Chapter 1
An Honorable Man
"Halt!" shouted Sir Galahad, shoving a man carrying a squawking chicken aside. "Stop, thief!"
Sirs Kay and Percival were on the knight's heels, swords tucked firmly in their sheaths but hands ready to draw them should they be needed. Peasants scrambled out of their path, crying out in alarm. A mother snatched up her toddler only a moment before a tunnel-visioned Kay bowled him over. Squabbling chickens fled, shedding mottled feathers in every direction. A goat was frightened by the sudden commotion, causing him to butt the young boy who led him, which sent him sprawling into a milkmaid, which knocked the milk bucket from her hand and onto the foot of an already hobbling old man. The marketplace was as busy as always, and it was not an unusual sight to see a man chased or a surly goat acting out, so many paid no heed to the event, merely went about their errands and duties.
The thief did not stop, but threw a glance over his shoulder with wide blue eyes. He turned just in time to agilely dodge a mule-driven cart. His blond hair was matted to his forehead with slick sweat, his arm tucked tightly across his midsection. He looked every which way, searching a hiding place, a quick escape, and found it.
The open window was far above his head, but the stack of crates—filled with what he didn't know, nor did he care—below it provided a convenient ladder. He swiftly clambered up and dove in head first, hoping that he hadn't been seen. He heard no shouts directed at him, so he was content to lie where he was for a moment to catch his breath.
A quiet giggle caught his attention, and he craned his head back.
Three young, beautiful women were lounging on a raised bed, smiling at him unshyly. Each of them wore a nightgown, despite it being nearly noon, their skin milky but for the pink flushes on their cheeks. Two of them were blonde and the last a brunette of a chestnut color. And all expressed interest and admiration to him. One corner of his mouth twitched upwards.
"Well, if it isn't Arthur," grinned the brunette, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. "And what brings you here?"
Arthur sat up and adjusted himself so as to lean his back against the wall, grinning charmingly. "Just passing by, dear Mithian. Hello, Elena, Vivian."
"Hello, Arthur," they replied in unison.
"Can we interest you in our services?" Vivian asked, invitingly lifting the hem of her gown to show the length of her unblemished thigh.
Desire filled him at the sight, and he opened his mouth to accept—but they were interrupted by heavy footsteps ascending the creaking wooden stairs. All four of them froze for a moment, but then Elena was clumsily shooting out of bed, ushering him to the cramped wardrobe in the corner that contained all of their dresses and shoes. She shoved him inside, slammed the door on his foot, apologized fervently while he retracted it with an agonized wince, and then firmly closed it. Unable to nurse his wound for lack of moving room, Arthur distracted himself by concentrating on the sound of Elena stumbling back to the shared bed and leaping into it, and the split second later opening of the bedroom door.
"Wake up, girls," snapped a voice that belonged more to a toad than to a woman. "Get on with your chores! You've got clients tonight, don't forget."
They grumbled tiredly, playing their parts: "As if we'd forget," and "Can't chores wait 'til later?" and "My back is sore!" The floorboards creaked under them as they climbed out of the bed—or perhaps Arthur was mistaken; the girls could have been making those noises as they stretched.
The heavy footsteps waddled near the wardrobe. Arthur tensed nervously. His discovery would not be taken well.
"Wait, Mistress!" cried one of the girls, he thought Mithian, but it was too late.
The door swung open to reveal a middle-aged, squint-eyed woman, back bent from years of hard work as a weaver. The brothel mistress let out a loud peal like a panicked horse, dropping the garments she had been carrying to put away. But her surprise quickly gave way to recognition, and then to anger.
"You!" she yelled, reaching in and grasping his ear in a vicelike grip. He didn't bother trying to protest his inhumane treatment, merely staggered after her with a grimace. "I might have known! How dare you, you little street urchin!" Arthur was hardly a little street urchin anymore, but there was no point in telling her that.
The three girls could only watch in dismay as their not-so-secret crush was dragged out of the room and down the stairs, their owner's voice raging like a hailstorm of fire and brimstone. Arthur could do nothing as Catherine tossed him out of the door and into the street, where he landed ungracefully on the cobblestones. With a final spit of contempt, Catherine slammed the door shut, nearly catching the same foot Elena had got.
"Ugh," Arthur groaned, pushing himself up into a sitting position. The knee of his trousers had been torn from the fall. "Damned troll," he muttered, fingering the material. He hadn't the skills to mend it.
