Implications, Insults, and Intrigue
The carriage lurched over a stone, sending him jolting upright, scowling. He could feel the dull ache foreshadowing the patchwork of bruises that would cover his tailbone by the next day. Settling back again with a quiet groan, Arthur tried once more to get comfortable. He had nearly succeeded when, about five minutes later, another sharp bounce caused him to grit his teeth and give up. He would have much preferred the surging, predictable lope of a horse, even knowing well the aftereffects of a few hours in the saddle. He would have bet his best practice sword that the driver was finding the largest stones and roughest patches just to spite him.
Of course, Arthur was no stranger to concealed spite. As second in the line of succession to the throne of Camelot, he had experienced quite a bit of it in his sixteen years from everyone from conniving old-money nobles thwarted by Uther's strict anti-corruption policies to foolhardy serving boys and girls filled with jealousy of his position and power. Arthur smirked bitterly at that. Jealousy. He would be hard-pressed to find anyone jealous of him now.
The carriage rattled along toward the middle of the caravan on the last day of the long, stultifying journey toward Vortigern's kingdom of Essetir. In the uneasy peace following the grueling border war between Essetir and Camelot, Arthur, the spare, had been sent on a "diplomatic mission" to Vortigern's court while his half-sister Morgana, the heiress apparent, remained behind. Arthur held no delusions regarding his new position of ambassador. He was a political hostage, a bargaining chip conceded by his father in order to keep the peace. Uther was not normally one to give away cards, but the recent war had aptly demonstrated Vortigern's capabilities should he choose to mount an all-out invasion. Casualty counts were still coming in, but it was clear by now that while a full offensive would significantly weaken Essetir and make it vulnerable to its not-so-friendly neighbors, the barbarian king would most definitely win. Uther had been forced to make some quick calculations and yield a little space on the dueling floor in order to save face and his kingdom.
By Uther's exacting calculations, that space was occupied by Arthur.
The boy remembered a legend his old nursemaid had told him once. She had loved imparting the "wisdom of his ancestors," the fierce warriors from far to the north who had come raiding centuries before and left quite a few blonde, blue-eyed eventualities behind. The story had told of the war between the Aesir, the pantheon of high Asgardian gods led by the (not yet) all-seeing Odin, and the Vanir, a newer, powerful race of similar beings from the rather unimaginatively named Vanaheim. As a token of good faith after the conflict and to prevent its resumption, the deities had decided to exchange political hostages. From the Vanir had come Frey, the young, golden god of light and summer and a capable warrior, and his sister Freya, goddess of love. In exchange, the Asgardians had sent Mimir, the ancient god of wisdom, as a trustworthy advisor. However, the Vanir had taken offense at the perceived slight: they had sent their best and brightest and received in exchange a useless, crotchety old blind man. Refusing to be mocked, they had beheaded Mimir. Ultimately, the head was reanimated and the quarrel put to bed, but still Arthur could not help seeing the story as an ominous parallel for his current circumstances. The question was, was he Frey in this version or Mimir?
At around half past noon, the splendidly decorated but not-at-all-well-designed-if-you-asked-a-certain-someone-but-no-one-was-asking-him-of- course-it-wasn't-like-he-was-the-bloody-prince-or-anything carriage finally rumbled to a stop, presumably inside the wide courtyard of the massive fortress where he would be staying for the foreseeable future. An official delegation stood in the hot sun, awaiting him. They looked sweaty and uncomfortable in their brocaded robes; Arthur was not inclined to sympathize. The carriage rolled to a stop, a trumpet fanfare cued a footman to open the door, and Arthur steeled himself before plunging into a whirlwind of fake smiles and gaudy attire.
~o8o~
The newly appointed Camelotian ambassador sat in his room, recovering from the long, ceremonious introductions and a few particularly zealous handshakes. The room was nice, maybe fancier than his quarters at home. A four-poster bed sporting an enormous mattress, intricately carved mahogany bed posts, and an impeccably clean velvety canopy sat in the corner, deep red silk sheets almost irresistibly alluring after the long day of officious "welcoming." He spared it a single longing glance before getting up to pace. The walls were dark wood as well, with a carved and painted ceiling that would put Michelangelo to shame if he belonged in the time period. The dressers and chairs were similarly ornate, the latter covered by colorfully embroidered cushions. Adjoining the chamber, the bathroom was just as ostentatious. However, like the display in the courtyard, nothing about the rooms was welcoming. The outrageous wealth and comfort simply served to show off Vortigern's power, intimidating his borderline adversary. Despite the warmth from the cheerily crackling fireplace, the hostility in the air seemed to generate a palpable chill.
