Cyril of Nemhain liked to believe that he would have made a fine knight. In fact, it was his humble estimation that he would have been one of the greatest warriors in Camelot, nay, in all of Albion, had only the gods bestowed upon him the necessary height and width.
Alas, Cyril had always been rather short, and thin at that. A little bow-legged, too, not that it mattered, and prone to falling sick as a child. A feeble constitution, Father liked to say, with a certain air of disappointment in his voice, though Cyril had long learnt not to place much value in Father's opinions.
For Father was a primitive man, one that preferred the sword over the pen and the company of horses over that of humans. An uncultured brute such as he simply could not comprehend that his youngest son's strengths lay elsewhere.
But Cyril understood that he had been granted a far more useful and valuable gift than a striking physique: namely, an unusually sharp wit.
He was not bragging. There was no arrogance in stating mere facts. It was the pure, unadorned truth that Cyril was a man of considerable intellect.
His tutors might not have acknowledged his genius growing up, but Cyril knew, without a doubt, that his mind was far superior to that of anyone else. He possessed the kind of mental acumen that rivalled even that of the greatest scholars.
Which was precisely why Cyril could stand at the sidelines of Camelot's training grounds and watch the knights of the realm train without feeling even a shred of jealousy or envy. Really, Cyril pitied these men, shallow-minded creatures that they were. For what was their sword-twirling and lance-throwing truly worth when, at the end of the day, they shambled in darkness? Their world was a vast expanse of ignorance, sparsely illuminated by the occasional spark of a nearly-intelligent thought.
The King, of course, was the worst of the bunch. Arthur Pendragon was a mighty warrior, this was self-evident, but his mind was dull and weak.
Proof was easy to procure: one had only to look at the woman the King had chosen for a wife. Somehow, a lowly, uneducated maid had managed to wrap the King of Camelot around her little finger and was now playing Queen, striding about the citadel in opulent gowns and wearing the crown that belonged on the head of a true lady.
What was worse, the King had surrounded himself with even more commoners, elevating them to knighthood and trusting them over men who could trace their lineage all the way back to the age of the Ancient Kings. It would have been laughable had it not been so infuriating.
There was no doubt in Cyril's mind that Arthur Pendragon was a fool. A fool that did not deserve to sit on the throne.
He needed to be removed.
Coincidentally, the King had not designated an heir. Were something to happen to him now, several lords would have a verifiable claim on the throne. As it just so happened, one of them was Cyril's father, Lord Edric of Nemhain, a third cousin twice removed to the late Uther Pendragon. Usually, there was little value in such a distant family connection – certainly, it had never been acknowledged at court – but if the childless King were to suddenly perish, in battle perhaps…
As if on cue, Cyril watched King Arthur try to parry a blow from a knight, only to be overwhelmed by the strength of it, which left him swordless and on one knee in the dirt.
"Ha! What perfect genuflection!" the knight responsible exclaimed, placing the tip of his sword on the King's chest. "Ready to swear fealty to me, Sir Arthur?"
Cyril sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
The gall! The audacity! A direct attack on the King's honour! Such a grave insult could not be left unanswered. The King should have the knight's head, then and there!
But Cyril had already recognised that King Arthur was a fool, and the King's reaction was another testament to his weakness: he only let out a short, barking laugh. "Well fought, Sir Gwaine," he said, albeit grudgingly. "I did not expect that manoeuvre."
Sir Gwaine flashed the King an insolent grin. It was of the sort that, had Cyril seen it on a serving boy or stablehand, would have warranted two scores with the cane. But again, the King proved facile, accepting the hand that was offered to him and letting himself get pulled to his feet by a man who was openly mocking him.
What an utterly undignified display!
And it was yet made worse by the other knights standing nearby, shamelessly chuckling and chortling as Sir Gwaine slapped a hand on the King's back. All the while, he kept recounting a handful of other incidents in which he had bested or near-bested King Arthur, further undermining his liege in front of half the court.
Cyril let his eyes wander over those who laughed the loudest and scowled when he found exactly those knights he knew to be commoners: Sir Elyan, the false Queen's brother, as well as Sir Percival and Sir Lancelot. In fact, now that Cyril came to think of it, Sir Gwaine was also one of those parvenu nobles, if he was not mistaken, which only made the affront that much worse.
The King, naturally, did nothing to rein his wayward men in. Instead of reprimanding or disciplining them, like a strong ruler ought to, he simply stood there, arms crossed before his chest, and rolled his eyes as he was repeatedly insulted to his face.
Pitiful! Utterly pitiful!
However, despite his dismay, Cyril could not help but find his interest piqued.
Sir Gwaine, for all that he deserved the axe or noose for his shocking behaviour, had just proven himself a significant player at court. A knight, skilled enough to beat the King in battle, and brazen enough to challenge him in the open, too, might make for a fine chess piece in the plan that had been forming in Cyril's mind ever since he had come to court six weeks ago.
