Chapter 5: Percival (part 2)
The land of Mercia that surrounded Bayard's stronghold of Tamwyrth was gently rolling hills, fields and meadows rather than thick forests wrinkled with jagged drops and rocky ravines. Tamwyrth itself sat on the greatest rise – which wasn't saying much – in a bend of the river Tame, a wide, slow-moving behemoth that guarded the castle on three sides.
The fourth side faced a series of wide terraces bordered by various tended fruit trees, where the townspeople dwelt in rising levels. A wide short road led straight from castle gates down to training field, overlooked by a watch… well, tower wasn't quite the word for it. Rather a round pavilion with all sides open above a waist-high railing, covered with a conical roof.
The castle itself was wide and low, darker than Camelot, in color of stone and in lack of windows letting daylight into inner rooms. Percival found it hard to get used to Mercian blue everywhere, rather than Camelot red.
Alined's colors were muted, blue-gray that was more gray than blue, his standard divided into quarters of both blue and red. Percival hadn't gotten a good look at the rampant animal featured, but he privately thought it more jackal than lion. Alined's seat of power, he gathered at the welcome feast, their first night, was less than a day's ride from the Mercian capital, somewhat closer to Camelot but smaller than Tamwyrth, therefore less fit to receive both Bayard and Arthur.
Bors and Sindran, as senior knights, were selected to stand in the council chamber for the first day of the king's discussion. Merlin was introduced officially - though Alined's sorcerer was not – and Arthur expected plenty of royal curiosity to be satisfied before he was excused from the proceedings. Bayard's son Wolfrick joined the kings, but the rest of the entourages were invited to make themselves at home – join the the Mercian knights or view the various beauties and interests of the castle Tamwyrth and surrounding countryside.
So Percival and Gwaine and several of the others wandered, much of that first day, looking for any sign of a man who fit the description of Alined's Trickler, but ready to be stopped and questioned by various and sundry Mercians who were curious as to the truth of rumors about magic in Camelot.
For the noon meal he met Gwaine in the castle barracks, as they'd all been instructed, since the kings and their handful of attendants were to dine privately. Hearty fare, and plenty – Gwaine hadn't seen Trickler, hadn't any stories more interesting than Percival's few encounters with the citizenry, and planned to spend the afternoon watching Merlin's back as the visiting sorcerer made himself pleasant to Tamwyrth.
With a slight headache, and the knowledge that he couldn't really help Gwaine in his self-appointed task - and might actually hinder his two friends, if it seemed that Camelot's sorcerer needed two guards – Percival let his feet take him outside the castle.
Clad in his mail and red cloak for ready identification, he wandered down the short wide road, along the row of trees bordering the lowest tier of houses and shops, just above the training field. The faint clash of swordplay and the fainter thump of the archery butts was a soothing accompaniment as he sauntered along, uncomfortably chill in the waning afternoon sun.
Perhaps he should seek some exercise on the training field. Or perhaps the three kings would reach consensus today – their second feast tonight could be their last, and Arthur's party could depart for Gawant on the morrow.
He skirted an unhitched hay cart, and his attention was drawn by a handful of children ten paces ahead of him in the lane, gathered under the wide branches of a crabapple tree. His inclination to smile was checked by the realization that the sounds he heard from them weren't happy playfulness, but jeering – and maybe a note of pleading, too.
Percival hastened his steps to see what was the matter.
The tallest child, and the center of the ring, was a girl on the brink of being a young lady, with dark hair that showed red where the sun caught it, straight until the ends curved to brush her neck and hide her ears. Lady, too; the brown of her high-waisted dress was more bronze than dirt-color, and shone with the subtlety of silk under a matching jacket with embroidery and tassels, that stretched with her arms, upward toward the tree.
Past the group of children, Percival glimpsed a pair of knights with blue-gray tunics, slouched in bored conversation and paying little attention to the situation. He wondered briefly that the girl hadn't called on them for help, but didn't slow his step, seeing that the closest child at the red-haired girl's feet was a curly-haired thing, runny-nosed and weeping tragically.
"I told you to give it back!" The girl stamped the dainty slipper on her foot, without much effect.
