A/N:
I'm sorry. I know, I know, it's been almost five months. *cringes and ducks as rotten vegetables sail past overhead* In my meager defense: I was juggling a busy season at work + a month-long mental health episode + plot bunnies and a lack of self-control regarding said plot bunnies + slowly crossposting fics to AO3 (and currently painting illustrations for one of them) + [insert any one of the ridiculous current events between mid-Oct 2020 and late Feb 2021]. Ok...I think that about covers it. :) FWIW, I will be posting Ch. 102 in a much more timely fashion because it's already written (I'd initially grouped it with Ch. 101 into one massive 8k-word uber-chapter before splitting it into parts 1 and 2). I just need to finish some editing; I expect to post it in about two weeks, schedule allowing.
Anyway, if you've forgotten where we left off (which is understandable; again, almost five months), but you don't want to go back and re-read a chapter or two, here's a micro-recap of one week's worth of plot (spanning Ch. 93-100):
Gaius left for Sheffield on Saturday afternoon because they'd received word that Uther had been injured. At midday on Monday, Gwen received a coded letter from Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, which they'd mailed via the Druid equivalent of the Pony Express on Saturday; Gwen sent her reply on Tuesday morning. Aredian spent the week communicating with his mysterious contact and making Merlin's life as miserable as possible, culminating in three straight days of torture (Wednesday AM to Saturday AM) until Morgana successfully navigated a series of political negotiations to get the council to enact a ban on torture. (Aside: Several astute reviewers noted that Sir Marrock didn't tell Merlin exactly how Morgana had managed to secure the final councilor's vote that she'd needed. More on that in Ch. 102!) Therefore, Merlin was finally safe from further harm, but he was still in the dungeons and still partially paralyzed. To make matters worse, when Merlin regained consciousness at the end of Ch. 100 (Saturday night), he accidentally told Marrock about Morgana's magic. However, because Merlin was really out of it when he first woke up, it remains to be seen whether he will remember that he told Marrock. Morgana doesn't know that Merlin told Marrock, and she still doesn't know that Merlin is Emrys. Ch. 101 backfills what was happening outside of Camelot during that week, and the next chapter will pick up in Camelot with the fallout from the events of Ch. 100.
Credits: I don't own Merlin, the fabulous cover art belongs to AlexandarCho of deviantART (used with permission), and the chapter title for this chapter and Ch. 102 comes from Mumford and Sons' Below My Feet (recommended listening for both of these chapters if you feel the need for a thematic soundtrack).
ON WITH THE FIC!
Chapter 101: For All My Sweat, My Blood Runs Weak (Part 1)
Arthur glanced up as Gwaine sat down beside him on a log in the meeting circle, a cup of llaeth dafad in one hand and slab of bara brith in the other.
"Here," Gwaine said, tearing off a chunk of the bread and offering it to Arthur.
More like foisted it on him, actually, as Arthur idly wondered which blushing cook Gwaine had sweet-talked into giving him the snack. Gwaine took a big bite of the bread and washed it down with a swig of the milk before getting on with whatever it was he was here to say. Setting down the cup, Gwaine glanced over at Arthur.
"So," he said, flicking a few crumbs off his knee, "Your lady love will get our letter today, probably."
"What? She's—but—" Arthur sputtered, flailing about for a suitable response to Gwaine's teasing insinuation and nearly dropping the hunk of bread and his staff in the process.
Does he only mean the fake letter, or—? He certainly wanted to be more than just whatever he and Guinevere were—well, whatever we had been, before all of this—but now he didn't dare presume.
He settled for deflecting.
"Guinevere should get the letter today, yes, if all goes well. That's what Isolde said when they arrived back in camp last night."
"So it'll still be another two, maybe three days until we hear back from Gwen?"
"Yes," Arthur muttered, taking a large bite of the bread so he wouldn't have to elaborate.
I hate waiting. He desperately wanted to plan, to train, to hunt, to do something. His fist tightened of its own accord, crushing the remaining chunk of bread. Anything would be better than just sitting here.
"So," Gwaine mused, "No new ideas since yesterday?"
"No." Not that I haven't tried to come up with something, he thought, finishing off the last, squished bite of bara brith.
"Me neither," Gwaine admitted with a sigh. "Not a lot of rescue-planning we can do until we know for sure what's going on in Camelot."
"No," Arthur agreed, brushing the crumbs off his hands before they reflexively curled around the handle of his staff, worn smooth in the spot where he'd worried at the grip.