"There y'are!" A strong hand grasped the back of his brown jacket and hauled him to his feet, the man to whom the hand belonged laughing broadly. "Where've ye been, mate?" They sidestepped into the shadowed alley between the brothel and the tavern where they would not easily be seen.
Arthur brushed himself off as nonchalantly as he could. "Nowhere really, Gwaine," he replied. "Only in the vaults getting this." He reached into his jacket pocket, relieved it was still there, and pulled out a small coin purse. But inside of it he had stuffed a rare, magical object: a glowing blue stone of obvious magical origin.
Gwaine's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull at the sight of it. "The stone of Cornelius Sigan? Arthur, have ye gone mad?!" The young man opened his mouth to retort, but Gwaine only clapped him on the shoulder with a proud grin. "I knew ye could do it, mate! Look at you, stealing the big money. Ye show promise, Arthur, ye really do."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't have had to steal something so very precious if you hadn't gambled away all of our money!"
"Eh," Gwaine chuckled, chocolate eyes still locked hungrily on the brilliant stone, "live a little, will ye?"
"Whatever. Let's just go, Gwaine, ere the knights find us." He pulled the drawstrings closed and tied it off, brow pinched as he contemplated the nearest safe place and time to sell it.
"A bit too late for that, I think!" Gwaine said, peering around the corner.
"Damn," Arthur hissed, quickly stuffing the stone back into his pocket. "What do we do?"
"Well," Gwaine scratched thoughtfully at his scruffy beard, "I s'pose we could just be on our merry way and they won't notice."
"Blend into the crowd," Arthur nodded. "Go."
Together they idly stepped out of the alley, taking care not to look back at the knights or to draw attention to themselves. The market was still busy, peddlers selling their wares, women and boys (apprentices sent on various errands by their masters) alike haggling for cheaper prices, a pair of ladies fighting over the last of the silver jewelry, children playing. Normal. Easy.
It was going quite well, until they rounded the corner.
"Ah," Gwaine smiled cordially despite the sudden shock. "Why, innit Sir Percival! Certainly wasn't expecting to see ye here! How have ye been, Sir? I haven't seen ya since I was last in the stocks!"
The towering knight mutely and sternly raised a hand, the universal gesture for 'halt.' Gwaine took the hand in his own and kissed it as he would a lady's. Percival's brows pinched together, more in confusion than in anger, as Gwaine tipped his head respectfully.
"It's been a mighty riveting conversation, dashing Sir, but we must be going now. Ta!" With that, the pair of thieves spun on their heels and sprinted away, expertly weaving through the crowd. They were instantly spotted by Kay and Galahad, who cried out and gave chase, marginally slowed by their mail shirts and billowing red capes. Percival sighed and followed wearisomely.
"This way!" Arthur said, ducking into a narrow, blind alley between two homes. At the end of it he made a leap for the wall, but found himself just short of reaching it.
"Good choice, Princess," Gwaine sarcastically panted, stomping to a halt beside him. Arthur shot him a glare and swiped a hand over his brow to clear it of sweat. His eyes landed on the nearby window. Why there was a window facing the alley he didn't know, but he was not about to question it. He set to work prying the wooden shutters open, praying that there was no one inside.
"There they are!" shouted Kay, drawing his sword at the entrance to the alley.
The thieves were quite adequately cornered. Arthur had not yet been able to open the window, and with the knight advancing swiftly and carefully, there was little chance to continue. But Gwaine, with a spring in his step, moved forward and knelt amongst a pile of rubbish. For a split second, Sir Kay stopped short, brows knitted in wariness and confusion. But an enormous shadow behind him informed him of Sir Percival's arrival, and so his faltering steps regained their confidence. Gwaine emerged from his hunch on the filthy cobblestones brandishing a weapon of his own.
"Now we 'ave ourselves a fight!" cried he triumphantly, twirling the long object in his hand.
Sir Percival stepped forward, raising a peaceful hand. "Your broom handle will not win against our swords, man," he said in a neutral tone. "Come peacefully, the both of you. There is no need for—"
Gwaine, with a savage grin, leapt into the fray without warning, forcing Kay to stumble back into the larger Percival as he desperately tried to defend himself from the splintered weapon. Arthur slammed his elbow into the window, smashing the wood with a loud splintering noise. He threw open the damaged wood, wincing at sharp splinters that prodded at his skin, then squirmed through the opening a little less elegantly than a cat slinking through a fence.