A few of the children scattered when Percival passed through their perimeter, and as he approached the tall girl, he could see two more urchins in the low branches of the tree. One of the distant knights glanced him over; he met the man's eyes with a slight bow to convey pure intentions, and neither straightened nor moved from their place.
The nearer one called lazily, "My lady, come away from there…" and the girl gave no sign that she'd heard.
"You give it back right now," she demanded upward again, sounding cross.
"Gahn," one of the tree-climbers sneered. "Wot 'chur gonna do about –"
Percival ducked just slightly, and the dirty-faced lad met his eyes with a noticeable widening of his own. Both boys were well within Percival's reach; they knew it, and the fact that they probably couldn't climb fast enough to evade his grasp. He contented himself with raising his hands to his hips in silent warning.
"Yeah, all right, never mind," the boy said hastily – to Percival, he thought. Shuffling in his position stretched out on the branch, he took his hand out of his ragged jacket – a white scrap of fluff filling his grip.
It mewed piteously as he extended it.
The low excited chatter of the gathered children included the word knight, but the tall red-haired girl was intent on the handful of fluff.
"That's better," she scolded, rising on tiptoe to receive the kitten. "It's cruel of you to steal her pet, and I hope you've learned your lesson and that – you never – do it… again…"
She couldn't quite reach, and the boy couldn't lower the kitten any further without actually descending – which he probably wasn't willing to do with Percival there. Then again, with Percival walking away, he might not be so willing to release the abducted pet.
So Percival lifted up his own hand. The Lady gasped and bumped into him with a startled step back – whirled and retreated, as the boy let the tiny white kitten pass to Percival's temporary guardianship.
He looked down at the urchin still dripping tears – fearful now of him, his size and gender and age – then at the well-dressed girl. Another curve of brown-streaked red hair brushed her raised brows; a rift of freckles crossed her nose. And he couldn't decide what color her eyes were – curiously light but for a dark rim that matched her lashes.
"My lady," he said, gently making it into a question, offering her the kitten with a brief but respectful bow.
"Oh," she said, dropping her eyes to the kitten, who mewed as its head bobbed unsteadily over Percival's thumb. Then the girl stepped forward, reaching to scoop the creature up with both hands.
"Careful," Percival couldn't help saying. The girl paused to meet his eyes – wary of him, but curious and well-mannered. "It's still frightened. It might scratch you."
The girl's hands tipped and softened, to lightly smooth the white fluff; she swayed closer to Percival's outstretched hand to coo to the kitten. "There now. You're not so high – it's not so scary. Come here, sweet," she said to the younger child at Percival's feet. "You speak to her, she knows you, she'll be glad for you to hold her again, yes?"
The child struggled to bare feet, watching Percival rather than the kitten, shy now rather than heartbroken. He wondered if he shouldn't crouch further down, but hesitated to move too much and startle them both.
"See?" the girl said, carefully picking the kitten up from Percival's hand, cradling it and bending to other child's level. "She's safe. She's not been harmed. Say, thank you, Sir Knight."
The child blinked up at him, ducked the curly head again.
The red-haired girl offered Percival a small amused smile, saying gravely in her little friend's stead, "Thank you, Sir Knight."
"My pleasure, my lady," Percival said. Behind him, he heard a shout; maybe Gwaine's voice, calling his name. Caught himself in turning to leave to give a stern look up into the tree. "Find something better to do," he advised the boys.
They mumbled, "Yessir."
He turned on his heel, glimpsing a number of crimson capes at the end of the terrace at the road. That made him hurry, though not all of his companions waited.
Arthur, in the lead, headed down toward the training field dotted with Mercian cornflower-blue. Gwaine – and Merlin in his second-best tanned jacket with brass buttons – lingered while Percival caught up. Gwaine was bouncing on his toes in eager impatience, while Merlin stared pensively into his own thoughts.
"That bad?" Percival asked them in amused sympathy.
"Arthur's not happy," Merlin said softly, his feet moving before he'd finished speaking, to follow their king striding down to the field.
"Hence the training before dinner," Gwaine declared, somewhat needlessly.
Nothing Percival didn't already know about their sovereign. All of Camelot knew, probably, that Arthur's moods were exercised along with his skills and muscles.
