling on the king's pavilion where Uther sat with King Mark. Uther bounced around in his chair like a giddy child, enthralled by the fight. Mark, on the other hand, observed with detachment—Lancelot watched him, trying to gauge the criteria by which Mark was clearly assessing the fighters. Mark leaned back in his seat, a hand to his chin. He was several years younger than Uther, and his black hair was streaked with silver. His dark blue eyes matched his attire and scrutinized each knight. Lancelot looked again to the fighters, one victorious, one unconscious, and concluded that Mark was waiting.
Beside Mark sat a woman dressed in soft green, her hair tangled by an expert on top of her head, a few calculated wisps dangling in front of sculpted cheekbones. Her lips also seemed the work of a dreaming artist. Lancelot knew she was Isolde, rumored far and wide to be the most beautiful woman in the land, a beauty attested and defended even by those who had never laid eyes upon her. Next to Isolde sat a woman wearing white, whose braided brown hair circled her head. Lancelot's eyes stopped long enough to acknowledge each woman's presence, and then moved along. He glanced over the crowd surrounding Uther, seeking.
Guinevere.
She sat on the other side of Uther wearing a yellow bodice with quilted flowers, thin laces tied into a bow upon her breast, the violet fabric of her dress caressing her skin as she clapped her hands. Her face was radiant, and her dark hair fell in tight circlets about her shoulders. Lancelot stared at her. She smiled at a successful dodge and winced at a particularly hard hit, as if taken aback by the force that could be involved in a tournament. Between the matches, she glanced at the empty seat next to her, and for a brief instant it occurred to Lancelot that he had not seen the Lady Morgana.
The day's matches ended before the sun had set low enough to assault Uther's eyes, though it had set enough to cast long shadows throughout the stadium. In a variegated mix of exhaustion, excitement and diligence, the people rose to return to their duties. Lancelot stayed seated as the crowd flowed around him, watching the deserted arena and the seats abandoned by the royal party.
"STEADY!"
The crashing waves against the cliff drowned out the man's words. Before him, a line of soldiers—flame-lit arrows in their bows—aimed at the on-coming giants. Behind him, a field of tents where other knights were suiting up and artisans were crouching. The twilight obscured the two giants so that their shadows blended with the stones of the castle ruins behind them. They trudged toward the men, immense axes in hand.
"STEADY!"
Merlin's face was buried behind an armload of armor as he kicked the door closed behind him. He heard the slam echo through the chambers he and Gaius shared.
"Do you need any help?" Lancelot stood just inside the doorway.
Merlin dropped Arthur's armor and spun around.
"Lancelot! What are you doing here?"
"I came to see the tournament." Lancelot bent down to retrieve the armor, but Merlin grabbed it first.
"Really?" Merlin dumped the armor in his own room. "Just to see a tournament?"
"No. I . . . was also hoping to . . . offer my services to King Mark. Where's Gaius?" Lancelot glanced around the room, scattered about with the physician's equipment and supplies.
"At the feast. Have you eaten—I could probably get you in."
"I think I'd be out of place." Lancelot nudged the apparatus on the table.
"I thought you wanted to speak to Mark. Why would he need your services?"
"I heard a rumor that Mark was looking for a bodyguard for Queen Isolde."
"Really? I hadn't heard anything." Merlin looked sideways at Lancelot, "why?"
"It seems there have been threats on her life—or his—or he just wants to have one around—I'm not quite clear on the details." Lancelot sat down, sighing heavily and looking to the ceiling. "I shouldn't be here."
"Lancelot, you're the best fighter I've ever seen. If Mark needs a bodyguard, he'd be an idiot not to take you on." Merlin sat down across from Lancelot. "Or is there another reason you think you shouldn't be here?"
Lancelot didn't respond for several minutes, until finally, "how's Arthur?"
"He's Arthur."
"Won't he wonder where you are?"
"No. No, I'm supposed to be polishing his armor and sharpening his sword and shining his boots."
Lancelot bobbed his head. "I shouldn't keep you," he stood.
"You don't seem to want anyone to know you're in town," Merlin looked up from his seat.
"There's no point in it—I won't be here that long."