And even if we did, I don't know what I could—
"Right, then," Gwaine said briskly, cutting off Arthur's spiralling thoughts. "I'm going to ask around; see how I can make myself useful until then."
Gwaine stood again and dusted off his trousers.
"Wait," Arthur blurted.
Gwaine paused, one eyebrow raised. "Yes, Princess?"
"Uh, take the others with you. No sense in all of us sitting around until then."
The question in Gwaine's eyes melted away as his gaze flicked briefly to Arthur's splinted leg.
"Go on," Arthur said brusquely, gripping his staff tighter.
"Yes, sire."
This time there was no teasing in the honorific. With a quick nod, Gwaine turned and headed off to round up the rest of Arthur's knights.
Arthur sighed, dropping the staff on the ground, and put his face in his hands. A moment later—or maybe several minutes, Arthur honestly wasn't sure—Lancelot's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Sire?"
Startled, Arthur glanced up to see Lancelot standing in front of him.
Already your reflexes are growing lax, his father's voice scolded in his thoughts.
This time, the Guinevere-voice wasn't there to counter it.
Brilliant, Arthur thought. As if I didn't feel useless enough already.
"What is it, Lancelot?" he asked, directing his full attention at the knight in an effort to drown out the litany of grievances his father's voice was so helpfully supplying.
"Gwaine said you wanted us to help out around the camp?"
"Yes. We're imposing on their hospitality, and we'll be here a minimum of three more days." Arthur exhaled heavily. "Probably longer. I want you all to pitch in however you can."
"Of course, sire," Lancelot replied. "One of the cooks asked if we'd hunt for some fresh game…but, um…"
He cleared his throat and shifted his weight. Arthur didn't want to imagine how pathetic he must look for Lancelot to feel that uncomfortable in his presence.
"Um, it won't take five of us to put supper on the table," Lancelot managed at last. "If you'd like, one of us could stay and—?"
Arthur waved off the offer. "No sense in any of you being idle, too. I'll be fine."
"But—"
Just then, Isolde stepped into the meeting circle, balancing a heavy basket on her hip, and interrupted their conversation.
"Would you be willing to give me a hand, m'lord?"
Arthur pulled himself out of his dark thoughts and glanced up at her.
"Huh?" he said, cursing his own ineloquence.
Isolde glanced at Lancelot before continuing.
"I figure you know your way around a blade, m'lord, and one of the cooks just handed me this whole bushel of tatws—sorry, potatoes—to peel for tonight. I could use a hand, if you're willing."
"Oh, um, of course."
He gripped his staff and braced himself to stand, but Isolde stepped forward.
"No need," she said cheerfully, setting down the heavy basket before striding back out of the circle as she added, "I'll just go grab another basket for the peeled ones. Won't be a minute!"
Arthur turned his attention back to Lancelot with a rueful smile.
"Go on, then. Make yourselves useful, all right?"
Lancelot's eyes brimmed with compassion. "There are many ways to contribute, sire. I don't believe there's more honour in one role or another; we must all work together for the camp to flourish."
Arthur nodded vaguely. Lancelot held out a hand and Arthur clasped his forearm reflexively.
A warrior's gesture, Arthur thought, except I'm not a warrior anymore, am I?
Lancelot took his leave just as Isolde returned, carrying a basket and sack. Sitting down beside Arthur, she arranged the baskets and sack within easy reach, then pulled two short knives from her boot. Flipping one over in her hand, she offered it to him handle-first. He accepted it and immediately felt a bit more like himself.
What does that say about me, that I don't feel right without a blade in my hand?
It could say a lot of things, he supposed, but in light of his leg…well, it probably didn't bode well.
He made a pretence of looking at the paring knife's craftsmanship—which was actually quite decent—and surreptitiously watched how Isolde approached this task before them. After all, he'd field-dressed plenty of wild game, but he'd never done this.
He picked up a potato and sized up his opponent.
You've faced worse, he told himself firmly and began to peel.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
A quarter of the way through the bushel, Isolde said, "When I was little, my mum and aunt always made a game of this, especially when we had lots and lots to peel. At that age, I wasn't much for sitting still, so they had to find ways to keep me engaged."
She laughed at the memory.
"My mother tried everything—scolding, cajoling, bribing, the works. It was miserable for both of us until one day my aunt—Drustan's mum—decided to make a game out of it."
