Chapter 4: Two Kinds of Competition

"Oh Merlin, how splendid!" Hunith said when she was shown to her place at the barrier that stood between spectators and the small, circular field to be used by the tourney participants. It was standing room only in this viewing area, as the raised stands with their brightly colored canopies were reserved for members of the nobility and the royal household. Gaius was usually seated in the stands, not far from the king, but on this occasion he had descended among the common folk and was leaning on the barrier next to Hunith and her friends. The atmosphere was festive; the weather had once again obliged the king with a brilliant, cloudless sky and only the faintest of breezes.

Having found his mother a spot where she would have a clear view of the field, Merlin raced back to the tents behind the stands, where the contestants were preparing for battle. Looking back, he could see Hunith speaking to Gaius, her hand on his arm, and (given the conversation of the previous night) he was fairly certain that she was quizzing the physician about her son's love life.

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In the largest of the tents, lit by an array of candles, Arthur was in the process of pulling his chain mail over his head.

"I'll do that, sire," Merlin said at the top of his voice for the benefit of the guard outside, before letting the tent flap fall closed.

"Late again," Arthur replied with his eyebrows raised, but he was smiling.

Merlin straightened the heavy chain mail across the prince's shoulders and then sorted through the shining metal plate armor laid out on a clean cloth. Months of diligent practice had paid off, and he could now dress Arthur in the entire panoply of defensive garments, in the proper order and without missing a beat. Once everything was in place he reached for the prince's scarlet cloak and slung it around his shoulders, struggling to fasten the ties at the neck into a tidy bow.

He was not quite finished when Arthur seized him by the front of his shirt and pulled him close until they were nearly forehead to forehead.

"Arthur." The tent flap was pushed aside and the king stood in the opening, blinking his eyes a little as they adjusted to the dimness within.

Arthur lowered and then raised one eyelid surreptitiously, after which the hand that had pulled Merlin to him gave him a shove–gentle, yet seemingly vigorous–to one side.

"My God, Merlin, I swear I've never had a clumsier servant," he snapped, his lips set in a convincing scowl. Uther glanced at Merlin's garb–he had returned to his everyday clothing for the tournament–with what appeared to be a mixture of distaste and vexation..

"Why you put up with that boy..." he muttered as he turned to examine his son's shield, one hand rubbing the close-shaved stubble on his chin, the other clutching a scrap of pale green and white fabric.

Behind Uther's back Arthur sent Merlin the closest thing he had ever seen to an apologetic glance before turning his attention to the king. Still mumbling something about mental affliction and incompetent idiot, Uther abandoned his scrutiny of the shield, cleared his throat noisily, and proceeded to shove the strip of silk into Arthur's hand.

"Ahem! Arthur! The king of Rheged's daughter has asked if you would do her the honor of wearing her colors during the tournament."

Arthur looked at the green and white silk in surprise before his eyes narrowed and the corner of his upper lip curled in the expression of derision and disbelief that Merlin knew so well.

"You mean the king of Rheged has asked if I would do her the honor of wearing this thing," he said dryly.

"It doesn't matter who asked," Uther answered curtly. "I believe you should wear it and there's an end on it."

Arthur rolled his eyes behind Uther's back, but his response of "Very well, Father," was delivered in a politely neutral tone. As the king watched he handed the strip of fabric to Merlin, who tied it neatly around his left wrist.

"I trust you'll make me proud," Uther said as he always did before any event in which his son participated. Merlin held the heavy tent flap open for him as he left and although the king looked at him rather askance, it was clear that he had not seen anything out of the ordinary when he had first entered the candle-lit space.

"Ready," Arthur said somewhat tersely, although his face was composed. Merlin knew better than to ask him if he was nervous (he had once done so, and had received an angry "Will you shut up!" for his pains), so he offered a half smile as he gestured in the direction of the princess of Rheged's scarf.

"Isn't it a little early to play favorites?"

"Ha!" replied Arthur absently as he reached for his sword. Merlin handed it to him. For a moment they stood motionless, and then Merlin lifted the tent flap; their hands touched briefly, and then Arthur was gone.

Dashing back to the tourney field, and the commoners' place behind the wooden barrier, Merlin allowed himself a quick look at the stands where Uther, Morgana (with Gwen in attendance at her side), and an assortment of courtiers and guests were seated. Morgana and Gwen smiled at him as he sped past. The king of Rheged, a corpulent fellow clad in a startling shade of green, was sitting at Uther's right hand, his daughter, a damsel whose fair hair was nearly as blond as Arthur's, lounging beside him.