"Just long enough to see if Mark really is looking for a bodyguard?"
Lancelot nodded and stared at the door.
"Then stay here—I'll get us something to eat."
"Is it a nice view?" Isolde's maid turned over the covers on the bed.
"It's a big city." Isolde stared out into the night.
"Well, enjoy it now—this will be our last chance to experience four walls and a roof for a while."
"Don't like tent cities?" Isolde smiled and turned around.
"I prefer more solid abodes," she winked at Isolde.
"Brangene," Isolde's face sobered, "do you think I did the right thing?"
"By marrying Mark?" Brangene shrugged. "He's a fairly powerful king—it's a good match."
"Yes," Isolde turned back to the window, "it will be useful to both our kingdoms." She stared out into the night, while below her in the street, a small group of young men passed by, laughing. One of them slowed his gait, staring at her figure in the window, until a voice called Tristan, come on, and he hurried to rejoin his friends.
A knock sounded on Morgana's door.
"I'm bored." Isolde stood with her hands clasped in front of her, long pink sleeves draping down her arms.
"Is Mark not available?" Morgana looked at Isolde's immaculate hair and felt her own falling over half her face and down her shoulders as she leaned against the door.
"That's not what I mean. Everyone's caught up in the tournament, and whenever the conversation turns to something else, it's old glories and days gone by. I haven't even been given a proper tour of Camelot."
"I'm sure something can be arranged."
"Are you busy?" Isolde peered around Morgana into her chambers.
"No. But you shouldn't miss the tournament."
"I sat there all morning—my maid's there now to keep me appraised if anything spectacular happens. I could really use a . . . lady's perspective?" Isolde shifted on her feet.
Morgana turned to glance around her chambers, which struck her as somehow vacant despite all the furnishing, the trappings. She smiled and stepped into the hallway.
"Shall we start in the royal gardens?" she said.
They stayed there the rest of the day, wandering among the flowers. With the encroaching twilight, they were espied by Uther from a high window in the castle. Morgana, her black hair tangled and windswept, her green dress mixing with the flora, was laughing.
"This is the first time I've seen Morgana smile in weeks," he said as Mark walked up behind him. "Your young bride is quite a winning creature."
"Indeed she is." Mark gazed out at the two women. "I take it the Lady Morgana will be dining with us tonight, then?"
The feasts thrown by Uther when he hosted tournaments were among the largest and most celebrated in the land. Every contestant was invited to the table, and people caroused long into the night—a fact cited by many a loser the following day. Upon the table were the choicest meats, fruits, bread and wine. At its head sat Uther, in his finest regalia. Mark and Isolde sat on one side of him, while Morgana took the place between Arthur and his father.
Isolde rolled her eyes at Morgana from behind the rim of her goblet.
"Isolde tells me you're rebuilding Tintagel," Morgana said to Mark, interrupting talk of the tournament and bygone battles.
"As it stands now, it's nothing but ruins," Mark replied. "But it's a well fortified location—"
"On the sea," Isolde recited.
"Across the sea, my love," Mark laid his hand on Isolde's, "from your father in Ireland."
Isolde smiled at Mark, and then turned to Morgana. "Your family once lived there, did it not? Tintagel, I mean?"
"Morgana was born in Camelot," Uther said as Morgana looked at him, somewhat confused. "But yes, Tintagel and the surrounding lands once belonged to her father, Gorlois." He sipped his wine.
"What happened?" Morgana put down her fork.
"Sorcerers destroyed it."
"Magic?" Morgana's eyes narrowed.
"It was razed to the ground—how else can you explain it?" Uther met her gaze.
"Isn't it also supposed to be cursed?" Isolde said.
"Superstitious people believe anything," Mark said, chewing his meat.
Morgana looked at Isolde, a question in her eyes.
"Many people fled to our lands," Isolde said.
"Across the sea to Ireland?" Morgana asked.
Isolde nodded. "I remember stories as a child of a terrible battle—"
"It was a massacre." Uther stole a subtle glance at Gaius listening next to Isolde.
"—and of Cursed Tintagel Across the Sea. Sailors would even change their routes to avoid coming within sight of it. But those are probably just stories," she said to her food.