Arthur scrunched up his nose. "How do you make a game of peeling potatoes?"
"Any sort of competition would do. My favourite was when she taught me how to do this."
Isolde triumphantly tossed the peeled potato into the basket and held up the peel—in one long, continuous ribbon.
"Took me nearly a bushel of practice at that age, but now I could do this with my eyes closed," she said, tossing the ribbon into the bag of peels. "That particular game went over better with my mum than some of the others."
"Like…?"
"Competing to see who could peel the most potatoes in a given amount of time."
"Ouch."
"Yes, Mum wasn't too pleased about having to patch up a bunch of cuts just because I couldn't stand to lose."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Just as they finished the last of the potatoes, Tristan approached, carrying a large, carefully-balanced armful of weaponry.
"My love," he greeted Isolde with a sincere smile over the top of the pile, then turned to acknowledge Arthur.
"My lord."
It was anything but sincere—a darker, sharper echo of Merlin's taunt in the marketplace, back when they'd been barely more than strangers. Arthur hadn't been able to let that challenge go unanswered, so naturally a mace-fight had ensued. Now, as Arthur set aside the paring knife and met Tristan's disdainful eyes, the dull ache in Arthur's calf pointedly reminded him that he really couldn't take the mace-approach-to-conflict-resolution today, not even if he'd wanted to.
"Tristan," Arthur said evenly, returning the nod.
Without preamble, Tristan dumped the armful of weaponry in a heap at Arthur's feet.
"Don't know if you're aware, but here—among us commoners—everyone pitches in, does their bit, you see? Figured you'd have some time on your hands, so you can make yourself useful and clean that lot."
Arthur eyed the large mound of weaponry.
"I thought the Druids were supposed to be peaceful," he said without thinking.
"Oh, they are, for the most part, " Tristan said lightly, "but I'm not a Druid."
He dusted off his hands, then added, "Oh, you'll be needing these."
He pulled a polishing rag and a small, corked bottle from the pockets of his long coat and tossed them simultaneously at Arthur, who caught them both on reflex. Tristan sniffed, unimpressed.
"I trust you know how to use those," he said, then strode off without waiting for a reply, leaving Arthur staring after him with raised eyebrows.
"What, for the love of Camelot…?" he muttered, dropping his gaze to the pile.
There were five swords—three long and two short—a pike, at least a dozen knives of various shapes and sizes, plus a woodcutter's axe thrown in for good measure. Frankly, a mace was the only thing missing from the arsenal at his feet.
Bit ironic, he thought with a sigh as he reached down and picked up the first of the throwing knives.
"You don't have to listen to him, you know," Isolde said.
Arthur nearly dropped the knife, having all but forgotten that she was there after the conversation—if it could even be called that—with Tristan.
"He has a point, though," Arthur replied, not looking up as he balanced the knife on his lap before uncorking the small bottle and giving it a suspicious sniff.
"So did Lancelot," she countered. "You're more than just a warrior, Arthur."
"Perhaps," he acknowledged.
Satisfied that Tristan wasn't having him on by giving him rancid raw linseed oil or something equally unsuitable for oiling the blades, Arthur set aside the bottle and focused on cleaning the knife with the soft rag.
Isolde was undeterred. "I'm certain you will be a great king, my lord, and not just because the prophecies say so."
"That's rubbish," he bit out, rubbing at a dull spot on the blade with rather more force than necessary. "How can I bid my men to stand in defence of Albion when I myself cannot stand? Who would follow me now?"
"I would."
"Why?" He couldn't bring himself to look at her.
"Because I've met you," she replied without hesitation. "Because I've seen the way your knights respect you."
He shrugged and focused on applying a thin, protective coating of the boiled linseed oil to the clean blade before setting it aside.
As he picked up a short sword and began the process again, Isolde continued, "And also because Drustan told me what you said about the kind of kingdom you hope to build."
She glanced down at the short sword Arthur was buffing to a respectable shine with easy, practised movements.
"And because," she added with a teasing spark in her eyes that reminded him a bit of Guinevere, "you weren't so spoiled that you never learned how to care for your blades."
"But, but that's just—every warrior should—"
She cut him off as though he'd somehow proved her point, adding, "Nor are you too proud to deign to polish someone else's weaponry."
He glanced down at the growing pile of clean, oiled weapons on the bench beside him.