Arthur gazed once again at the soft bed before heading out the heavy iron-bound oaken door. He couldn't afford to laze about; just like at home, he had a laundry list of both official and unstated responsibilities. The feast tonight fell into the first category, while any and all gatherings of state after fell into the second. As soon as he stepped out into the hallway, the young royal was greeted by the castle staff member who had been waiting immediately to the right of the door. This was nothing unusual for Arthur, but the shallowness of the bow was new. He would have to get used to it: after all, he wasn't their prince or even a visiting heir apparent. Another thing to get used to was the fact that while at home the servants were trained to turn a blind eye to the activities and eccentricities of royals, here the entire staff would be under orders to watch and report his every move. Arthur revised his earlier assumption that the liveried servant had been standing at attention to the right of the door—the man had probably been listening at the door or even spying through a peephole. The blonde would have to tread very carefully.
Of course, he couldn't blame them. They weren't the only ones keeping their eyes and ears open. But more on that later.
Following the footman, Arthur swept down cramped stone hallways that felt about to press in and crush him, brushing past fabulous tapestries depicting historical scenes (he thought he saw Vortigern inserted in a few) with only brief, imperious glances to hide his nerves. He had gotten the chance to change out of his stained and dirty travelling clothes, but the atmosphere of this place still made him feel small, and his shoulders and neck were perhaps a bit straighter than usual to compensate. His footsteps echoed down the empty corridors, but the servant escorting him moved silently, like a cat. It was unnerving in the extreme. After what seemed like ages, the pair halted in front of a gigantic oaken doorway bound in brass, with ring-shaped knockers twice the size of the prince's head hanging at rest. The servant thumped the one on the right twice, a fanfare rang out (god, Arthur was beginning to hate trumpets), and the mammoth doors swung open without a sound.
Inside, Vortigern and around fifteen to twenty of his favored lords and ladies sat around a table capable of serving twice their number, resplendent in finery and jewels that winked in the orange light of the fire illuminating the dining hall. Dinner, a small and beautifully presented roast chicken at each place, was already served. The light showed a gigantic room with the ever-present stone walls adorned with art, but it failed to reach the high, vaulted ceiling. The scene was one the Camelotian prince had learned to expect, with the king seated at the long table's head at the opposite end of the hall and his guests arrayed down the sides in order according to rank and favor. Vortigern was by no means a handsome man, but despite the significant girth he had acquired in his advancing age, he retained his dark, close-cropped hair and high cheekbones. His facial features were echoed in his son of the same name, a boy perhaps a few years Arthur's senior who sat glowering at his father's left hand, partially in shadow due to the fire's crackling behind the sovereign. However, the younger Vortigern was lean where his father was fat, wore his hair long and wavy, and shot Arthur glares of suspicion and disdain while the elder boomed out an overly jovial welcome.
After suffering through his official introduction by a crier with a ridiculous accent and a costume that the prince would laugh at under any other circumstances (and even under these ones he still had to squash a snigger) to a room full of people who either knew who he was already or didn't care, Arthur was ushered to his place of honor at the opposing head of the table, as was only fitting. The sensation that it was far from an honor was exacerbated by the fact that the table's size and guests' placement left him sitting alone, with multiple chairs on either side of the dining table separating him from his nearest neighbor. The "ambassador" could feel the eyes of all assembled on him even when they looked back to their meals, and he was unable to participate in the boisterous conversation unless questions or laughing comments were directed specifically at him. The message was received loud and clear: Vortigern wanted him isolated and insecure.
Well, Arthur was not going to give in to schoolyard tactics, that was for damn sure. He had been tutored and trained for this stuff since birth. And Vortigern could take his "clever" diplomacy and stuff it up his– "My lord, I must thank you for your gracious welcome. And my compliments to your chef, as well." All conversation immediately ceased, and the eyes of the gentry turned on him again. They had not expected him to speak; the distance had been meant to cow him and ensure that he ate quietly at the end of the table, relying on Vortigern throwing him conversational bones to interact with the rest of the hall. His silence would be represented as rudeness, and Vortigern's charity would establish the king's dominance over him. Allowing this would be a grave misstep, so Arthur had instead chosen to speak loudly over all other conversations and directly address the highest royal in the room, establishing himself as an equal. The silence that now descended was intimidating, but the blonde prince kept his chin high and took a slow, deliberate bite of the chicken leg in his fingers, not breaking eye contact with the aging monarch.
Vortigern, to his credit, did not bat an eye, only narrowing both of his in grudging approbation for the move. He raised his voice as well. "Indeed, your welcome was only as befits a visiting...son of our companion in the crown, Lord Uther Pendragon. We have nothing but respect for your line. And we shall ensure that your compliments are passed on," he added with a dismissive wave in the direction of an unobtrusive door that Arthur assumed led to the kitchens, "especially when we can clearly see how much it is enjoyed." The sovereign waved his fork lazily in Arthur's general direction. "It is nice to view that quaint Camelotian custom within our very own walls."