"Come on, Gwaine!" he shouted once inside. He had landed on a bed—hard, but well-made and sturdy. He flipped the blanket over so that the worse of the splinters were hidden and out of the way, counting himself lucky that he hadn't gotten stuck. Arthur counted himself doubly lucky upon discovering that there was no one home.
A boot suddenly appeared from the window, a leather strap wrapped round the toes of it so as to keep the unattached sole closed. Arthur rolled his eyes and grasped the leg, pulling hard. Gwaine came tumbling inside, crashing heavily on top of him with one leg stuck straight in the air. His broom handle caught on the outer edge of the window frame and snapped loudly in two.
"Get off me!" Arthur grunted indignantly, shoving his friend. Gwaine rolled to his feet just as a red-faced Sir Kay appeared at the window.
"What's the matter, Sir?" Gwaine taunted with a large smile. "Shoulders too broad? Well, tha's a shame, innit?" He tossed the half of the broom handle he still possessed into the air with a flair, then caught it.
"Gwaine!" Arthur hissed urgently, stumbling for the door. He yanked it open, only to come face-to-face with a waiting Galahad. The knight made to reach for him, sword in hand, but Arthur was too quick: He slammed the door shut again and shoved his shoulder against it to hold it closed. "Hell!" he cursed as Galahad battered it. The young man saw with dismay that a very determined Sir Kay had braved the smallness of the window, and was already halfway through it. He had certainly been smart enough to put his sword arm through first to ward off any attack.
"Follow me, my friend!" Gwaine said, jumping up onto the rickety table in the center of the room. With the broom handle he poked several holes in the roof, sending thatched hay and rough wooden shingles raining down on him. Unbothered, he reached up and hoisted himself up and out of the house. "Well, Princess?" his muffled voice came floating back.
Arthur, casting another glance at Sir Kay, who was shouting back at Percival the thieves' plan, made a mad dash for the table. As soon as he left it, Galahad forcibly burst in, nearly knocking the abused door from its hinges.
"Hurry!"
The blond made a flying leap, hand shooting up to grasp that of his friend's. Arthur's other hand latched onto the edge of the man-sized hole, and he strained to pull himself up even with Gwaine's help. A strong grip on his ankle tugged him sharply down.
He dropped his chin toward his chest and glared at Galahad, who held fast. "You're not getting away!" the dark-headed knight sneered, baring his teeth intimidatingly.
Arthur, not one to be cowed, lashed out, violently kicking both legs until a muddy boot made contact with something—Galahad's nose. With a guttural cry, the knight fell back clutching at the appendage cum blood spout. Gwaine made quick work of pulling Arthur out of danger, just as Sir Kay finally managed to make it through. He ungracefully planted his face on the bed with the suddenness of his descent, the tip of his sword plunging through the straw mattress with a rip.
"On the roof!"
"Up there!"
Arthur and Gwaine chanced a glance down, feet spread wide for balance. Galahad, blood staining his hands, glared up at them. Kay appeared, shot an upwards glance, and then stepped up determinedly onto the table. He was stopped by Sir Percival, who advised him—then ordered him when met with protest—against the reckless action, and led the two of them out of the destroyed house.
"That's our cue, then," Gwaine said cheerfully, giving the receding men a wave.
He and Arthur carefully picked their way over the slanted roof, using the chimney as a sort of handhold. It was simple enough to go down the other side—they'd be on the opposite side of the wall, leaving the knights to find the nearest corner and circle around. The pair of thieves would be long gone by then.
They lowered themselves from the roof and sat back against the cool wall to catch their breaths. Arthur took out the Stone to be sure he still had it—all his effort would have been wasted had he lost it during all the excitement. Gwaine grasped the treasure and opened the purse, eyes shimmering critically.
"Aye," he said, obviously quite pleased, "we'll get a fat lot for this!" He kissed the jewel as though it were the brow of a newborn first son.
Arthur snatched it back and stuffed it into his pocket. "Come," he grunted as he stood. "We must flee before they find us. They'll be moving quickly. I don't much fancy a night in the dungeons."
"Understandable, really."