"There you are!" Hunith said comfortably as Merlin took his place beside her, panting. "You don't want to miss the first pair!"

"They've drawn lots; I don't know who's matched with whom," her son gasped, trying to catch his breath. "I can't stay; I have to get back to Arthur after each of his rounds."

"Of course," Hunith responded, and there was pride in her voice as she continued, "It's obvious that he quite relies on you."

Suddenly conscious of the peculiar gaze Gaius was leveling in his direction, Merlin flushed but merely said, "Well, erm...it's...it's been an honor to work for him."

Once the knights had begun to face off, one pair at a time, it was not easy to discuss the events over the din of shouting spectators and clanging metal. Hunith was horrified to see that the weapons were real, not blunted, and Merlin explained that although a less dangerous form of the tournament, known as a béhourd, involved dull blades and even padded jackets instead of armor, Uther–and many others–preferred a straightforward fight. He himself watched the proceedings with no small degree of concern, for some of the competitors were extremely skilled. Arthur won his first match with ease; Merlin ran back to his tent to attend him before his next one, which came less than a half hour later. His third match was the most difficult to watch, as his opponent was both large and quick on his feet, and also older and probably more experienced. Merlin gripped the wooden barrier with white-knuckled hands and felt cold sweat running down his face; he was dimly aware that his lower lip remained caught between his teeth until the moment that the prince deflected his opponent's final blow before knocking him to the ground with the flat of his sword.

A shout of approval went up from the crowd as Arthur removed his helmet–his own face and hair were wet with sweat–and raised one hand above his head. Merlin relaxed his viselike grasp on the barrier, wiped his streaming brow and turned to find both his mother and Gaius staring at him with consternation.

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Because of the tourney Arthur took his midday meal rather late, in the privacy of his own room. Pouring out a goblet of wine generously mixed with water–it would not do to have one's reflexes impaired in any way during a fight–Merlin decided it was safe to compliment him on his victory.

"You're an idiot, Merlin," Arthur said cheerfully before downing the contents of the goblet. "You know I'll have at least one match this afternoon. More to drink, please."

He was eating sparingly–it also would not do to fight on a very full stomach–but with a good appetite. As Merlin returned with the wine flagon, Arthur deposited a generous portion of his meal onto a second plate and shoved it in across the table.

"Now eat that lot, you," he said severely. "Don't make me lose my temper."

Merlin opened his mouth to protest but the prince stopped him with a look.

Merlin sighed. There were, not surprisingly, moments when Arthur could still be remarkably pratlike, and lately these seemed to occur when the prince was berating him about the need to increase his food intake.

"At least I've never prepared a rat stew especially for you," he had once remarked as Merlin, trying to choke down a very large capon pasty, insisted that this was way more than he could possibly ingest in one sitting.

"Gaius says the Romans used to eat dormice," Merlin had responded in self defense.

"The Romans! And what would you know about the Romans?" came the snooty reply.

"I had an ancestor named Ambrosius," Merlin said modestly, looking at the floor and wishing he could conjure up a Roman great-great grandfather, armor and all, just to spite the crown prince.

Arthur had let out a snort of disbelief but did not pursue the subject, returning Merlin's attention to the massive portion of pasty sitting on his plate and telling him to please just shut up and eat it.

That verbal exchange had taken place less than a week ago, and Arthur was still casting a critical eye over his very slim form and the dark shadows above his cheekbones.

"Merlin, I'm serious," he murmured and Merlin obediently began shoveling pieces of bread and syrup-basted quail into his mouth.

Since first arriving at Camelot he had become accustomed to following the crown prince's orders. As much as their relationship had grown and altered, this was still habit and Merlin did little–at least openly–to change it. He would, he often told himself, make Arthur king, but in the meantime he was still his servant and under obligation to him in many respects. The fact that he had saved the prince's life on quite a few occasions, coupled with Arthur's recent awareness of his magical abilities, leveled the playing field to a slight degree but in their personal interaction Arthur still took the upper hand–it was his nature–and Merlin still followed his lead. It was not as if he never spoke up for himself, for he had always spoken his mind with Arthur and, from the very beginning, had refused to be completely intimidated by him. But even now Arthur couldn't resist the temptation to bully him from time to time–affectionately of course–and Merlin found that it didn't really bother him, although he was far more likely to push back than he had been in his early days at court.