For Cyril might be brilliant, but he lacked the brawn needed to dispose of a warrior king. Sir Gwaine might just fill that void.
Cyril was under no illusion that Sir Gwaine was a particularly intelligent man – how could he be, peasant-born that he was? – but if Cyril played his cards right, the knight might yet prove an asset.
And so, when training was finished and the knights dispersed, Cyril approached Sir Gwaine at the water barrel, into which the knight was dunking his head. When Cyril came to stand next to him, the knight emerged, then shook his head like a wild mutt, getting water everywhere, including on Cyril's fine taffeta doublet.
Cyril sniffed, but knew he had to play nice. "Greetings, Sir Gwaine," he said, offering the man a smile he knew to be quite charming, even if the ladies of the court had yet to allow themselves to admit it.
Sir Gwaine looked him over, water dripping from his untamed hair. What a savage! "G'day," he replied, "Lord… Cyrus?"
"Cyril," the very same corrected, never losing his smile, though Sir Gwaine really ought to know who he was – Father, after all, owned half of Asgorath, a sizable fiefdom. "I came to congratulate you on your impressive display of strength. Beating the King himself? Quite the remarkable feat!"
Just as Cyril had thought, the knight reacted favourably to his compliment. All these fighting men cared about, after all, was their battle prowess. With a lazy smile, Sir Gwaine replied, "Thank you. Arthur doesn't usually give me an opening like that. I reckon it must have been my lucky day."
He calls him Arthur, Cyril thought, struggling to keep the disapproval off his face. This man's disrespect really knew no bounds!
"Do you train, my lord?" the knight added, giving Cyril an appraising look as he ran a hand through his still-wet hair.
"I fear not," Cyril replied, pointedly unfazed. He had long ceased to be affected by this sort of question. "But I do so enjoy watching. I find myself constantly awed by the dexterity of Camelot's knights."
"Arthur trains us well," Sir Gwaine replied.
"Of course. But you must have been an impressive swordsman long before you came to Camelot, no?" Cyril prodded, knowing another compliment would earn himself more standing with the man. "If I'm not mistaken, the reason you drew the King's attention in the first place was due to your excellent fighting skill."
Sir Gwaine gave a hesitant nod. "Aye," he said slowly. "I suppose that's true."
Anyone else might have taken his cautious reaction for suspicion, but Cyril knew Sir Gwaine to be intrigued by the conversation. For Cyril had invested many hours in the study of body language and knew how to interpret the knight's slightly raised eyebrows and the pointedly casual hand on his hip.
Bolstered, Cyril went on, "In fact, I have heard it said, on many occasions now, that you are the best fighter in the realm."
At that, Sir Gwaine's interest became even more obvious. His eyebrows travelled all the way upward and he tilted his head slightly to the side. "Well, people like to talk," he deflected, though there was no mistaking the tone of his voice for anything other than ill-disguised pride.
Cyril's smile broadened, knowing he had sown the right seeds. "Indeed," he replied. "Alas, I must be off. Urgent correspondence, I'm afraid. Until we talk again?" And he gave a bow, a little lower than necessary, given that Cyril outranked the man – by virtue of his birth as well as his intelligence – for he knew it was exactly this sort of flattery an upstart like Sir Gwaine would be pleased by.
Sure enough, Sir Gwaine gave a measured nod in return, showing he had understood the gesture for what it was.
Smirking, Cyril strode off. What was a little undignified bowing, knowing he had made the first step in his plan to usurp the King? Soon enough, Sir Gwaine would be bending the knee to Cyril.
Perhaps he would even be allowed to keep his knighthood, if he proved loyal enough.
A few days later, Cyril found a chance to approach Sir Gwaine again.
A crowd had gathered in the great throne room for a knighting ceremony. Three squires, as well as two commoners, were to be dubbed Sir, and the whole court had come to watch.
King Arthur was standing on the dais, his armour gleaming in the bright light streaming through the stained-glass windows as he gave a speech on chivalry and the Knight's Code. Next to him, Queen Guinevere was smiling benevolently at the men kneeling before her, her hands folded demurely. Behind them stood a servant, dressed in red-and-gold livery, holding the ceremonial sword.
Cyril had to admit that the King struck an imposing figure, even if the Queen standing by his side was common-born, and even if the servant looked terribly bored.
But the very fact that the King was once more knighting peasants was proof enough of his weakness, as was the way he reprimanded the servant for missing his cue to come forward with the sword. A powerful king, one who was respected, would not tolerate such sloppy service, but as it was, the servant didn't even get a slap for his misbehaviour, only a glare, which he answered with a sheepish look and a shrug.