They pressed forward, back toward the crowded main street where they might easily lose their pursuers. It was much louder than usual, they could hear as they approached. Soon it became clear that the noise was that of wild cheering and applause.
"It's that fellow from Gaul," Gwaine said, raising his voice and craning his neck to peer over the heads of the throng lining their side of the street. There would be no crossing over until the foreign prince and his entourage passed. Arthur hoped that the knights, even if they did catch up, would not want to make a scene before such a prestigious crowd.
Just in case, he led Gwaine deeper into the throng.
They pushed their way to the forefront, where they stopped at the jostling edge of excited citizens.
The whole affair was rather important. The French Prince Sir Lancelot du Lac had been invited to play suitor to the orphaned Princess Guinevere Leodegrance. It seemed that she would be unable to claim the throne by herself; according to Law, she would have to marry before she would become Queen. Until such time, a Regent, namely the Physician and Bishop Gaius, had been appointed to rule in her stead.
Of course, not many people had high hopes in this handsome young prince who rode atop a beautiful white stallion. The Princess Guinevere had turned away many suitors before, including King Olaf, Prince Valiant, and even Duke Hoel. Why she had was anyone's guess—Olaf was one of the most powerful kings in Britain; Valiant was, as his name suggested, the bravest man in all the realms; and Hoel, though old, was kind and generous. Lancelot rode in much more modestly than his counterparts, with only a small company that consisted of two knights who, like Lancelot, were garbed in robes of deep purple, and several servants who were dressed in vivid harlequin patterns of yellows, blues, greens, and reds. His modesty would either count for or against him—many of the crowd were of the opinion that Guinevere would detest him.
Arthur, however, rather thought he was quite noble, in every sense of the word. As he observed the man pass, he noticed that he, unlike many of higher stature, did not keep his sight straightforward. Rather, he smiled cordially at the crowd, nodding at the old and young alike. He was quite generous with his kindly demeanor. He even pulled his steed short and waited for a mother to chase her child who had run out, and graciously accepted the girl's wilted flower and her mother's fervent apologies. Then they proceeded.
"Now that, Gwaine," Arthur said, "is an honorable man."
Gwaine was too busy fishing around in people's pockets to hear him.
Arthur gave him a distasteful glare and shook his head. He certainly didn't approve of his friend's antics, but he was grateful. After all, when Arthur had been abandoned by his father at the tender age of seven, the thirteen year old Gwaine had taken him under his wing, shown him how to survive in the harsh streets. Even as adults, they had never gone their separate ways. They were, as they said, thick as thieves.
"Oy, you thief!" snapped a sudden voice. Arthur wheeled around and saw that a man whom Gwaine had probably been pickpocketing had said thief in a tight grip round the wrist.
Arthur's attention wasn't the only one that had been procured by the angry shout. The people surrounding them warily stepped back and began to check their pockets, several alarmed cries coming up when a certain person discovered their missing valuables. Gwaine grinned sheepishly and handed back a few silver coins to his apprehender, but the damage had been done.
"Gwaine," Arthur moaned at the sight of a pair of knights steadfastly approaching. Different than the ones from earlier, but with all the power of a knight nonetheless.
"Run," Gwaine muttered.
Arthur spun on his heel and dashed into the street, elbowing a man in the face when he attempted to grasp him round his middle. A surprised uproar behind him informed him that Gwaine had gotten away, too, and sure enough he felt a strong hand pushing him up the street towards the Prince's entourage.
They sped past on foot, surprising the foreigners. Gwaine slapped the rumps of two mares as he passed, frightening the horses into a rear and causing them to dump their riders. The diversion worked: the knights, mortified, stopped to help control the beasts and help up the bard and knight who had crashed to the cobblestones. Arthur and Gwaine were quick to disappear.
Lancelot had drawn to a halt, of course, at the commotion, and made sure that his party was uninjured. Assuring the frantic knights that no harm had been done, his brown eyes curiously raised to that place where the thieves, as the knights called them, disappeared. It was a half-boarded up hole, low to the ground of what appeared to be a closed cobbler's shop. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to call out to the knights as they rounded the corner with a vengeance. Perhaps it was better that the thieves' hiding place remain undiscovered.