"What happened this morning?" he asked, falling in step with them on Merlin's other side. In front of them walked Sir Sindran and Kay the currently untitled knight, still earning back his oath after his attack on Merlin at the king's coronation that spring.
"Alined is oily as ever, promising everything and committing to nothing," Merlin said absently, his eyes fixed ahead of them on Arthur's back. "He pretended surprise to meet me, brushed off an oblique inquiry after Trickler… The sorcerer could be here. He could be dead. Alined wouldn't say. But he was… very flattering."
"To Arthur?" Percival asked.
"To me." Merlin's brows drew together. Gwaine made a sound of disgust and gave a theatrical shudder.
"And the alliance?" They stepped off the paving of the road that rose to Castle Tamwyrth's gate, to the grass of the field; Percival reached to unclasp his ceremonial cloak at the shoulder.
"Arthur thinks he's deliberately delaying, reaching any agreements," Merlin admitted.
"Why, though?" Gwaine said, already rolling up his own cape, careless of the possibility of wrinkles.
Merlin shrugged. "Who knows? Reasons that benefit only himself, probably."
Percival grunted. No one was happy with delays. "What about Bayard, then?"
Both his friends glanced about, but Percival was not so thoughtless as to say the king's name before any of his knights. Ahead of them, Arthur had stopped at one of the weapons tables dividing the wide field into sections where various skills were being practiced. Maces, flails, and battle-axes; Arthur must be in a really foul mood.
"Bayard wants to retract promises of mutual military and practical aid. And instead sign the barest pact of nonviolence. We don't attack them, they don't attack us. And that's it."
Percival was not skilled at politics. "What about trade, then?"
Merlin sighed and shrugged. "To be discussed tomorrow."
"Well, that doesn't make sense," Gwaine said, shoving his cloak into Merlin's waiting arms and drawing his sword to begin preliminary stretching exercises. "It was Uther he was mad at – why take it out on Arthur?"
"Because Arthur isn't Uther," Merlin said, as if that was sufficient explanation.
He turned to Percival, took his cloak also, then left them to stride toward Arthur and the others at the table.
"Nobles, eh?" Gwaine said sardonically. His sword whistled viciously through the air as he swung and stepped his way through the forms – bending and twisting methodically, faster and faster. "Take all day to talk – and don't give you a plain answer – or a decent explanation…"
"They can't all be Arthur," Percival said reasonably, drawing his own sword.
Gwaine grunted, and attacked.
They weren't armed with dull-bladed practice weapons, so both of them avoided clashing blades, instead weaving and spinning and ducking, their edges occasionally singing along chainmail or the opposing blade. Because, Percival knew, Gwaine was quite like Arthur that way – physical activity, the thrill and challenge of combat – was soothing. To feel in control, to achieve victory through pushing harder and moving faster – and then to have the aching weight and weariness, clean and honest, to remind and convince, good had been accomplished.
It might have been a quarter of an hour, or three, til they disengaged and lowered their swords, panting and grinning at each other. Percival was certain Gwaine had gotten in more hits, though they rarely discussed numbers. That didn't matter so much as the action itself, though Percival was both glad and proud that he didn't make it easy for Gwaine.
"What's this now?" Gwaine said, straightening and narrowing his eyes to gaze beyond Percival's left elbow.
He turned to see four knights wearing blue tunics, facing Arthur, Kay, and Sindran across the heavy-weapons table. Merlin was at the corner, his arms full of crimson fabric – no one paying him any attention, but his lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes darted from Arthur to the central figure in blue – dark hair shorter than Leon's, beard fuller than Gwaine's. Behind which, Percival suspected, was a full-blown sneer.
"That's Wolfrick," Gwaine said. "Prince of Mercia."
Older than Arthur by at least five years, and maybe as many as ten, Percival had thought upon their introduction the previous day. Gwaine moved past him, and he followed, if only to keep his hot-tempered and outspoken friend from getting into trouble by himself.
"Well, I see only one way of settling the matter," the blue-clad prince was saying arrogantly. "Cross your sword with mine, and we'll see which is better."
Sword or man? Percival wondered.
"That would not be appropriate, Highness," Arthur said distinctly. "This is no tournament. And peaceful negotiations should not be hazarded to settle scores or satisfy whims."