What a pathetic display of kingly authority! Really, it was only becoming clearer why Cyril must fulfil his plan to remove Arthur Pendragon from the throne: he could do real damage to Camelot's standing in Albion if his rule went on unchecked!
As soon as the newly minted knights had risen, Cyril looked about for his target. He spotted Sir Gwaine with the other commoner knights, who had all gathered to congratulate Sirs Nobody and Ignoble, welcoming them in their midst.
But Cyril was nothing if not patient and so, he lingered at the edges of the crowd until he saw Sir Gwaine finally move away from the others.
Quickly, he intercepted him. "Sir Gwaine," he said, bowing for good measure. "A splendid ceremony, was it not?"
Once more, Sir Gwaine's expression showed all the signs of interest, and the smile he offered, though it might have looked strained to an observer of lesser sagacity, was cautious – a wise choice, given their audience. One could never be too careful at court. Clearly, even a peasant knight understood that much.
"Aye, my lord," Sir Gwaine replied. "Very splendid indeed."
"Did it make you think back to your own knighting?" Cyril asked.
"Not particularly. Arthur knighted us all in a hurry, at the Castle of the Ancient Kings. We were at war with Cenred at the time and there was little room for ceremony."
Cyril only just suppressed a smirk. He was reading between the lines and heard the resentment there. Sir Gwaine had not received his title with the same pomp and circumstance as these latest additions and it was still eating at him. This, Cyril could most definitely work with!
"What a pity," Cyril replied. "It is so terribly unfair when one does not get the recognition one is due."
Sir Gwaine gave him a look. "You misunderstand me, my lord," he replied. "I don't need a fancy ceremony. In fact, I rather dislike this sort of spectacle."
But Cyril was not fooled by his false modesty. "Of course not," he replied. "It is much more satisfying to seize what one deserves, rather than having it handed to you."
Here, Sir Gwaine startled. He gave Cyril another, much longer look, his eyes appearing surprisingly keen for a commoner. When he spoke again, Cyril could tell he had hit a nerve.
"What one deserves?" Sir Gwaine repeated more quietly.
Cyril smiled and made a point of looking at the King when he replied, "Unfortunately, it is often the way of things that some people have all the good fortune in life having done nothing to merit it, while others, who are far more deserving, find themselves lacking any. However, if one dares, there are ways to rectify what fate has misaligned." He looked back at Sir Gwaine. "If you catch my meaning, Sir Gwaine?"
Sir Gwaine looked stunned. His eyes flickered towards the King, who was laughing at something Sir Eylan was saying, then back at Cyril. But after a beat of silence, his whole expression shifted. Despite his primitive background, it was clear he had understood Cyril's subtle meaning and, judging from the sly smirk spreading on his face, he was not opposed to Cyril's point of view.
"I do, my lord," he said.
"Excellent," replied Cyril, with a matching smirk. "I don't suppose you would want to ride out tomorrow afternoon? Just you and I? The southern winds promise mild weather."
Sir Gwaine inclined his head. "Sure," he replied. "Let's meet in the courtyard."
Cyril knew himself to be an outstanding horseman. He had yet to encounter a mount that he could not master. Of course, Cyril could not be blamed for terrible training, which evidently was the reason why the mare he had been given from the royal stables kept breaking out on him.
"Sweet old Bonnie giving you trouble?" Sir Gwaine asked as Cyril pulled harshly on the reins.
"Hardly," Cyril replied, with as much dignity as he could muster. "The stablehand must have bridled her wrong, that is all."
"Of course, my lord," Sir Gwaine replied.
At last, Cyril got the stubborn mare under control and soon, they were riding along the road towards the Darkling Woods at a steady pace.
"I'm glad you agreed to ride out with me," Cyril said, keen on getting his plan underway. "I feel we have much in common, you and I."
"Is that so, my lord?" Sir Gwaine replied mildly, though Cyril knew he had to be dying of curiosity underneath.
"Indeed," he responded. "Our background might be decidedly different, but I feel we are united in a common cause."
"And what cause might that be, my lord?"
"Why, a prosperous Camelot."
Sir Gwaine paused to think that over. "Aye. I certainly want that."
Cyril offered him a smile. "Of course, a kingdom can only prosper under proper guidance."
Sir Gwaine rubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking. "And you don't believe this kingdom is," he concluded.
Cyril cleared his throat. "Far be it from me to criticise our beloved King—"
"Much beloved," Sir Gwaine agreed.
"—but," Cyril continued, "I do think that Camelot might profit from, shall we say—tighter reins?" The mare chose that moment to break out again, though Cyril was a skilled enough rider to prevent being thrown off the saddle. Really, what had that incompetent stableboy done to this horse?
"And you have someone in mind who might provide?" Sir Gwaine asked, after rubbing at his mouth again. His moustache seemed to be troubling him, which was not exactly surprising. The knight was in desperate need of a shave.