"Give it time, Arthur," she said softly. "Tristan'll come around; he has his reasons, but it's not your fault. As for what the future holds, well…I hope one day you too will see what the rest of us see in you."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Gaius' back creaked audibly as he climbed down from the cart, beyond grateful to see the end of the four bone-jarring days spent rattling up the Great North Road from Camelot. I'm far too old for this sort of thing anymore, he thought as he straightened his protesting spine. The recent addition of metal rims to the wooden wheels—while a vast improvement in durability—did absolutely nothing for passengers' comfort. Might be worse, in fact, he thought, sparing a stiff glance for the ashen sky above. It hadn't rained since yesterday—sometime after they'd passed Markham Moor—but the unbroken dome of heavy clouds still threatened to add to their misery.
"Gaius," Sir Bertrand greeted him, relief evident in every tired line on his face.
"I came as soon as I heard," Gaius replied, pulling his medicine kit from the back of the cart. "How is he?"
"He's…" Sir Bertrand trailed off, then swallowed hard as he evidently searched for the right words.
"Worse," he said at last. "He's worse."
"Where is he?" Gaius asked quickly.
"This way," Sir Bertrand replied, jerking his head toward the centre of the camp.
Gaius followed close on his heels as Sir Bertrand led the way quickly through the camp, dodging tents and cookfires with urgency as he relayed the details to Gaius.
"The king, well, first he was injured—maybe bruised or broken ribs—when a wyvern knocked him from his horse. He fought with Emrys for several hours—it was single combat because the wyverns—"
"Formed a ring, yes, I know."
"Wait, how?"
"Aredian gave a report."
"Oh, that's where he took some of my best knights and slunk off—sorry, I just meant that—"
Gaius cut him off to avoid agreeing with him about the vile man who might at that very moment be inflicting further harm on Merlin back in Camelot.
"Sir Bertrand! The king's condition, if you please?"
"Right! Um, I don't think he was further injured in the fight, but—"
A couple of soldiers dove out of Sir Bertrand's way as he barreled through the clearing in the middle of the camp with Gaius in his wake. Ahead, Gaius spotted the standard indicating the king's tent as Sir Bertrand picked up his train of thought.
"But then, after Emrys fell—"
Gaius struggled to hide his pained reaction, but Sir Bertrand was so focused on his tale and their destination that he didn't seem to notice.
"—the wyverns attacked in earnest. One pinned him down and—we think, at least—he was bitten."
Gaius inhaled sharply.
Not good, not good at all. The potency of their venom is legendary.
Slowing the pace and lowering his voice as they approached the tent, Sir Bertrand continued, "It all happened so quickly; we barely managed to get him out alive. The fell beasts pursued us clear down to the border."
He stopped a few paces from the tent and turned back to face Gaius, dropping his voice even further.
"By then, he'd lost so much blood that he'd nearly passed out. We were able to staunch the bleeding in time, but by then…" Sir Bertrand glanced over his shoulder at the king's tent and exhaled heavily before concluding, "By then, the delirium had set in."
Definitely bitten, then, Gaius thought, his heart sinking as Sir Bertrand continued.
"The battlefield healers, the local barber-surgeons—we've tried everything, and nothing's—" Sir Bertrand broke off, looking at Gaius earnestly with a desperate plea in his eyes. "So that's why I sent for you."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Despite waiting anxiously for a total of four and a half long days to see if Gwen would reply to his—their—fake love letter, Arthur simply stared at the envelope after Isolde had handed it to him and then left the meeting tent to deliver the rest of the letters throughout the camp. It took several long moments and a couple of deep breaths before he could bring himself to open it.
What if Rhiannon's wrong? What if Merlin's not really—
Arthur wasn't sure which was more devastating: if Merlin had died—especially before Arthur could thank him for everything—or if Merlin had lived.
He swallowed hard. Eternity is an awfully long time.
Pushing the incomprehensible idea from his mind the way he'd learned to push aside distractions before going into battle, he broke the seal on the letter and unfolded it. With a lingering glance at the careful lines of Gwen's small, orderly script, he cleared his throat and read the letter aloud to the rest of his knights.
Sir William,
I was surprised to receive your letter, my lord, but it was a pleasant surprise indeed! I would be honoured to continue a formal correspondence with you until such time as you may have the opportunity to return to Camelot. I hope I am not too bold in admitting that I have thought of you often as well, and I am grateful to hear that your injury is improving. I will of course convey your gratitude to Gaius when he returns to Camelot (although I am unsure when that will be, as he only left for Sheffield on Saturday).