"The whims of Camelot are legendary," Wolfrick said spitefully – but he turned and said it to the Mercian knight on his left, to avoid giving the offense too directly, and prevent Arthur from calling him on it. "Justice, being one of them."
Arthur stiffened. "Have you an accusation to bring?" he demanded.
Percival watched Merlin lean forward one intent inch.
"Nothing so substantial." Wolfrick waved the air as if dispersing a cloud of gnats. "Rumor has it, that friend and foe alike suffered Camelot's dungeon under its previous ruler – and that it stands perpetually empty under its current one."
Gwaine growled. Sindran's hand was on the hilt of the sword in his belt. Percival felt like laughing in sheer disbelief, that one royal should so blatantly provoke another, at a time like this.
Merlin said, quiet-desperate, "Arthur."
"Ah," Wolfrick said, affecting surprise as he turned to point toward Merlin. "And there is my proof, I think."
"There is proof," Arthu said between his teeth, "that justice in Camelot is not capricious. We judge a man by his own deeds. Not his father's."
Wolfrick's smile slipped, and he cocked his head as if trying to fathom a deeper meaning in the king's words.
"Perhaps," Arthur continued, "the bards of your father's court will astonish us tonight at the feast with ballads of your feats and prowess." He turned away from the table with an air of finality; behind him, the Mercian prince's face purpled under his beard.
"What, like slaying a dragon," he hurled snidely at Arthur's back. "Or marrying a troll?"
Arthur stopped. Behind him at the table, Merlin closed his eyes and tipped his face to the sky. Beside Percival, Gwaine twisted to scan the training field near them – for blunted practice swords, Percival was sure. Because now… The king turned back around, shaking his head. Still shaking his head, as Merlin met his eyes silently, as if to say, You know I can't just let that pass. Merlin said nothing to disagree.
Wolfrick showed his teeth in a grimace of satisfaction.
"In front of these witnesses," Arthur said clearly, "I call you to account for your deliberate insults, baldly and brashly spoken to a sovereign power and a higher rank. Truth aside, your disrespect for my kin and my house and my kingdom intentionally provokes an answer of arms."
"Finally," Wolfrick snapped. "We'll see if you're all talk."
Percival wondered if the prince had not been watching Arthur train. Or if he had that vaunted a view of his own abilities.
Gwaine returned with three blades cradled across his elbows. He offered them first to Arthur as the offended party; Arthur only lifted his chin. Gwaine interpreted the wordless command as Percival would have, and turned to present first choice of weapons to their king's opponent.
Percival back-stepped as Wolfrick chose his weapon, and Gwaine turned to offer Arthur his choice of the remaining two practice-swords. Sindran and Kay did the same, retreating from the weapons-table but keeping their king at the center of a protective circle, as Wolfrick came out from behind it, flanked by his knights and swinging his chosen dull-blade in preparation for the sparring-match duel.
The Mercian crown prince knew what he was doing, that much was immediately apparent, and he was fit – though that, and his greater years, did not necessarily mean more experienced or more skillful.
Arthur stepped to meet him. He'd been exercising already with Kay and Sindran – come to think of it, maybe that was why Wolfrick picked the fight just now – and only spun his sword once at his side, to feel the balance of a new weapon, before settling into a defensive stance that invited the other to begin.
Percival was aware that they were drawing increasing attention across the field, as word spread of who. Mercia's crown prince, and the visiting king of Camelot. He wondered how far the story of Bayard's incarceration at Uther's command had spread.
For a moment the two waited, motionless and intent, each gauging and seeking openings while trying to disclose nothing to the other – though if Wolfrick had been watching Arthur fight, he had that advantage. Percival was familiar enough with Arthur to see that the king was thoroughly irritated with this opponent and still impatient with the situation and lack of progress in the council room, but firmly in control.
And Wolfrick attacked first.
In a flurry of blows – Percival concentrated, separated, and recognized – difficult, tricky, skilled. Studied, chosen, technically perfect – but without the ease or natural grace of instinct. Wolfrick probably had enjoyed the best training from the most proficient masters – but possibly an opponent who hadn't the concern of a subject for his prince, was rare. It could be also that Wolfrick was better used to the controlled setting of tournament-arenas and training-field, than to bandit attacks in deep-forest glens and life-or-death clashes with magic-enhanced armies.