Arthur's gaze shot quickly over those assembled: all were using knives and forks, and a few ladies were tittering behind their hands. Shit. Although he knew full well how to use a knife and fork, in Camelot nobles ate like the common people: with their hands. Now, Vortigern was using his automatic error to politely imply that all Camelotians were savage and backward. If he switched now, it would be showing weakness, giving metaphorical ground. Well, two could play at that game. "Indeed, my father has always impressed upon me that in everyday activities like eating, it is important to imitate the common people we represent. After all, we wouldn't want to be putting on–" he paused and let his eyes roam up and down Vortigern's generous frame to make it abundantly clear what he thought Vortigern was putting on– "airs, now would we?" He smiled politely, folding his hands demurely in his lap.
Vortigerns elder and younger went a bit red in the face, though the trimmer of the two looked down a bit as if he agreed with the visitor but would not admit it. The nobles, who had been whispering behind their hands in response to Vortigern's call-out, went very still. However, Arthur felt his restrained, beatific smile tugging at his cheeks, threatening to widen into a devilish grin, and he lounged back in his chair. Score one for the ambassador. Anything Vortigern did to him would not only start an all-out war, but it would also require openly acknowledging Arthur's implication–showing weakness. The floored monarch struggled visibly for a response, but he found none and settled for glaring daggers at the young man across from him. Slowly, hesitantly, the discussions resumed, and the guest of honor went quietly back to his chicken leg, position secured for now. The rest of the meal passed without incident other than a few wary glares from Vortigern the younger, and midnight found a weary but self-satisfied teenager being ushered back to his apartments.
Once back "alone" in his rooms, Arthur allowed a smidgen of self-doubt to elbow its way to the forefront of his mind. Had his confidence at the feast been a mistake? Perhaps he should have just played the role Vortigern had been so readily willing to supply him, that of the scared, uncomfortable young political hostage far from home and besieged by enemies on all sides. Perhaps in that persona, his presence would have garnered less attention in the days to come, making it easier for him to attain information….
And information was his end goal. Uther was never one to give too much ground in a sparring match, preferring a brash, offensive style that his son and daughter imitated. The grizzled king may have been forced to provide a hostage, but he had simultaneously embedded a spy.
Of course, Uther already had many spies in Vortigern's lands, at every level from courtiers to scullery maids. The problem was, none of them had been able to get at the information Uther so desperately needed: how Vortigern had done so well in the pseudo-war between them. Essetir was smaller than Camelot, with less fertile farmland and fewer men of soldiering age and fitness, and yet, Vortigern's armies had never seemed to run out of men or tire. Their supplies seemed as limitless as their stamina. Small bands of yeomen sent to secretly scout the enemy's position had never returned. Uther's camps had been stricken with mysterious illnesses smacking of poison as well as improbable animal attacks. In one last, desperate effort, Uther had sent his biggest force yet fresh onto a battlefield; it should have overwhelmed its opponent with ease. However, three days had passed without any communication from his generals, and Uther himself had ridden out to find an enormous silent plain littered with the corpses of his men. Some appeared to have been positively ripped to shreds, while others didn't have a mark on them. There were very few opposition casualties. Through it all, Uther's spies had been disappearing one by one.
Either Vortigern had attained a secret and powerful ally, or sorcery was involved in some way. Perhaps the Druids were no longer so peaceful? The Pendragons would have preferred the former, but neither option seemed good.
And so, the youngest Pendragon was here to find out, a fact which Vortigern probably knew very well but could do next to nothing about. Pretending subservience would have done nothing, Arthur decided, since he would have been watched constantly either way. Vortigern was no fool. Thanks to the political situation, the second-to-Crown Prince had a little leeway to act independently, but not much.
Sinking down onto the end of the mattress, Arthur allowed himself a small moment of self-pity. He missed Morgana; she was much better at this kind of thing than Arthur was, but as the heiress-apparent she obviously couldn't be spared. Still, the prince would have felt much more confident with her beside him, switching almost instantaneously between cold, imperious royal and warm, caring older sister in that way of hers that he could never understand. He wished Gwen were here; his best friend from childhood was really smart and had always had his back, encouraging him when he needed it and fearlessly questioning him in his more reckless moods. He seldom listened anyway, but he would still appreciate her calming presence, willing ears, and especially her fearlessness and complete lack of deference to him in spite of their difference in station. She was one of the few people with whom, instead of Prince Arthur, he could be simply Arthur. With everything going on and all his responsibility here, he needed something or someone to ground him.
The blonde exhaled a deep, full-body sigh and collapsed into the red bed, which suddenly didn't seem quite so hostile. It was almost one a.m; there would be plenty of time for intrigue in the morning.