"As you might not be aware," Cyril replied, "my father, Lord Edric, not only owns half of Asgorath, but is also a distant cousin to the Pendragon family."
"Ah," said Sir Gwaine, sounding impressed. Cyril supposed a peasant might find such a grand lineage quite imposing, as it should be.
"Father is also a renowned warrior, much like the King," Cyril went on. "Much respected amongst the other lords."
"I see," Sir Gwaine replied. "I can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting him, but I trust your good judgement."
"He would make for a strong King, should Camelot ever find herself in need," Cyril continued, careful not to speak of treason outright – he was far too clever for that. "For a time, anyway."
"For a time," Sir Gwaine repeated meaningfully. Cyril had to admit, he was catching on quickly, despite Cyril's carefully coded language.
"Well, Father's getting quite old, of course," Cyril replied, perhaps a little impatiently, seeing as he had to tug at the reins again. The dreadful horse had now decided that the grass at the edge of the road looked particularly tasty and kept trying to stop to get at it. For the gods' sake, were these beasts not fed? "He might very well die of some sudden, terrible sickness soon after his coronation."
"Always a possibility, aye." Sir Gwaine had slowed down his own stallion for Cyril's benefit, leaning forward in the saddle as he watched Cyril expertly get the mare back in line. "And you have no brothers, I assume?"
"Two, actually," Cyril corrected him, digging his heels into the mare's flanks, which at last motivated her to let off the grass. "But they're idiots. We wouldn't want them anywhere near the throne."
"Gods forbid, no." Once more, Sir Gwaine was rubbing at his mouth. Cyril was starting to wonder if it was a nervous habit. It was only understandable the knight would be anxious, now that the cards were all but on the table. But just as Cyril had expected, Sir Gwaine ultimately surrendered to his desire for power and recognition, for he asked, "You think Camelot might soon find herself in need of a new king?"
"Well, we can't know that for certain," Cyril replied. "King Arthur's still young and healthy."
"True," said Sir Gwaine. "And long may he reign."
"Yes, yes," Cyril agreed, "except, of course, that one can never know what misfortune might befall even the hardiest of men…"
"Also true," Sir Gwaine conceded. He stopped his horse and after a few paces, Cyril's horse could be convinced to halt as well. "You have given me much to think about, my lord," the knight went on. "Perhaps you will let me sleep on the matter for a day or two, and then we can meet again?"
"Certainly," Cyril replied, unbothered by the knight's hesitation. He was entirely convinced he had succeeded in drawing Sir Gwaine to his side, but even if he hadn't, a knight's word was trumped by that of a lord. As long as there was no written proof for his conspiring against the Crown, he was quite safe.
"My, would you look at the sun!" Sir Gwaine exclaimed just then. "So late already? I fear I must return to the castle for my duties right away."
"Of course," Cyril replied, once more pulling at the reins when his mare suddenly started to turn in circles. Wretched beast! "You go ahead, Sir Gwaine. I'll be right behind you."
Sir Gwaine gave Cyril's horse a sceptical look but rode off, his stallion falling into an elegant gallop, leaving a dust cloud in their wake.
Cyril looked after them, then kicked the horse's flanks for good measure. "Move, you dumb nag!"
The mare ignored him. Cyril scowled.
Once he was King, he would have her made into sausage.
Two days later, a hall boy knocked on Cyril's door in the North Wing, interrupting his private dinner.
"What is it?" he asked impatiently, lowering his fork when the boy stuck his head in.
"Mighty sorry to be botherin' ye, Lord Cygnus—"
"Cyril," he snapped.
"M'apologies," squeaked the boy. "It's just—Sir Gwaine sent me to pass ye a message?"
At that, Cyril perked up. "Well? Spit it out, then," he demanded.
"Ye're to meet him in his chambers, m'lord," the boy informed him, fidgeting. "In the West Wing?"
The West Wing? Cyril scowled. Why would Sir Gwaine, a peasant-born, reside so close to the royal family, while he, youngest son of a powerful lord, had been banished to the colder, drearier side of the keep?
The boy must have misinterpreted his expression, for he stammered, "Beg yer pardon, m'lord. Should I—I can go and—"
"No," Cyril cut him off and got up from the dinner table. "Lead me there."
When he entered Sir Gwaine's quarters a few minutes later, Cyril barely suppressed another scowl. The knight's rooms were truly sumptuous, with a large four poster bed, its canopy of the finest brocade, and good oakwood furniture. Chambers fit for a lord, while Cyril's room was a draughty affair, his own bed dilapidated and its curtains moth-infested!
But Cyril plastered a smile on his face, knowing he would not have to suffer such indignities for much longer if he played this right. "Sir Gwaine," he said. "Thank you for the invitation."
Sir Gwaine returned the smile and gestured at the table. "Sit, my lord, and have some wine with me. There is much to discuss."
