Profuse apologise for my crappy French in the following chapter. If it were German, I could be so much more accurate. However, romantic German, though lovely, is an acquired taste.
Onwards!

26th December.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
Two turtle doves.

I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing and bear-baiting. O! had I but followed the arts!
Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene 3.

"Tell me," Merlin says as he enters Arthur's bedroom to see Gwen standing on a table waving a dove cot at the prince. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"No, no," she says cheerfully. "Have a look at this."
"It looks like a small ice house to me."
"It's a dove cot, and it came this morning."
"On its own?"
"No, you cretin, with doves."
"Are the good people of Mercia under the impression that there's been a sudden drop in the population of Camelot, and that there's a food shortage because of it?" Merlin asks.
"What, and so they're trying to solve it by sending enough food everyday to feed a royal with a mind appetite? No, we suspect something else is up." She nods to Arthur, who just shrugs.
"It seems the female population of Camelot is plotting to deprive me of a lie-in," he says, shrugging.
"And to steal all of my days off," Merlin adds.
"This could be serious," Gwen says. "I think someone might be trying to court Morgana!"
"With doves?"
"Where's your sense of romance," she says. "When does Uther get back?"
"New Year's day," Arthur says, stretching. "Five days time."
"What if they try something before then?" Gwen asks.
"Then I suggest you find a way of defending your mistress from hoards of angry birds."
"This isn't a joke, princey," she says, throwing dove straw at him. "We might need to protect her."
Arthur shrugs and wiggles his shoulders, as if the idea of some lord trying to abduct his step-sister is really none of his business.
"It's Uther business. He's king."
"Fuck Uther!"
"Gwen," Arthur says. "He's king."
"My arse," she grunts, throwing herself off the table and catching herself on the edge of Arthur's bed.
"You should have been a dancer Guinevere," he tells her. "Now, leave so I can get dressed. Merlin, get me clothes."
"I've seen you naked before," she tells him flatly.
"Yes, and it's not something I want to happen again."

The two turtle doves and the partridge, now christened Vincent, Ulysses and Emiliana, have made themselves at home in Morgana's wardrobe, much to her maid's disapproval.
"I think they're terribly sweet," Morgana declares.
"You won't think that when they've crapped all over your clothes."
"Clothes can be washed." Bloody royals and their bloody romantic notions, Gwen thinks. "Speaking of clothes, are they the same ones you were wearing yesterday?"
"Maybe." Morgana looks faintly disapproving. "Blame Gregs. It was his idea. How was I to know he'd put something funny in that... blancmange."
"Blancmange?"
"I didn't drink anything," the maid promises
"Milady!" There's a shout from outside. "It's the tree!"

"We are so fucked."
Gwen's prognosis of events is, though crude, entirely accurate. The Christmas tree, the high point of the Great Hall's decorations, has shed almost all of its needles, leaving in the place of a grand pine tree, a spindly, bald thing.
"We could cleverly arrange decorations to hide it," Morgana says, thinking strategically.
"We'd still be fucked."
The guards look distinctly thrown by this maid's cussing.
"Ah, Lady Morgana, do you want us to put her in the stocks?" he says, clasping Gwen's shoulder and making to drag her away
"Oh Jesus, what've you done Gwen?" she says, looking faintly bemused.
"I haven't done anything."
"For using inappropriate language in front of milady," the guard offers.
"Now, Jeffory," Morgana starts.
"I can get you a turkey."
"Gwen," she says sharply. "Swearing in front of royals is acceptable. Bribing their guards is rather frowned upon though."
"This isn't a bribe," her maid says earnestly. "It's an understanding we have, isn't it Jeffers?"
"Exactly milady."
Getting the feeling she is being successfully duped by a guard and her maidservant, Morgana turns her attention back to the tree.
"I have a plan," Gwen declares. "What tell Uther, when he gets back, is that while we were out one day, doing totally honourable things in the name of helping Camelot, a herd of ravaging goats burst into the castle and tried to devour the tree. Which they did, in part but that," she grins, "and this is my masterpiece, Arthur leapt in and single handedly slaughtered them all."
"What happens when Uther wants to see the goats?"
"We say we ate them."
"And what happens," Morgana says drily, "when, half a second later, Uther realises that it's all bullshit."
"Oh, bloody hell," Gwen sighs. "I'll get you some sodding tinsel."

Two words occur to Merlin as he enters the hall, in order that he might help with preparations for dinner.
One is 'wow.'
The other is 'shiny.'
"One a scale of one to eleven," Arthur says, crossing over to speak to him. "How inconspicuous would you rate that tree?"
"Thirteen. But I like sparkily."
"The man's got taste," Gwen declares, jostling past them.
"Wait, good maid of Camelot," the prince declares, eyeing up her basket. "Are those what I think they are?"
"They might be." She draws out a fruit from her basket and hold it up like it is some sort of holy chalice. "These are white peaches, grown on the slopes of the Obehol volcanoes. Now, you could wait until tonight, when your great desire for this fruit can be quenched with great relish." He plucks the peach out of her hand and attempts to fit as much of the fruit in his mouth as he possibly can. What could be a sensuous moment descends into a terrifying medley of squished fruit. "Or, you could just be gluttonous and scoff the whole thing now."
Arthur's response rather constitutes muffled squelches, from what Merlin can hear.
"Um, Arthur," Merlin says cautiously. "You're dribbling."
"Wfdgjfhst."
"What?"
"I said, where?"
"All over your face," the warlock says. It's quite an accurate description.
"Well," he shrugs. "You're a servant. Wipe it off."
"I don't have a napkin!"
"You've got a scarf."
Merlin doesn't want to smear peach juice all over a perfectly good scarf but that chin and that face are quite hard to refuse and so he finds himself gently wiping away fruit juice from the lips of that lovely prince.
"You know, there's poison in the heart of those stones."
"No there's not. That's just a rumour drempt up by angry servants."
"Merls, I request your presence in the kitchen," Gwen sings, pulling the lad across the room into a staircase. "Explain, if you please, the smearing."
"Er, he told me to?"
"There is nothing in your job description about," she gesticulates. "The stroking." Merlin blushes.
"There was no stroking," he says hotly. The maid takes the scarf out of his hand and sniffs it.
"The pleasant combination of les peche blanc and goût d'Arthur." She pulls a face. "Maybe not goût. Sounds like a foot infection. Essence d'Arthur?" She wanders away mumbling to herself. Merlin waits until he thinks she's out of sight, before holding the scarf up to his nose.
He forgets, of course, that Gwen can see backwards with her shiny copper pans.

Short, but there's only so much one can do with turtle doves. I can't think of a subtle way of asking for reviews so I shan't bother. Be good to fellow mankind instead.