With a bemused sort of smile, the prince led his knights and servants onwards down the street, making toward the glittering white citadel in the ever shortening distance. There was little more excitement for the rest of the journey, the final stretch from the city gates to the castle itself. It had been a long, hard journey from Paris to the sea, across the channel to the great island, and then another long trek to Camelot. It had been wearisome not only for him, but for his men as well. He hoped to be well-received despite the less than ladylike greetings and farewells of Princess Guinevere's of which he had frequently heard. He was determined to be a perfect gentleman no matter how horrible she may be to him.
If only his nerves would settle…
He had not much longer to dwell on such anxious thoughts, as they finally arrived in the grand courtyard. The whitewashed castle gleamed under the baking sun, a throng of richly-dressed greeters standing at intervals upon the main steps. Lancelot sighed discreetly, wishing to do away with the formalities and enjoy a hot bath after a quick trip to the nearest garderobe to relieve himself—but he was a gentleman. His wants would have to wait.
As he and his company approached, a herald stepped forth and loudly announced that "The Prince of France Sir Lancelot du Lac son of King Ban of France" and so on and so forth had arrived. At last they had reached an appropriate distance at which to dismount their rides and hand those off to the care of the waiting stable hands, all dressed in their best scarlet tunics. With his entourage in place behind him, Lancelot led them to the palace steps and stopped, as was custom.
An old man wearing rather plain robes, hoary white hair combed neatly and hands clasped respectfully before him, descended the palace steps alongside a beautiful young woman. This woman had long black ringlets that cascaded down the shoulders and back of her emerald green dress and framed her pale, round face. A shining girdle encrusted with actual emeralds clinched at her middle. Her eyes were an almost startling shade of green—but they were glittering like those of a snake, and the prince had to consciously repress an undue shudder. Lancelot took care not to look for too long at her, but moved his gaze toward the man, who he sensed was the Regent Gaius.
"Welcome to Camelot, Prince Lancelot," said he quite amiably, and with a gaze that the young royal felt could see right through him. "I am Gaius, Regent of Camelot. May I present to you the Lady Morgana, Court Sorceress?"
A spasm of relief swept unbidden through Lancelot as he learned that this cold-looking woman was not Guinevere. He instantly quashed the feeling lest it be construed on his expression, and bowed cordially to her instead. Lips curling into a smile, the lady sorceress curtsied to him.
"My father sends his warmest regards," said Lancelot.
"And I receive and return them," responded Gaius. "But come, Prince Lancelot, let us not bore ourselves now with formalities. You and your companions must be weary."
Before Lancelot could express his gratitude and agreement, Lady Morgana spoke for the first time: "If it pleases you, Sire," said she, "we will show you to your chambers where you may freshen up and rest. Would you care to dine with us tonight? Or would you prefer to take your meal in your rooms?"
"I could never turn down a meal with such gracious hosts," Lancelot answered firmly. "I thank you, Mademoiselle, Monsieur."
"Very well," smiled Gaius, clearly pleased but perhaps not surprised. "Our servants shall transfer your belongings to your rooms, Prince Lancelot. If there are any accommodations you find wanting, please do not hesitate to inform any servant. Will you be needing a personal manservant for the duration of your stay?"
"No, thank you," said Lancelot. "And, please, Monsieur, call me Lancelot."
"Only if you'll call me Gaius."
"Gaius it is."
As a group they ascended the smooth stone stairs and into the cool entry hall. Everything was lavishly decorated—tapestries, paintings, mounted weapons, display armor, and stained glass windows were most prominent—and sparkling clean. Servants stood by respectfully, all having stopped in their duties at the sight of the royals so that they could bow or curtsey awkwardly as they were passed. Lancelot did his best to acknowledge them, but it was difficult as most of them tended to avoid looking directly at him. Unsurprising, really.
Uniformed guards, looking proud and polished, were paired at the larger doors, which no doubt led to rooms such as the throne or council chambers. As they reached the west wing of the castle—not too far from the main halls, Lancelot was pleased to see—the guards rather fell away in number so that there were two guards posted at the beginning of each hall, which they regularly patrolled.
The Lady Morgana walked ahead of them, hands clasped before her and chin held regally, skirts sweeping across the floor with a noise like leaves in the wind. Lancelot had matched stride with Gaius, a pace that was not as slow as the Regent's hunched demeanor would imply. He was, for an old man, rather agile. Trailing behind them at a respectable distance was the rest of Prince Lancelot's party.