Cyril sat, pleased to see Sir Gwaine seemed to have learnt some manners in whatever backwater hovel he had grown up in, for he immediately poured Cyril a generous amount of wine into a golden chalice, before filling his own tin cup with the rest from the jug.
Mollified, Cyril took a thorough whiff, savouring the fruity bouquet. "Ah, a Roman import," he said approvingly, knowing himself to be a fine sommelier.
"Gaul, actually," Sir Gwaine replied and took a sip.
Cyril grunted. He had always preferred ale, come to think of it. He pushed the chalice aside and decided to focus on the matter at hand. "I take it you have considered our last conversation?"
"I have," Sir Gwaine confirmed and put down his cup.
"And?" Cyril asked impatiently.
"I have found that I agree with you," the knight declared. "Arthur is not the type of king a typical noble might approve of."
"Indeed not," Cyril said and smirked, satisfied that he had drawn the knight to his side.
"However," Sir Gwaine continued, "if you want to do this, I do not think two people alone are sufficient."
Cyril nodded. "Of course not. Support must be gathered."
"Aye. Fortunately, I know a handful of knights who are of a similar mind to ours, and several guards who are but a gold piece or two away from doing anything one might ask of them."
Cyril was pleased to find the man had thought this over. He hadn't expected quite this level of self-sufficiency from a peasant knight, but Sir Gwaine was clearly ambitious, and it could not be denied that Cyril needed an army to take over the throne. "As long as you are certain that they can be discreet," he cautioned.
"As discreet as you have been, my lord, I assure you," Sir Gwaine replied with a broad grin. He must be getting excited about their endeavour.
"Very well," Cyril agreed. "Feel free to spread the word."
"There are also two others I should like to involve in this, if I may make the suggestion," the knight added.
"And who might they be?" Cyril enquired. He had taken a sip of the wine after all and found it quite tasty, Gaul or not.
"Geoffrey of Monmouth, for one."
Cyril frowned as he took another sip. "The librarian?"
"And court genealogist," Sir Gwaine stressed. "I think we should have him draw up a parchment, a family tree or proof of pedigree, to strengthen your family's claim on the throne."
The idea had considerable merit, Cyril found. It would not do for anyone to question the legitimacy of his entitlement. Really, he should have thought of it himself. "He's not loyal to King Arthur, Lord Geoffrey?" he wondered aloud.
"I'm convinced he's willing to do as I ask, my lord," Sir Gwaine assured him.
Cyril drank again, finding the wine from Gaul most delicious indeed, then gave the knight a wave. "Do it, then. Ask the man. There should be no doubt of my family's right to the crown." He took another languid sip, then asked, "And the second person?"
"That would be Merlin."
Again, Cyril frowned. He prided himself on being quite knowledgeable of the court but did not know a Lord or Sir Merlin. "Who is he?" he asked.
"The King's personal manservant."
"A servant?" Cyril exclaimed, nearly toppling over the chalice. "You want to involve a servant in this?" Why, only a peasant could have such a foolish idea!
Sir Gwaine raised two placating hands. "My lord, you must understand that Merlin hardly ever leaves Arthur's side. He has access to everything regarding the King. His chambers, his diary, his clothes, his food…"
Cyril hummed around another mouthful of wine as he thought that over. "Personal manservant to the King," he repeated slowly. "A position of trust and honour. One would think this Merlin had every reason to be devoted to his master."
"Ah, but see, my lord, the King treats Merlin very poorly," Sir Gwaine revealed. "Hardly shows him any appreciation and works him much too hard."
"I see," Cyril said into his wine, sad to see the chalice was near-empty. "He resents him, then."
"I have heard him refer to the King as a prat and an ass several times," Sir Gwaine confirmed.
Someone to get rid of after the coup, then. Cyril would not stand for such disrespect. For now, though, this Merlin might indeed come in handy. "Approach him, then, if you're sure," he agreed and finished the wine.
Really, this was all going rather swimmingly for him, most especially because he had somehow got Sir Gwaine to do all his dirty work. If they were caught, it would all be on him and Cyril could claim he had not known a thing about this plan. But in case of success, the crown would soon be his.
"Shall I fetch us more wine?" Sir Gwaine asked, lifting the empty jug.
Cyril smacked his lips. "Yes. And a snack wouldn't go amiss, either."
A few days later, Cyril was invited to Sir Gwaine's chambers again. When he entered, he found the knight was not alone. A young man was sitting with him at the table. He jumped up from his chair when Cyril stepped inside.
Cyril took a closer look at him and recognised him as the clumsy man constantly trailing after the King. "Merlin, I take it?" he asked as he closed the door, barely hiding his disdain over associating with yet more peasants.
The servant gave a much too shallow bow. "At your service." When he straightened, he offered Cyril a wide, guileless sort of grin that made him look like a simpleton.