"Just stories is exactly what they are, my love." Mark cupped Isolde's chin.
"Who was it that destroyed the castle?" Morgana asked.
"I told you, sorcerers," Uther put his goblet down on the table, hard.
"What was the purpose behind the attack?" Arthur said, startling the kings—they'd thought him conversing with the knights on his other side. Tristan, sitting next to Gaius, leaned forward, also intent on the story of Tintagel's destruction.
"We never found out," Gaius said.
"More than likely it was some rival lord who wanted Gorlois's lands," Mark waved his hands impatiently. "Who unintentionally destroyed his prize."
"If there's a rival for the land, then perhaps you should be careful, my love." Isolde glanced at Morgana as she spoke, nearly winking through her demonstration of concern.
"Is that why you're looking for a bodyguard?" Arthur asked.
"What?" Isolde glanced around the table. "What are you talking about?"
"I heard a rumor," Arthur said as Mark glared at him.
"It occurred to me, my love," Mark caressed Isolde's cheek with his finger, "that until our walls are well-fortified, it might be wise to have extra protection. If some knight happens to impress me."
By this time, the table had fallen silent, and every face gazed forward. Every eye sought King Mark, every ear clung to his words. A murmur started as the news began to spread that the prize for this particular tournament was not just a chest filled with gold, but a commission to guard the most beautiful woman in the land.
"Well, it seems you're committed now," Uther said to Mark before taking a drink of wine.
One giant dangled a man between its two hands. The other watched as the man twisted and wrenched before his companion's bushy eyebrows.
"Ki—King Mark—" the man screamed without finishing his sentence. The second giant signaled the first to lighten his grip.
"Camelot," the man panted. "King Mark is in Camelot."
The giant dropped him—a squishy crack as the man hit the ground. An arrow pierced the giant's hand where the man had been. The two giants turned, met by a volley of arrows and spears, and a charge of men, swords held high.
The two giants grabbed their axes—surprised, but not unready.
The next day of the tournament was greeted by first, Tristan singing a song of unrequited love as the contestants made their way to their tents. Merlin watched Tristan, who once again ignored his surroundings. Finished with one song, Tristan immediately segued into the next, while a servant stood impatiently by, holding his armor.
"I can't tell if he's sad or happy," Merlin said.
"Can you tell if he's interested in this tournament or not?" Arthur said.
As Tristan continued playing, his song sunk beneath the wave of rumor and gossip saturating Camelot: who would win the job of protecting the incomparable Isolde? As a prize, it was novel, which alone was enough to pique the town's interest—but as an event in and of itself, it was inspiring. Prince Arthur won't be leaving, said a maid in a tavern. You mean, Mark's too smart to have such a pretty man spend so much time alone with his pretty wife, smirked her friend. What if Prince Arthur doesn't win? ventured a third. Who says the Prince wants the job? a stable boy said. Who says any of them want the job? Does the winner of the tournament have to go?—the debate echoed in every stone of every wall, and the people thronged to the arena. It was standing room only.
The third prologue to the day's matches occurred in the collective of tents. Lancelot—whom everyone assumed was a squire or servant—bumped into a knight by the name of Sir Tarquin. Tarquin made to slap him with the back of his hand, but Lancelot caught his wrist.
"I apologized," Lancelot chided, releasing Tarquin's hand.
"If you knew how to watch where you were going, you wouldn't have bothered me in the first place." Tarquin took a step toward Lancelot, who glanced at the growing crowd of onlookers. "I think you need to be taught a lesson," Tarquin continued.
He took a swing at Lancelot, which Lancelot lithely dodged. Tarquin snorted, sneered, and threw another punch at Lancelot, and again hit only air. Around the two gaped a bona fide audience of fellow knights, squires and servants engrossed in this skirmish ere the match—this fight before the fight. Even Tristan had abandoned his harp to watch Tarquin lunge and throw himself at Lancelot, who expertly evaded and pushed Sir Tarquin tripping to the ground.
"What is going on here?" Arthur's voice rang out above the tents. Tarquin picked himself up off the ground, and the circle of watchers parted.
Arthur walked a few steps forward, into the thwarted melee. Merlin stood behind. Arthur's face was hard as he glared around at everyone present.