"Here are your rooms," Morgana said at last, coming to a halt before a row of open doors. There was a suite for each of the French visitors. "I trust you find them to your liking?"
"Certainly," responded Lancelot. "I thank you for your generosity."
"Not at all, not at all," Gaius said. "Now, your things will be brought here for you shortly, your horses cared for at the stables, and refreshments have been provided for you in your chambers. We shall leave you to freshen up, if you will, and a servant will be sent to escort you to the dining hall when it is time to sup." With a deceptively low bow, Gaius turned to leave.
Morgana, a smile touching her lips, followed. She paused at the prince's side and turned to him knowingly. "The Princess Guinevere shall be dining with us, Sire. Ah, and perhaps Prince Elyan will join us as well." She inclined her chin and then continued on.
Lancelot frowned slightly, an expression only noticeable by the minute pinch between his brows. He'd not heard of the Prince Elyan. And for that matter, if there were a prince, then certainly he would be the heir to the throne, not Guinevere. As he had been told, he who won the hand of the princess would rule both her kingdom and inherit his father's when the time came. Perhaps he had misheard the Lady Sorceress, or perhaps this Elyan was another suitor. But if that were the case, surely he would have been told. And besides, the name Elyan was utterly unfamiliar to him.
He dismissed his escorts, who each entered their own rooms to refresh themselves. Lancelot turned into his own doorway and surveyed the room. The door he left open, as a servant would soon be arriving with his belongings. His first order of business was to the garderobe to relieve himself, then into the main chamber in search of sustenance, which he found awaiting his pleasure on the table. He quenched his thirst with a chalice of mulled wine, and picked the sweetest-looking apple from the cornucopia to hold him over until supper.
In the meanwhile he found his thoughts once more turning to the Princess Guinevere and the sort of person she was. Judging from rumors, she had never once accepted another visitation with a suitor beyond the first meeting, and the goodbyes had been on less than friendly terms. Certainly the princess was fierce and stubborn—not entirely bad qualities, in the prince's opinion, but ones that might be precursor to worse ones, like a short temper or a tendency to be overindulged. He was glad that she was reputed to be a great beauty, but he sincerely hoped that her personality reflected such appeal.
When the servants bearing both his things and gifts from the Regent and Lords arrived, Lancelot directed that they be placed at one end of the room out of his way—he had a tendency to pace in between bouts of brooding, when such moods overtook him. He thanked them kindly and told them he required nothing more for the time being, and they took their leave of him, one promising to return shortly to escort him to the supper.
Sure enough, once Lancelot had washed up, dressed himself appropriately for the occasion (in a loose black tunic underneath a fine purple jacket which was embroidered with golden thread), and combed his dark locks, the servant returned. "Hello, er—?"
The servant looked momentarily taken aback, but then bowed quite deeply and said, "George, Sire."
"George," Lancelot repeated, nodding. "Shall we?"
"Of course, Sire."
George, a pristine servant of rather feminine stature, promptly turned on his heel and led the way. Lancelot glanced out of the arched windows that lined the hallway. The golden sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky vibrant shades of oranges and pinks. It seemed a good omen to him.
In hardly any time at all, the pair arrived at a pair of great double doors which were inscribed with grand designs and inlaid with gold. The guards, upon seeing their approach, pulled open the door, and George announced the Prince of France Sir Lancelot du Lac's presence in the dining hall. As George bowed deeply first to the occupants of the room, who had stood from their places at the long oaken table, then to Lancelot, the foreign prince lifted his chin proudly, aiming to please the princess should she be there.
And lo, he saw that she was, indeed.
And she was quite beautiful—dark curls framed her round, soft face and cascaded down her straight back; chocolate eyes set under perfectly arched brows sparkled beneath dark lashes; a polite smile graced her plump lips. The Princess Guinevere was dressed in a purple satin gown that hid her feet, but the barest tip of a plain slipper was visible.
"Welcome, Lancelot," greeted Gaius, gesturing to the empty chair at his right—the one directly across from the princess. "I trust that you have found your accommodations to your liking?"
"Yes, Gaius," replied Lancelot, skirting round the table to his place. He noticed a young man in likeness to Guinevere was fidgeting beside him. "I thank you again for your hospitality."
"Not at all," Gaius said. "The Lady Morgana is late, it seems, but I am sure that she would not mind if we were to begin without her. This lovely flower is the Princess Guinevere. You've both heard all about one another, I'm sure."