Cyril gave him a sceptical onceover as he sat down with Sir Gwaine. "Pour us a drink," he ordered.
Merlin obediently served Cyril and Sir Gwaine some wine from the jug on the table, though he barely managed to do it without spilling.
Cyril took a long sip from his goblet, humming appreciatively. "I must say, I'm starting to like this Gallic wine."
"This one's Roman, actually," Merlin piped up, waving the jug wildly enough so it sloshed over.
Cyril harrumphed. What would a mere servant know of wine?
Still, he supposed if he wanted Merlin to help them with their plan, he had better make an effort with him. He took another sip of the wine, then gave the servant a magnanimous nod. "You may sit."
Merlin plopped down on the seat next to Sir Gwaine, offering Cyril another toothy grin. Gods, but he really looked to have some sort of mental affliction!
"Now, listen here, Merlin," Cyril said, speaking slowly and patiently, unsure how much the servant might even be able to understand of their plan. "Sir Gwaine tells me that you find yourself… unhappy with your current position."
"I can definitely think of ways to improve it," Merlin replied. He kept skipping the honourific, Cyril noticed, and there was a casualness to his tone that Cyril severely disliked.
He couldn't say he was surprised, though, to see the servant had no manners. Clearly, for all that Sir Gwaine had said the King treated Merlin harshly, he had yet to discipline him in a way that taught him how to behave in the presence of his betters. "Well, if you help Sir Gwaine and I, you might soon find things much improved indeed."
Merlin blinked at him. "Oh? How so?"
Lords, but he really was a simpleton! Cyril shot Sir Gwaine a pained look. "Have you not talked to him about all this?"
"I have," Sir Gwaine replied. "At length."
Cyril looked back at Merlin, who was still blinking. Clearly, the subtleties of an elaborate plot were entirely lost on him.
Well, at least nobody would believe this nitwit were he to reveal their plan to anybody!
"King Arthur is not going to be King for much longer," Cyril told him, aiming for simple terms.
Merlin frowned, confusion spreading on his face. "He isn't?"
"No," Cyril stressed, barely holding onto his patience. "Because we are going to make sure that he is not!"
"Oh!" Merlin said, his expression brightening. "Right." He nodded eagerly. "And you want me to help with that?"
Cyril offered him an indulgent smile. "Exactly. Sir Gwaine here tells me you've got access to the King's food?"
Merlin nodded. "Oh, yes. I bring him food every day. Many times a day, in fact. He just loves eating. Stuffs his whole face with pastries and sweetmeats. Just yesterday, I've had to make a whole new hole in his belt because he can no longer fit—"
"Good, that's good," Cyril interrupted, throwing Sir Gwaine another pained look, but the knight seemed to have encountered some trouble swallowing his wine and was coughing into his fist, not looking at either of them. "Do you think you could put something in the King's food? A potion, perhaps?"
Merlin screwed up his face. "A potion? Oh no, no. He wouldn't drink a potion. He doesn't like potions, not one bit. He always goes on and on about how nasty they taste, and then he throws the phials at my head—"
"You're not going to hand him the potion," Cyril cut him off, speaking a little louder because Sir Gwaine was, somehow, still coughing. "You're supposed to pour it over the food. Into the sauce or soup."
"Oh," Merlin said, grinning again. "Yes. Yes, I can definitely do that." He paused. "He might get suspicious though, if he sees me add something to his plate?"
Cyril only just suppressed a groan. "You're not going to pour it in front of him! You do that before you serve him."
Merlin's grin returned and he nodded eagerly. "Right. Yes. That makes sense."
At last, Sir Gwaine had stopped coughing and spoke up, "My lord, I was wondering. Perhaps it would be wise to go for a slightly different approach?"
Cyril frowned at him. "Different how?"
Sir Gwaine leaned in. "Poisoning Arthur is all well and good, but who's to say another lord won't sweep in and take the throne before your father can even step up?"
Cyril nodded slowly. "Yes, I see your point."
Sir Gwaine smiled. "I've already spoken to Geoffrey of Monmouth. He's preparing the document as we speak. And I've also found several men who are willing to play along."
"Good, good."
"But I was thinking," Sir Gwaine continued, "instead of making the King go out quietly, why not make this a more public affair? Dethrone him in front of the entire court in a show of strength?"
Cyril took a thoughtful sip of the wine. A proper coup. He had to admit, he liked the idea of making a bit of a spectacle of it. News would travel quickly this way that the new rulers of Camelot were not to be trifled with, that they acted quickly and ruthlessly if needed. "Do we have enough men for such a plan?"
"Most definitely," Sir Gwaine replied. "And as you know, Beltane is not far, my lord. There will be a grand feast at the end of the week. Lords and ladies from all over Camelot will attend. What better audience, what better venue for a great stroke such as this?"