The prince wasn't testing. He was bringing his full complement of skill and training, hard and fast to humiliate as well as defeat.
And Arthur let him. Conserving energy – his was somewhat less, having been exercising already an hour, while Wolfrick was fresh – defending and watching and learning.
"Well struck, my lord!"
"Harder, sire, you have him! Go, now!"
The Mercian knights cheered in appropriate manner – short phrases and clear, though not loud. None of Percival's comrades spoke, watching as Arthur watched, allowing the natives to assume the advantage.
Percival saw the moment Wolfrick realized it.
And the crown prince lost his temper. Abandoned his carefully controlled and ineffectual skills and hammered at Arthur with all his strength and not a little rage.
Arthur allowed that also. Circling, ducking, defending – Percival heard more exultation in the calls of the Mercian knights, more derision in the noises of the gathering observers. But Wolfrick's blade didn't so much as touch the king of Camelot.
In the end, Arthur's offense took three moves, in the space of a single heartbeat. Step close, twist, sling –
Arthur held the pose – feet apart, knees bent, both hands on the sword-hilt, level with his right ear, elbow aloft. The tip of the dull practice blade bobbing in the hollow of Wolfrick's throat with his nervous swallow. His face was red as a beet.
Dead silence. Percival was glad Gwaine had the presence of mind to hold his tongue on his own cheer of victory.
The king's body moved with inaudible panting; he straightened and let his blade drop to his side. Stepping closer to Wolfrick, he offered his hand – which the prince took involuntarily, uncomprehending.
"Let that be an end to it," Arthur said distinctly.
Wolfrick didn't answer, but disengaged. Arthur moved past him to deposit the practice sword on the weapons-table with a clatter, hardly pausing before heading for the edge of the field and the short road to Tamwyrth's gate.
Gwaine fell in at Arthur's elbow, respectfully not-quite-even with the king, and Kay and Sindran close behind, striding in step. That left Percival, not fully comfortable with presenting their backs to the Mercians – and Merlin moving slowly away from the weapons table. The same thought in his mind, by his face.
Merlin exchanged a glance with Percival – and understood his you-go-first expression. The younger man turned, beginning to hurry to catch up with the king; Percival was half a moment slower.
Movement in the corner of his vision, somehow more violent than the disconsolate wandering-away of the knights whose prince was not the victor.
Percival turned his head fractionally, enough to see Wolfrick hurl something from the table – heavy and sharp – with dangerous intent. Murderous intent. And Arthur was too far to be the target, too many men between him and the older Mercian prince.
He bellowed, "Mer-"
The young sorcerer twisted, open hands raised to halt the mace in midair.
Expertly thrown. And Merlin wore no armor. There would have been torn flesh, maybe broken bones, deep and dangerous bruising – and definitely another fine jacket from the king ruined.
At the table, Wolfrick straightened from his attack. Thirty paces distant, Arthur was stopped, turned and watching calmly – his hand on Gwaine's arm to hold the knight in place.
Merlin never touched the weapon. It hovered, floating through the air mere inches from his chest as he stepped back to the table, eyes burning the gold of magic the while.
And the mace settled back into place with a chink-click of metal.
"I believe you've misplaced something, sire," Merlin said to Wolfrick, as clearly and steadily as Arthur had spoken.
No one said anything. Another time, another place, another person, Gwaine might have joked, Your manners, maybe?
Hands at his sides, Merlin made a stiff, formal little bow, then turned and strode to join Arthur – who watched Wolfrick an expressionless moment longer, before tossing his arm casually over Merlin's shoulders for the next half-dozen paces.
Percival lengthened his stride to keep in Camelot's company, but the look on the crown prince's face was subdued thoughtfulness. He hoped that this afternoon's dual test had taught Wolfrick something he'd be willing to learn… But as they approached the short road to the castle gate, Percival noticed that the watch-pavilion was occupied. A handful of knights in the dimmer interior – and two older men at the rail facing the training field, wearing each his own crown.
How much had the other kings witnessed?
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Percival did not consider himself a complicated man – nor did he consider himself one prone to nerves.