My lady sends her warm regards and wishes you and your squires good health and safe travels. She has specifically requested that I should convey her offer of hospitality and 'a welcome fit for a king!' when you next return to Camelot.
Winter is slowly taking hold here—though I am sure the chill is worse up where you are. Have you seen any redwings flying south yet? I've been expecting a flock, but so far only a few have arrived.
I'm sorry to report that I am unable to send your favourite shield to you at this time. It seems it was very badly damaged in the tournament and has been placed in storage in the armoury. It will be difficult to transport it without mending it first. Unfortunately, mending it may take some time, especially since the best armourer was called away to tend to the king's armour. I fear your shield may incur further damage waiting in the armoury to be mended, as conditions are poor. (My lady is likewise concerned about the state of the armoury; she wishes to make improvements but has unfortunately encountered obstacles.) If you have the means to send artisans skilled in smithing to fetch your shield, that might be for the best. I am eager to assist in any way I can; you need only ask, my lord.
Your faithful servant,
Guinevere
When Arthur finished reading it, Elyan whistled under his breath.
"There's a lot in there to unpack."
Arthur nodded, skimming back to the beginning of the message.
"Well, I have to say," Gwaine announced, "that I look forward to meeting your lady love, Princess. That letter's impressive."
"She certainly is. Impressive, I mean…" This time, Arthur didn't deflect Gwaine's teasing, though he still didn't quite dare to hope. "Impressive, and, um, competent, and smart, and—"
"So," Elyan interjected, rescuing Arthur before he could properly put his foot in his mouth, "Gwen's agreed to be our go-between. That's great."
"It's a first step towards rescuing Merlin," Gwaine agreed.
Arthur nodded, relieved and grateful that Merlin was alive, while trying not to think about the long-term. Before Arthur could jump ahead to thinking about rescue logistics, though, Percival spoke up.
"But why would Gaius go to Sheffield?"
"The bit about the best armourer—that's meant to be Gaius, isn't it?" Lancelot speculated.
"Oh!" Leon exclaimed suddenly, and all eyes turned to him. "Redwings…that must be the army!"
Lancelot hmm'd. "Then they've not made it back to Camelot yet, or—"
Gwaine interrupted, "—or only Aredian and the ones who took Merlin—"
Arthur's chest constricted as the realisation hit him like a kick in the ribs. "They must be camped near Sheffield, because my fath—the king is injured."
There was a heavy pause as they processed that epiphany. No one seemed willing to break the silence before Arthur did, but he honestly didn't know what to say or think, let alone feel.
Elyan tentatively broke the silence at last. "Sounds like it," he said cautiously. "Regardless, if the king and the army haven't returned to Camelot yet, that means Morgana's still regent…"
Lancelot picked up the thought. "…Which means we'll have a better chance of getting Merlin out of there."
"Sire," Leon interjected quietly, "may I speak to you privately for a moment?"
Arthur nodded, handed the letter off to Elyan, and limped out of the tent with Leon close behind.
"What would happen," Leon asked, stepping close and dropping his voice, "if the king were to pass without pardoning you or reinstating your title?" Leon shifted his weight uncomfortably before adding, "I'm sorry to even ask, but if Gaius was sent for, then his injuries must be grave indeed."
Arthur nodded—a stiff, choppy gesture—which Leon apparently took as permission to continue.
"Would Morgana even be able to reinstate you if she became queen? Because doing so would all but guarantee she'd have to step down from the throne."
Arthur sighed. "I'm not sure that legal question's ever been tested before. I mean—" He gave an incredulous huff. " —how many monarchs have ever reinstated their rivals?"
Leon's expression shifted from earnest to the impassive mask he only ever wore in council meetings with the king.
"And do you think she's your rival, my lord?"
"I…don't think so; at least I hope not."
Arthur glanced over his shoulder into the tent where the others still crowded around the letter.
"That bit about a welcome fit for a king sounds like she still accepts me and my claim, but I suppose we won't know for sure until I can actually go back to Camelot…whether by her decree or our father's."
The honest truth, he reluctantly admitted to himself as he tried to gauge Leon's reaction, was that he really hadn't had the chance to process any of those things yet—their shared parentage, her magic, her regency, her messages to Balinor and Merlin—or what any of that might mean for their future.
He wondered petulantly how long she'd known about Merlin's magic and his secret identity as Emrys.