Lancelot plastered on a not-completely-forced smile and turned to her. She curtsied slightly to him, her own polite smile still there. Her eyes, though, were calculating.
"And here, Lancelot, is Prince Elyan."
Lancelot turned to the young man beside him, who eagerly thrust out his hand. The French prince shook it, glancing over him. He was not tall, but he was handsome, sturdy, and well-muscled. His features were more masculine than Guinevere's, but there was no doubt that Elyan was her brother. Frantic thoughts raced through Lancelot's head: here was a young man who should inherit the throne—why was he not the heir? Had he been disowned? Illegitimate? Refused the crown, even?
"Do you like chess?"
Lancelot blinked in surprise. "Chess?" he repeated, looking inquiringly at the enthusiastically nodding Elyan. He shot a quick glance toward Guinevere, who looked even more guarded than ever—and perhaps fierce. Protective, he realized.
Elyan was not a bad man. He was a simple one. Whether he had been born that way or had been in an accident there was no telling, and Lancelot was certainly not rude enough to ask. A small measure of relief washed over him.
"Chess happens to be one of my favorite past times," Lancelot replied, smiling genuinely. If possible, Elyan beamed more widely than ever.
"Shall we have a game afterwards? Shall we?"
"Elyan," Guinevere admonished fondly.
Lancelot turned to grin at her; her voice was like the sweet music of bells. "I would love to have a game after we sup," he said. He turned back to the young prince. "But I shan't go easy on you!"
"Excellent," chuckled Gaius. "Then let us eat."
Having waited for the cue, a line of kitchen workers bearing platters of aromatic foodstuffs appeared from the servant passages from either side of the room. Two small pages followed at their heels, each bearing a silver pitcher of wine fresh from the cellar, if the condensation on the bowls was anything to go by. They retreated once the food was laid out before their masters and guest, bowing deeply. The pages remained respectfully behind them, awaiting the moment that they would move forward to refill the diners' goblets.
As per etiquette, Lancelot had the first pickings of the meal. He filled the plate before him with a steaming leg of chicken, a small vine of ripe grapes, an assortment of cooked vegetables, and a bit of candied plum. Once he had taken the first bite, the others moved and gathered some food for their own.
Lancelot wasn't so dense that he didn't notice the discreet glances Guinevere directed toward him throughout the meal. He engaged himself in conversation with Gaius, who told him a rather riveting rendition of the history of Camelot, occasionally sidetracked by Elyan when he wanted to know something about the prince himself or about his home country, which Lancelot always answered. He answered Elyan's question about common jokes back home, which the prince had dutifully translated ("A prince, a manservant, and a rowdy drunk enter a tavern…"), much to everyone's amusement. He couldn't help but to feel that those observational glances Guinevere took of him were meant to be put together later when she was alone, to judge his character.
So, despite his nervousness, he did not put on a façade. He did not puff out his chest and lift his chin as he did when his father delegated council meetings to him; he did not frown severely as he did when training or sparring; he did not even shoot her his most charming smile as he did when he noticed young ladies and their maidservants looking his way. But nor did he ignore the princess—that was simply ungentlemanly.
The conversation lulled when a messenger came bearing the apologetic news that the Lady Morgana was unable to attend the dinner. Gaius sent him back to her with a message excusing her, and Elyan was voraciously starting on his pudding. Lancelot turned to Guinevere, intent on speaking with her.
"Do you like here, in Camelot?" he asked in all seriousness. It was important to him to consider her needs. After all, if he were to marry her, one of them was going to have to move. Either him to Camelot, which was far less likely, as France was a larger kingdom and he was Ban's only heir, or she to France. But, if she were to find that she missed Camelot, he would try his best to accommodate her.
"Oh," she said, cheeks pinking slightly. "Oh, yes. Camelot is very lovely. 'Tis a shame you could not have come during the spring."
In fact, Lancelot had arrived on the Isle of Britannica in the spring, but it had taken a couple of weeks to arrive in Camelot. "Perhaps I'll have the pleasure of seeing it one year," he said. "Will I have much to look forward to?"
She smiled. "Besides the dappling blossoms of colors all across the land, the hearty festivals and celebrations, and the plentiful food?"
The prince grinned. "That sounds as lovely a spring I've ever seen," said he, "but is Camelot special in that regard?"