But that evening, their second feast at Tamwyrth, Percival could not relax into the padded bench at the end of one of the two long tables, where the knights of Camelot had been seated. It bothered him that he couldn't put his finger on why.
Next to him, Gwaine was already soothing nerves of another sort with a second pouring of mead, slouched on the bench and working himself up to his ridiculous joke about the doe and the buck; Merlin and Kay across the table elbowed each other with a surreptitious smirk at Gwaine's unwitting expense.
"And the doe pretended she wasn't listening, see…" They'd all heard it before; Percival turned his attention outward again.
At the top of the room, a shorter table was lifted above the rest of them on a dais, seating the three kings – Bayard as host in the center, Arthur in clear view and lounging sideways on the arm of his chair. Bored perhaps – Bayard's ability to talk without ceasing apparently rivaled Gwaine's, though the consensus seemed to be, Gwaine was more interesting by far – but that was better than impatient and irritated. And Percival could read no tension in the Mercian king to indicate ill feeling toward Arthur for the incident on the training field. He wondered briefly if he should have told Arthur that their host had seen some, if not all, of his bout with the crown prince. He wondered if Wolfrick and his father had discussed the match, and what had been said. If it truly would be the end of it, as Arthur had suggested.
But still the disquietude would not leave him. Their backs were to the wall; no one could get behind them but the servants. No one was behaving threateningly, or even sullenly. Whatever mood had prevailed in the council room had not affected the company of knights, anyway.
Thinking of servants, Percival noticed that at the end of the high table opposite to Arthur, one of the servants bowed over his silver pitcher to listen to some command of Alined's, and a whisper of definition brushed Percival's unsettled instincts.
"The servants here," he blurted, interrupting Gwaine's joke and catching Merlin's attention, across the table from them with his back to the room. "Are they all Mercian, or did some travel with King Alined?"
None of the servants of Camelot's citadel had come with them. There was a trio of squires to assist the knights of the retinue, and Merlin himself had volunteered to perform Orryn's duties with Arthur, so the curly-haired manservant could remain in Camelot with his family. Otherwise the knights – and Arthur himself; Kay claimed and Bors corroborated, he was much less arrogant and entitled about sharing chores than he used to be – did for themselves and each other.
Merlin twisted on the bench to glance around, as did Gwaine, though Kay scooted and turned away to talk to the other knights.
"Some are Alined's," Merlin concluded. "Though they're all in Mercian livery for the banquet."
There was the faintest expression of distaste on his face; Percival tried to imagine him wearing the colors and symbols of another sovereignty, for any reason, and couldn't.
Merlin added, with more intensity than curiosity, "Why?"
Percival clenched his teeth briefly, as the servant closest to Alined retrieved the king's goblet, to exchange for another, and bore the rejected vessel away on a tray. "A funny feeling."
"Not you, too," Gwaine protested.
At the same time as Merlin said, "I've felt the same thing, tonight. Nothing definite, and I'm keeping my eye on Arthur, but…"
Gwaine lifted his goblet to the high table, and Percival leaned to see Arthur acknowledge the salute with a wry half-smile. Maybe a subdued sigh. Clearly trying to relax and play the part of a pleasant guest.
Well, maybe Percival should make a better attempt to do the same, if Merlin was watching out for their king. And the roast beef and the stuffed quail and the smoked cheese were really quite good. And the mead was heady without being too strong, with an unusual tang Percival had never encountered before.
"Oh, I know what that is," Gwaine claimed. "Elderflower, that's a specialty of Mercia…"
And a servant with a tray – a heavy pitcher, a trio of already-filled goblets – bent over Merlin's shoulder to set one of the cups down by his elbow, retrieving an empty one back to his tray before moving on. Merlin shifted out of his way in an instinctual manner, remaining intent on Gwaine's storytelling – the making of Mercian mead – but Percival watched the servant move along the knights' table, once setting another goblet down, twice pouring from the pitcher to refill a cup already in use.
He couldn't tell if anything was out of the ordinary. And Merlin hadn't alerted to any deviation from acceptable serving-behavior. Aside from his own knighting feast, and Elyan's last month, Percival hadn't ever been to a gathering this formal and august – it grated, just a bit, to keep asking questions like this, when Gwaine at least already seemed to know the answer.