Beltane, that was right. Everyone of importance would be at the citadel, including Father and Cyril's two brothers. Plenty of witnesses for King Arthur's demise and the rise of a new royal family. "So we would make our move at the feast?" Cyril asked.
Sir Gwaine nodded. "The guards will block the entrances and hold everyone at bay, while you can make the King sign the parchment Geoffrey is drawing up."
Cyril sat up straight in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"It would legitimise your family's claim," Sir Gwaine explained. "Think, my lord. We could have Merlin here pour something in Arthur's food or wine to weaken him, so he won't try and fight. He could do the same for all the knights in the hall who are loyal to the King."
Cyril glanced at Merlin, who nodded enthusiastically, smiling another stupid smile.
"Then," Sir Gwaine went on, "in front of everyone, we will have Arthur sign the document Geoffrey has drawn up, affirming your family's claim to the throne."
A picture started to form in Cyril's head: King Arthur, surrounded by guards, forced to publicly acknowledge the family connection before his demise, his fall witnessed by an entire hall full of nobles while the commoner Queen wept and wailed.
He must say, he was starting to like Sir Gwaine and the way he thought. Perhaps he was smarter than Cyril had given him credit for.
"I like it," he admitted. "It would almost make it look like an abdication."
"Exactly," Sir Gwaine enthused, smiling broadly. "And if we play it right, we might not even have to involve your father."
Cyril blinked. "No?"
"No," Sir Gwaine stressed. "The King's signature will legitimise whoever is explicitly named on the parchment. I don't see why that name should be your father's."
Cyril's cheeks flushed as he was overcome by a tantalising wave of excitement. "No, indeed," he agreed. "If we can get the King to sign a parchment that names me as his rightful heir, we would have no need of Father. He and my brothers can either choose to bend the knee, or follow King Arthur to Avalon."
"I couldn't have said it better, my lord," Sir Gwaine replied and respectfully inclined his head, while Merlin broke into spontaneous applause.
Thrilled, Cyril emptied his wine, then waved at Merlin, who immediately got up and poured him some more.
Sir Gwaine raised his cup. "It's decided, then. We move at Beltane."
"At Beltane," Cyril repeated and grinned.
From then on, Cyril had to rein himself in whenever he walked the castle, trying not to look like he owned the place – when in fact, he practically did.
But Cyril prided himself on his iron-clad self-control as well as his formidable acting skills and so, he could keep a perfectly neutral face while crossing paths with Sir Gwaine or Merlin – who, idiot that he was, kept winking at him.
Whenever Cyril passed some knights or guards, though, he couldn't help but wonder if they were those Sir Gwaine had ensured would be loyal to him. Once or twice, he thought a man might have nodded at him, which only boosted his excitement.
Beltane, he reminded himself. He only needed to wait until the end of the week and then, he would finally get the respect that he was due. He would sit on the throne, wear the golden crown of Camelot, and rule this place as it was meant to be ruled – with a hard hand and a smart head!
He had it all planned out. First, he would have King Arthur hanged, drawn and quartered. Second, he would put the false Queen in her place, have her stripped of her gaudy silks and make her work as Cyril's servant for the rest of her days. Third, he would get rid of all commoner knights as well as any other knights that refused to swear fealty to him, except for Sir Gwaine, who had proven an asset. Lastly, he would deal with his own family.
Oh, but he could not wait to see the look on Father's face! He didn't know why he had ever thought to involve him in the first place, not after how unfairly he had treated Cyril all these years, always preferring Osmond and Tatum over Cyril, simply because they knew how to swing a mace.
No, Cyril did not need Father! He was clever and capable. Within just a few weeks at King Arthur's court, he had gathered a personal army and prepared a coup.
He did not need anyone, anyone at all!
It was therefore with an air of complete and utter confidence that Cyril strode into Camelot's library the day before Beltane. Sir Gwaine had sent him a message that the parchment was ready for his perusal and signature.
When he entered the library, Sir Gwaine was already there, as well as Merlin. They were standing around a writing desk, their heads put together and whispering, though only the gods knew why the servant would have anything to say about the parchment. Could he even read?
"My lord," Sir Gwaine spoke up when he spotted him and stepped away from the desk. "There you are. Geoffrey has just left, but here is the parchment he has written up for us."
Cyril stepped up to the desk to read over the text. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn't written in the common tongue, but in Latin. Quite formal, elaborate Latin, at that.
Cyril's heart sank as he squinted at the letters. He had, of course, a brilliant mind, and was used to excelling in all intellectual pursuits. But even a natural genius needed the right nurture, the right instruction on occasions, and it just so happened that he had absolutely despised his Latin tutor growing up. He might have even told Sir Gwaine as much, when they had first partaken in the wine from Gaul and swapped stories.