Why am I always the last to know these things?
He knew, though, that he wouldn't be able to get those sorts of answers through coded letters, so once again he relegated those questions to the same to-deal-with-later bin where he'd stuffed the entire topic of immortality.
Leon's words drew him back to the present.
"I agree, Arthur," he said, his words warm and his expression open and frank once more. "I think Morgana's message in the letter sounds promising."
With that, they rejoined the others and picked up where they'd left off with the letter.
"We've been talking about the armoury part, sire," Lancelot said, passing Gwen's letter to Arthur and pointing to the section.
Arthur thought Lancelot's fingers might have lingered longingly on the parchment, but he quickly chalked it up to his own petty jealousy and stubbornly refocused on the paragraph Lancelot had indicated.
Repeating bits and pieces under his breath, he quickly skimmed the section.
"…fear your shield may incur further damage waiting in the armoury…conditions are poor…wishes to make improvements…encountered obstacles…"
"What do you think she meant, obstacles? Percival asked.
"Probably Aredian and the council," Leon said.
"He's right," Arthur agreed, not looking up from the page. "Morgana can't just intervene outright; she'd risk jeopardising her own position, which wouldn't help Merlin and which could create a power vacuum now that the king is…"
He trailed off as his eyes landed on a curious phrase.
"If you have the means," he read aloud, "to send artisans skilled in smithing to fetch your shield…"
He glanced around at the others.
"Do you think she picked up on what we'd written about the skilful application of the healing arts?"
Elyan snorted. "Definitely. We're from a long line of blacksmiths; the only reason someone like us would put it that way is if they were really pompous, which obviously Gwen isn't. I'm certain she got the reference."
"So," Gwaine said, "if that's how she's phrasing it, then she thinks it'll take magic to break Merlin out…or to heal him before a run-of-the-mill jailbreak."
"I'm going to pretend," Leon muttered incredulously, "that he didn't just use run-of-the-mill to describe jailbreak."
Arthur opted to focus on addressing Gwaine's point rather than taking the time to commiserate with Leon, much as he'd like to.
"If it's the latter—if he just needs a healer first—then why couldn't Merlin heal himself, or have Morgana do it for him? Why ask us?"
"Warded cuffs," Percival said, and all eyes turned to look at him. "There are rumours—horror stories, really—that people like Uther and Aredian have means to defend against spells or tools to suppress sorcerers' magic."
"They're not just rumours," Gwaine said darkly. "Some of the things I've seen in my travels…"
His jaw twitched at the memory.
"There are plenty of ways to subdue someone with magic…if you're willing to be cruel enough."
"Is that why Aredian was openly taunting Merlin at Pontefract?" Arthur asked. "Because he clearly knew what Merlin was capable of, yet he still…"
He trailed off as suddenly a lot of things made a lot more sense, not just about Aredian and Halig, but also about his father and the Purge and the vaults and—
Gwaine's next words distracted Arthur from his series of epiphanies.
"And Morgana may not have the skill, or the opportunity, to heal him. Either way, we have to get Merlin out, and fast."
Arthur nodded decisively and folded up the letter. "Then we'll need the Druids' help."
A/N:
Ch. 102 will be posted in ~2 weeks. In the meantime, even though I've already written it, I'd love to hear any fun theories you may have about how Morgana finally convinced the last councillor or about what Marrock will do with the secret Merlin let slip. ;)
Chapter notes:
llaeth dafad - Welsh for sheep's milk
bara brith - a type of traditional Welsh bread
tatws - Welsh for potatoes (yes, I'm aware they're anachronistic here, but they existed in canon, so *shrugs*)
Great North Road - a major route that follows an old Roman road ("Ermine Street," later known as "Old North Road" during the medieval period, but I decided the later name "Great North Road" fit better here, so I embraced the anachronism, haha)
wheel engineering - I'm not sure when people started adding metal rims to wheels, so this may also be anachronistic, but I can say from personal experience that they do nothing for passengers' comfort (and they're quite noisy on hard surfaces). Seriously, rubber wheels and spring suspensions are massive improvements.
proper sword maintenance - the Internet simultaneously has too many feelings about appropriate maintenance of replica swords and not nearly enough straightforward info about actual historical practices. I did my best to sift through several vague, semi-contradictory, crowdsourced theories and distill them into something I could use here. So if you're an expert and it seems like Arthur doesn't know the first thing about proper sword care, then blame the author, not Arthur. ;)