Percival was a firm believer in, Better to keep quiet and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt.
He leaned forward. The silver cup at Merlin's elbow contained the deep red of wine, rather than the golden glow of mead; perhaps Merlin was being afforded a greater honor, served a finer quality of drink, but without fuss or ceremony.
"It's as if," Merlin was saying, "they've decided that I'm a lord in Camelot, and that's how they're treating me. Politely, but distantly."
"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Gwaine responded, tipping his cup back.
"I suppose, but they all watch me, too, like… curious children, expecting magic all the time…"
Percival could not help but think of poison and enchantments, and disruption of alliances. Merlin was keeping an eye on Arthur; who was keeping an eye on Merlin? He leaned forward casually, stretching his arm out in placing his own cup down. Just next to Merlin's.
"You know, you could have a lot of fun with that." Gwaine grinned, his dark eyes bright.
"What have they been giving you?" Merlin scolded, bending forward to check the contents of Gwaine's goblet teasingly.
No way of telling, without testing. No way of mentioning suspicions without accusing. Percival shifted his hand. His cup and Merlin's did not look dissimilar. He could be wrong; he could offend their host, if Merlin was later asked, how did you enjoy the wine. Could he lie and claim a mistake, to keep the peace?
He retreated back onto his bench, lifting Merlin's wine-chalice to drink.
It was sweet and strange, but Percival's experience with wine was limited; it was more expensive than any other drink at any given tavern. He swallowed carefully, again and again – pausing for breath, halfway through. Wine wasn't meant to be guzzled, but nursed, he knew that much. The deep feeling in his belly and the light feeling in his head might be due to that imprudence.
"Well, for tomorrow, Merlin, you might try…"
Percival wondered how the poison had been proved, in the case of Uther's accusation of Bayard. He was easily half again as much as Merlin's body weight – he could assume that a fatal dose for his slender friend might only make him terribly ill. And as long as Merlin was unaffected, he might also hope for the salvation of magic.
He lifted the cup and drank again, deliberately draining it – Gwaine would probably try to swallow any dregs he left behind, and it wouldn't do to have both of them affected. If there was anything wrong with the drink to begin with.
Merlin's voice came to him echoing and distant, down the faintly roaring tunnel of across the table. "Gwaine, that's a terrible idea. Why did Arthur bring you on this trip, if you're just going to…"
Uther had blamed Bayard. Bayard had been arrested. And now, years later, resisted generosity, if not peace. Alined had attempted to start a war with enchantment.
There had been something in the cup. No idea what it was meant to do to a man, but… Percival was a private man, and not unintelligent. It would not be a good thing for him to collapse here, now, in front of everyone.
He braced his hands on the table, got his feet under him, and rose. And nearly tipped backwards over the bench.
"Percival!... My friend!... What are you…!"
"Not feeling well," he managed. His lips and mouth felt molten, and his heart was pounding – though maybe that was due to his knowledge of danger. "Going to… go lie down."
Merlin's face cleared in his vision, mildly alarmed; he was starting to rise. Percival might need him – but if they left together, Arthur might question it…
The thick, hot feeling behind his face began to drain, down his throat and into his chest. He freed himself of the bench and table without a significant stagger. Breath still rushed through his windpipe, back and forth; his heart still pumped blood through his body in thunderous swift rhythm.
Not dying. He felt better, standing. Whatever poison or potion had laced the wine, he could fight it, he could beat it, and foil the enemy plot.
"I'll be all right," he told his friends. "I'll see you later."
"If you're sure," Merlin said uncertainly.
"You're too big to surrender this early," Gwaine objected, equal parts teasing and concern, but he didn't move to rise and hold Percival back; he didn't demand that he resume his seat.
Gwaine was sharing quarters with him. If he could stay awake, he could enlist his friend's help when he came, if it was still needed.
He gave them a grin that was meant to be reassuring; it felt stretched on his face, melted in the heat radiating from deep in his chest. Then turned for the door, touching the wall twice to stay upright. No one called out after him; the tenor of the feast-noise didn't change one tone.
No one else had noticed. He was private, he was safe, there would be no disruptive or disastrous incident.
