London

Planning for war is always a difficult task, for there is so much uncertainty that it is hard to know firstly whether the war will even take place, and then how many men will be required, when it will take place, where it will take place – it is a job for a clever strategist, and it was therefore fortunate that on the throne of England there sat an intelligent man who was experienced in planning battles. After all, had he not led armies at Tewkesbury and Barnet? And had those armies not won, seizing an overwhelming victory after entirely crushing the enemy?

King Richard III had learnt the art of war from a very early age. He had been merely eighteen at Tewkesbury, after all. The heady sense of chivalry that was gained from such matters also attracted him – he felt as though he was a warrior of legend, a true knight, that had he been alive in the time of King Arthur, he would have sat at the Round Table itself.

Or at the least, such had been his glorious thoughts before King Arthur himself had turned up in his court.

He knew that this legendary king had been a commander at numerous battles, and that Merlin was a clever man, and so both of them were at his side during his preparations. Merlin had quietly reminded the king that Arthur had lost at Camlann – not truly through any fault of his own, of course, but treachery on the battlefield could never be ruled out, and had a tendency to scramble even the most immaculate plans. Arthur had been somewhat honoured that the king had chosen him as an advisor, but he could not help but feel a slight resentment at not being in charge.

Richard III had heard Arthur refer to him as "a scholar, surely, not a fighter". He hadn't told him that he had overheard this, merely kept his indignant feelings to himself. He hadn't quite expected such an overbearing streak in the man who had for all of his childhood been his hero, and had been quite surprised to find that he got on better with Merlin, but in war it is best to sacrifice all personal feuds and concentrate on the enemy against which all three of them were at that time united.

Since that one, key announcement that there was a magician on Tudor's side, nothing seemed to have been said regarding this particularly pressing matter. Merlin was extremely cautious about this: as he said, there were three possibilities. One: that this magician did not exist. Two: that this magician did exist, but he possessed no or little magic. Or three, the most worrying of them: the magician existed, and was capable of powerful magic, but required this time to think up a devastating plan, a surprise attack perhaps. Many times Merlin had tried to detect this magician using any way he deemed suitable – there had been one time when he had poured a jug of water into a bowl, and cast some sort of spell over it, and a face had begun to appear, only to be swept away by a stream of dark bubbles, as if a cloud was forming in the dish; another time he had enchanted a mirror and stepped into it to see if he could get to France, but when he returned, he was dripping wet and said that he had instead ended up in the Lake District. He was inclined to blame his own magic, and said that perhaps his powers did not extend to such magic as he was attempting. Richard III was not sure, and said that a curious darkness had lingered around the bowl and the mirror, darkness that Merlin knew he had not created.

Nevertheless, Richard III had sent further spies to France, and in awaiting their return there was a very dissatisfying lull in matters that seemed to weigh heavily on their shoulders.


Merlin was very cautious about using magic around Arthur. The first time he had cast a spell before him, he had found himself turning slightly away from him, so as to hide the glow in his eyes – a habit that he still had from the times long ago when those with his powers had been so persecuted. But Arthur knew that he had magic, and said very little when he saw it performed; it was only when they returned to Arthur's lodgings one evening that Merlin dared to ask him what his thoughts were on magic now.

'I...' Arthur began, and blushing a little, he stared into the fireplace whilst he thought up an answer. 'Merlin, I can't say that I'm not guilty about... well, everything, I suppose. You yourself know that I was unreasonably harsh on magic, even after my father's death...'

Merlin nodded and could not meet his eyes.

'I like to think that had you shown me your magic at that time, I would have accepted it, because you were a friend...' He swallowed. 'You and I know that sadly that wouldn't have been the case. And for that I'm sorry. I think my father had some influence over my views: I think I inherited his distrust, and to be fair, the uses of magic I have come by have nearly always been bad.' He was aware that he was making excuses now: to his great relief, Merlin did not seem to scorn this

'To be fair,' his friend agreed with a casual shrug. 'I suppose you were nearly killed several times by magicians.' He tried to smile, but it was not truly genuine.

'Yet now I see good magic for what it is. I think you changed my mind... in my final moments, you changed my mind.'

They both sat back for a long while, remembering. Even now that Arthur sat before him, alive and well, Merlin still found that tears crept to the corners of his eyes when he thought on his friend's death. He was almost deliriously glad that it had not proved to be the end.

'And now I see that your magic is useful, very useful... But at the same time, if there is a magician on the enemy side as well, I cannot say that I completely trust magic and magicians.'

'Nor do I,' murmured Merlin. This matter of the French magician admittedly still weighed on his mind. A descendant of Morgana and Mordred! If that was possible (which, to be honest, he doubted) he did not know whether this man might in fact wield greater powers than his. Magic was passed down through the generations, but did not become diluted, rather showing itself at random in the family tree, and in various degrees of strength.

'But this is the situation, and I suppose we can't deny it, only work with it,' Arthur said. 'I've faced difficult challenges before,' he added breezily, unable to resist a small boast.

'Yes, and I've usually been the one to get you out of them,' Merlin grinned.

At this, Arthur glared indignantly (but good-naturedly) at him. 'The number of times I've had to save your neck... I think we're at least equals.'

'Yeah, but you didn't have to clean my boots or polish my armour,' retorted Merlin chuckling. 'Though admittedly, I did use magic for that quite a lot...'

'You used magic to do your chores?' Arthur raised one eyebrow. 'You mean to say you never did any actual work? No wonder you were always so damned chirpy. I knew you were lazy, but...'

'It's hard work, doing magic,' Merlin protested, but in his mind's eye he could see himself lying on his bed with his nose in a book whilst armour and boots cleaned themselves around him.

'Oh, really?' Arthur said, grinning. 'Well, it never seemed to take much of a toll on you. Morris was always ready to collapse after a week of hard work.' He paused. 'And having magic never seemed to improve your status as the worst servant Camelot had ever seen.'

'Hey!' cried Merlin, and his eyes flashed. A moment later, the boot-scrubber from the front door flew in through the window and began to shine the boots that Arthur were still wearing, forcing him to wave his legs around as they scrubbed different parts of the boots. When the boots were so clean that they shone, Merlin flicked his wrist a little and made the scrubber first scrub Arthur's trousers, then his gloves.

'All right!' laughed Arthur. 'Merlin-that-tickles-stop-it.'

'Not until you call me the best servant that Camelot had ever seen,' Merlin told him.

The scrubber moved upwards, now getting the dirt from the boots all over the doublet that Arthur had quickly become rather fond of. 'Merlin-make-it-stop!'

'Say it,' Merlin commanded him.

'That-would-be-lying,' Arthur gasped out in between involuntary giggles.

Merlin made the scrubber rub Arthur's nose extra hard.

'All right!' Arthur cried. 'You were the best servant I ever had, I mean the best Camelot ever had.'

The scrubber fell to the floor with a crash. Merlin looked at Arthur almost affectionately.

'Well, I'm glad we cleared that up,' he shrugged with a smile. Then, picking up the scrubbing-brush: 'Magic does have its uses, you have to admit. Anyway, I needed a bit of practice.' He thought for a moment. 'Do you know, if the worst comes to the worst, I could always scrub Henry Tudor to death.'