"Lancelot?" his features softened, surprised.
Lancelot bowed his head.
"This man is known to you?" Sir Tarquin said.
Arthur turned to him. "Is there a problem?"
"He insulted me, sire."
"Then by all means keep fighting him," Arthur looked at Lancelot, protected only by his tunic and fists, standing next to the fully-armored and armed Sir Tarquin. "He'll insult you some more."
A chuckle rippled through the gathered crowd, and Tarquin reddened.
"There is no honor to be gained in petty quarrels," Arthur announced, "the tournament is over there." He pointed to the arena and turned back to Tarquin. "And I believe you fight first today—why would you want to tire yourself out?"
"It seems my opponent isn't going to grace me with his presence," Tarquin glared at Tristan. "Or is there another reason you haven't readied yourself yet?"
"It seems I don't need to," Tristan kept his gaze locked on Tarquin, who tensed, jaw tight.
"Enough!" Arthur said, glaring as the crowd dispersed. He hooked his arm around Lancelot's neck and led him to his own tent, Merlin following beside.
Of course, by the time Tristan suited up, and all salutations and openings-of-ceremonies had been conducted, the incident at the tents had flown around the entire stadium.
The spectators were on the edges of their seats.
"Arthur could probably talk to Mark for you." Merlin stood beside Lancelot just inside the entrance to the arena as they watched Arthur in combat against a knight named Sir Robert.
"So you keep telling me." Lancelot's eyes were glued to Arthur.
"Lancelot, what's wrong?"
"What?" Lancelot cocked his head to the side, his attention still on Arthur and the fight.
"You're acting . . . weird." Merlin stared at Lancelot. Sir Robert went down, but Merlin still waited for a response from Lancelot—who fell into step beside Arthur when the Prince walked by.
"I could talk to Mark for you." Arthur threw his helmet off as soon as he entered his tent—Merlin dived forward to catch it.
"I doubt I'll get an audience with him otherwise." Lancelot sighed and leaned against a small table that had a ewer of water on it.
"I could also talk to my father," Arthur said slowly as Merlin lifted the hauberk of his shoulders. He rolled his head around, cracking his neck. Merlin, at Arthur's back, looked to Lancelot.
"He didn't seem very receptive last time." Lancelot stared at the grass.
"You didn't let me try," Arthur glared at Lancelot, sweat still running down his face.
"I told you, I need to—"
"Prove yourself? As a mercenary?"
Lancelot lifted his head, and Arthur sat down in a nearby chair.
"You should be out there," he said. "You're as good as—better than—any of them."
"The First Code of Camelot . . ." Lancelot quoted.
"Is stupid." Arthur leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at his hands. "A wealthy family doesn't make you noble. I'd rather have skilled, honest fighters." He looked up at Lancelot.
Lancelot said nothing. Merlin hovered over Arthur's armor with a cloth, paused in his polishing.
"You're the most honorable knight I've ever met, Lancelot," Arthur said.
"I'm not a knight, sire."
"You belong—"
"Are you decent?" Gwen's voice chimed from outside the tent, interrupting Arthur. Not waiting, she pulled back the flaps, entering with a cup in her hand. "I wanted to con—"
Lancelot straightened up from the table—he and Gwen stared at each other.
"To congratulate you." She turned her shoulders to Arthur, though her eyes remained on Lancelot. "And—to bring you some water." She handed the cup to Arthur, who nodded his head in thanks, smiled and drank it down.
Merlin glanced from Gwen to Lancelot, who finally looked away from each other.
"How long has Lancelot been in Camelot?" Gwen said to Arthur.
"Since two days ago," Merlin said. Both Gwen and Arthur seemed taken aback—Lancelot shot him a look.
"He's here to offer his services to Mark," said Arthur.
"Oh," Gwen said, turning to Lancelot. Lancelot shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Gwen inventoried the contents of the tent, flitting her eyes from object to object until they rested on Arthur. "I—I just wanted to give you that," she pointed to the empty cup still in Arthur's hand. "And to tell you that Morgana's feeling better—she's watching—was watching—you." Gwen stiffly bowed her head—or curtsied, it was hard to tell.