Heat trickled lower in his belly, growling outward into his arms and lower still into his thighs. It felt not dissimilar to the reaction of a momentary lull in a bandit-skirmish. Energy rushing high, the peculiar exhilaration of life overcoming discomfort of minor wounds – they were nothing, they were victory – blood flowing over his skin as well as through his veins. Never stronger, triumphant and ready to keep fighting the second wave of the assault.
He felt like sprinting. Like giving voice to his fiercest war cry. Like…
Like nothing he'd ever known. He didn't know what it meant, didn't like that this urge was inappropriate to the time and place, as he felt his way along dark unfamiliar halls to his quarters as a guest of the castle.
He paused, leaning on a corner – leaning into the sharp stone of the corner as if that could grant him clarity. The sensation deep in his belly extended claws and plunged them in, doubling him over with a gasp of agony that ricocheted over dark, empty stone. He was glad there was no one about.
Keep going. Out of the maze of corridors, back to his designated chamber and his bed – surely there would be relief to be found there. He could lie down, curl up, moan in his misery with none to hear him…
Once he was moving, claws retracted and nausea rolled back toward the burning drive of battle readiness. He didn't like that.
Perhaps the potion was meant to make him start a fight, injure or kill someone innocent or unsuspecting. Perhaps it was meant to make Merlin do something horrible with his magic – and because Percival didn't have magic, it was… wrong, inside him. Twisting, seeking something that wasn't there.
He tried to turn left at an intersecting hall, convinced of the direction of his room, and his entire body seized, whirling him blindly to the right. The royals' quarters. He didn't belong, but Arthur's assigned chamber was here, and Merlin as his acting manservant would have at least a cot in his antechamber. Maybe that was best, as long as no one else found out. Merlin would come when the feast was over and quench this inexplicable fire…
Which was it, second on the left or third. Did the antechamber have its own door. Was this – rough wood under his fingertips, shuddering separate from the solid stone of the walls – the third door or the fourth.
It felt right. The latch lifted, the door swung inward.
The shadows followed him as he staggered for the light – candle on a side table; it tottered, the pitcher wobbled –
What in hell's name was the poison trying to make him do?
Breath evenly, though his pulse was thundering in his head. Throbbing through his body – he was too hot.
Feverishly his fingers fumbled for his belt – they felt swollen and sensitive – casting it aside, yanking off his tunic. Struggling from the chainmail he usually had a comrade's help with.
It wasn't enough. He ripped at the buttons of the gambeson he'd also removed the sleeves from, writhed his way out of that down to his skin. Kicked off his boots.
Still too hot. He thought he was going to burst like a rotting corpse in the sun.
"Ah, damn," he moaned, sinking to his knees, grabbing at the pitcher and basin on the way down. The candle tipped, rolled, and extinguished itself.
Which was fine. Then he could vomit into the basin – dinner, wine, and poison in a stinking stream of corruption – without having to see any of it. His stomach – throat – mouth burned.
Discarding the basin clattering to the floor, and reaching for the pitcher with unsteady hands, he rinsed his mouth with water and spat in the general direction of the fouled vessel. Then turned the pitcher over his head - it cooled his skin briefly, but he supposed he'd absorbed some of the potion, after all. His heart still hammered his pulse out through his ears, and he couldn't seem to slow his breathing.
Dripping, he pushed to his feet to stumble toward a vague recollection of the large dark shape of the bed. He kicked into it with his shins before he expected it – tried dizzily to remember the placement of furniture in Arthur's guest chamber – and gave up, flopping down.
Too bad if it was Arthur's bed. And if he died before Merlin got here – it would be a relief.
Feeling for the pillow, he dragged it over his head. That served to focus his body's attention on breathing. Sucking in air deliberately through layers of fabric, so as not to inadvertently smother himself –
At some point, Percival passed out.
A/N: I didn't lie when I said you'd meet Percival's intended this chapter… and as that implies his survival, I don't consider this a true cliffie… (feel free to disagree *wink*)
Also. I currently have one (very) long chapter for Lady Sarra's pov. I've contemplated adding a leave-taking scene to round Part 2 out a bit more, but that means I'd probably split it into two chapters, rather than leaving it as one… Let me know, if anyone cares a great deal, whether it should be one and on to Gwaine's section, or two and more complete for Percival's…