"Of course it is!" chimed Elyan. He pointed the knife he was using at his sister. "She lives here."
Gaius and Lancelot laughed good-naturedly, and an embarrassed Guinevere blushed profusely, lowering her gaze to her own platter. Lancelot found that he wanted to spend more time with her. A rare desire he had when it came to young women.
There was something about Guinevere.
Perhaps it was that she wasn't too bashful in his presence, or, on the other end of the feminine spectrum, too brash. He thought she just might be intelligent, too. How lucky for him. As for her, he could only hope that he was somehow different than the other nobles she had met.
"Oh, and Lancelot," Gaius said, as though having just remembered something, "the lords of the castle have organized a hunt for the morrow. If you are interested, the lords send their invitations."
Lancelot analyzed the invitation quickly: the lords wanted to garner his favor, probably wheedle promises out of him and declare loyalty should the Princess Guinevere choose him. That was to be expected. But all the same, he repressed a deep, put-upon sigh.
"How kind of them," he said, and it must have been a less than enthusiastic expression on his face because Gaius made an amused noise in his throat, lips twisting wryly. Lancelot forced a pleasant smile on his face. "Will you be in attendance, Elyan?" he asked, turning to him.
Elyan blinked owlishly at him. "At the hunt?"
Lancelot nodded.
"You want me to join you on the hunt?"
"Of course, if you like. I daresay I'd have more fun with you than with the lords," he said quite candidly. His sincerity must have shown on his face because at once Elyan lit up, Gaius laughed heartily, and Guinevere gave him a queer look.
"Oh," Elyan turned pleadingly to his sister, "oh, may I, Gwen, please?"
A small smile turned up the corners of her lips, and she nodded her approval.
"I'll be there, Lancelot, I will!"
"Excellent," Lancelot responded, giving Guinevere a grateful smile. Her reciprocation, if anything, seemed more grateful than his.
So it was that after the dinner and bidding Gaius a good evening, Lancelot, Elyan, and Guinevere walked together to the simple Prince's rooms to play chess. Guinevere had promised to witness the spectacular event, something that Lancelot didn't mind at all. The more time with her, the better, as far as he was concerned.
For a while they sat in concentrated silence. Lancelot and Elyan sat opposite of one another at the table by the window, carefully manipulating their carved and painted pieces across the checkered board. Guinevere was lounging on the plush couch the men had dragged closer for the occasion, brushing her lock dark locks as she watched. She seemed especially interested in observing Lancelot—the furrow in his brow as he tried to counter Elyan's moves; the way he nibbled his lower lip as he thought; how at ease he seemed out of the presence of public eyes.
When the day's light began to fade, Guinevere set about lighting the candles in the room so that they could continue their game. To the untrained eye, it would appear that Lancelot was winning: he had more pieces left on the field than Elyan, who was down to his king, queen, a rook, and his two bishops. But the Princess had played enough games with her brother to know that it was all part of his strategy.
"Checkmate!" Elyan said smugly, moving his queen to stand before Lancelot's king.
"Mon Dieu!" Lancelot exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "You've won!" He bent over the board, hand on his chin, determined to find a way out even though he'd just admitted defeat. But he had well and truly lost.
"Do not lament, dear sir," Guinevere smiled. "This brother of mine is well-versed in the arts of military."
"Indeed," Lancelot said, sitting up. He extended his hand across the table to clasp Elyan's. "Well done, sir."
"You're almost as good as Gwen," Elyan grinned. He set about replacing the chess pieces to their rightful places.
Lancelot laughed as Guinevere blushed. "Then I must practice with utmost diligence so that I might become a worthy opponent of you both."
Then they bid each other good night so that the young men might rest for their excursion in the morning, and the Princess Guinevere brought Lancelot back to his chambers. "Sleep well, Sir Lancelot," she said, standing politely just before the threshold. "I shall see you tomorrow?"
"Undoubtedly," Lancelot replied, smiling. "I look forward to it."
Returning his smile, Guinevere curtsied and left him. The foreign prince watched her until she was out of sight, and then shut his door and called for his squire to dress him for bed, and informed him of the hunt that was scheduled for the morning. Then, at long last, he retired for the night, a small smile on his face as he imagined what the sun would bring.
He did not know that he would never look upon the Princess Guinevere again.