"This is more than enough, I can't eat another bite," he finally said with his mouth full, challenging the prince to contradict him. And indeed his stomach–flat as a board to the eye–felt on the verge of bursting.

Arthur leaned back in his chair and grinned.

"Very well," he said, looking Merlin up and down for a second time. "Just remember that Gwen's going to bring you extra pudding from the banquet this evening."

Merlin groaned.

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The banquet was lavish. Boar, roasted swans, fish in aspic (Arthur wrinkled his nose at the sight), pigeon pie, and a countless number of accompanying dishes, sauces, and confections loaded the high table. Even personal attendants of the visiting nobles had been pressed into service for this event, and as Merlin hurried back and forth from the kitchens to the dining hall he rubbed elbows with strangers clad in the livery of their respective lords. The maidservants of the visiting noblewomen had been permitted to attend their mistresses at the feast, and on more than one occasion Merlin caught Arthur's disapproving stare as one or another of these young women attempted to make conversation with the prince's manservant.

Arthur had won his final round of swordplay in the afternoon, and had been–as usual–named tournament champion. He was pleased, and swaggered a little on his return from the field, but Merlin had given him credit for not being overly smug (as he sometimes was) about the outcome of his matches. Now, seated next to the king of Rheged, he was making up for his modest midday meal by devouring what looked to be vast quantities of food while making conversation with the guests around him. Two seats away, Uther was arguing issues of land management with the earl of Glastonbury, whose buxom daughter was glaring daggers at the princess of Rheged.

"Good lord," Gwen said to Merlin as they passed each other in the hallway. "I can't imagine any of those ladies as queen of Camelot, can you?"

"No, I can't," he replied honestly, saving himself at the last moment from falling over one of the visitors' hunting hounds, curled up in the middle of the passage.

"Well it's plain to see that the prince can't either," Gwen added as she steadied Merlin with a hand on his arm. "From what I can see it would take a sorcerer to get Arthur interested in any of them."

This comment left Merlin at a loss for words, but fortunately a parade of servants carrying empty platters and bowls emerged from the dining hall and Gwen was literally swept away in their midst.

The banquet was followed by dancing in the great hall, where scores of candles and torches in sconces brightened the vast space. The crown prince dutifully danced with all of the visiting ladies–the candidates, as Morgana persisted in referring to them–and spoke with their fathers while Uther watched. The castle servants, Merlin and Gwen among them, peered through the door as the richly attired nobles paced, wheeled, and bowed in the dance, the gems on the ladies' kirtles and in their hair catching the light.

"I think Morgana's the prettiest," Gwen whispered to Merlin and he could only agree with her.

As there were two more nights of feasting to come, and the tourney participants were patently exhausted, the dancing came to an end before midnight. As feasters and dancers staggered off to bed and red-eyed servants began to clear the tables and sweep away scraps, Merlin fetched towels and hot water and carried them to Arthur's chamber. He was expecting little more than a sleepy good night from the prince, but as he was about to leave Arthur stopped him.

For someone who had triumphed at a tournament and then spent the evening as the center of attention from visitors and castle folk alike, Arthur was looking particularly pensive. This was not, Merlin knew, an expression that he wore very often, except when he was very tired, or confused, or at odds with his father over some ethical or political decision to be made "for the good of Camelot." Now Arthur looked up and down the hallway, making certain that no one was within view. Satisfied, he turned his face toward Merlin, a look of drowsy anticipation in his half-closed eyes.

In their handful of intimate encounters–certainly in matters of lovemaking, or even mere kisses and caresses–Merlin rarely took the initiative, leaving it to Arthur to make the first move as Arthur did in so many other aspects of their life. This was due as much to his own relative lack of experience as to his consciousness of the social gulf that lay between them. It was easier to wait for Arthur to approach him. On this occasion, however, Merlin could tell an invitation when he saw one, so (after glancing along the hallway as Arthur had done) he leaned forward and pressed their lips together until he realized that lack of air was making him feel dizzy.

A group of revelers–very much the worse for drink–staggered past them down the corridor, and Arthur, yawning, uttered a loud "Good night, then!" in Merlin's direction as he began to close his door. Before it was quite closed, he said quietly "Tomorrow noon," and put out his hand, dropping something cold and heavy into Merlin's.

It was the iron key to Morgana's storage chamber.

Hurrying back to his own room, a sputtering torch in one hand and the key in the other, Merlin could only pray that neither Gaius nor his mother would be lying in wait to pounce on him with questions about his personal life when he got there.