And so, through absolutely no fault of his own, Latin wasn't exactly Cyril's strongest suit. He had, of course, always meant to rectify that, one day, when he had the time—
"Is there a problem, my lord?" Sir Gwaine cut through his thoughts.
"No, not a problem," Cyril replied quickly, still looking over the parchment. He found that he understood some of the words – rex for King, corona for crown – but for the most part, the parchment was littered with an awful lot of vocabulary he had never even seen before.
"I understand it's a complex document," Sir Gwaine spoke up again. "I would understand if you needed some help—"
"Of course not," Cyril snapped, fighting an undignified flush. As if a peasant like Sir Gwaine had any more of an idea what this said than he, a lord! "I know what I'm looking at." He held out his hand towards Merlin. "A quill?"
The servant handed it to him with an exaggerated flourish, grinning from ear to ear. Gods, but Cyril couldn't wait to get rid of that buffoon and his oafish smile!
Sniffing, he dipped the quill into the inkpot set into the desk, then bent over the parchment, carefully scratching the tip across the document to sign his name, sounding out the vowels as great scholars tended to do. "There," he said at last. "All done."
Sir Gwaine smiled as he reached out to shake some pounce over the ink. "Well done, my lord." His smile broadened. "Or should I say… Your Majesty?"
"Shh, before we are overheard," Cyril hushed him, though he couldn't quite stop that prickling heat of excitement from rising in his chest again at being addressed thus.
He could hardly believe it! Here he was, just a single day away from becoming King of Camelot, if only everything went to plan…
Frowning, he glanced at Merlin. "Is he prepared for tomorrow?"
"Oh, yes," Sir Gaine confirmed. "Aren't you, Merlin?"
Merlin nodded eagerly.
"What potion are you going to use?" Cyril enquired.
"I snuck a sleeping draught from Gaius," the servant replied. "That should definitely do the trick. There will be no fighting back."
"Gaius? The physician?"
"I live with him," Merlin revealed. "I have direct access to his stores."
What a lucky coincidence, Cyril thought. He hadn't even wondered what substance they might be using to incapacitate the King and his men, convinced that Sir Gwaine would be taking care of it, like he had of everything else.
Really, what a stroke of genius to have recruited him! Sir Gwaine was practically handing Cyril the crown on a silver platter and all Cyril had to do was go along.
He smiled to himself as he carefully rolled up the dried parchment.
Finally, the gods were smiling on him, as he deserved.
Around noon the following morning, Lord Edric of Nemhain arrived at Camelot, along with Tatum and Osmond, and countless other nobles who had come for the festivities.
The castle was abuzz as well as splendidly decorated, and Cyril couldn't help but imagine that it was all for him and his imminent coronation. He wondered if Sir Gwaine had taken care of that, too: a dignified crowning ceremony. After Cyril had been anointed, he could return the favour and give the knight a second knighting; a proper one, with all the pomp and circumstance he had missed the last time. Perhaps Cyril should make him First Knight, too, come to think of it.
"What are you smiling about, son?" Father asked Cyril as they made their way to the banquet hall. As most fighting men, he had dressed in ceremonial armour for the occasion, which made him look even more of a brute than he already did, what with his bushy grey beard and ridiculously broad shoulders.
"Oh, simply looking forward to the festivities," Cyril replied, folding his hands at his back as they walked on. Inside his doublet rested the scroll, ready for the King's signature.
Father looked him over. "Have you done as I instructed and sought the King's favour? You know I sent you here to make the right connections, seeing as you won't be making a name for yourself on the battlefield."
Perhaps, had things been different, Cyril would have been irked by Father's comment. But as it was, his smile only broadened. "Don't worry, Father. I made some very valuable connections indeed."
"Good," Father grunted. "I should like to see you succeed, my boy."
Cyril barely contained a snicker. "Oh, you will."
They entered the hall, all decked out in flowers and garlands, and found their place amongst the nobles. Cyril ignored Osmond's and Tatum's usual teasing, knowing they would soon know better than to mock him ever again. Oh, but he couldn't wait to see their dumbstruck expression once Cyril sat on the throne, freshly crowned and wearing the crimson mantle of kingship!
Should he have them executed right away, or make them his servants, too, like the Queen? Perhaps Tatum could polish his boots while Osmond fanned him.
Still smiling, he sought out Sir Gwaine, who was sitting in a place of honour at the high table, right next to the Queen's brother. Eventually, their eyes met and Sir Gwaine nodded at him before leaning in to speak to Merlin, who had been flitting about the high table, serving wine. Laced wine, if the idiot wasn't messing things up.
Not that the wine needed any lacing. Cyril had hardly taken a sip or two of his own and found that it must be quite strong, for his eyes were already drooping a little. He shook himself awake, knowing he had to stay alert for his big moment.
Suppressing a yawn, he looked around, seeing that the hall was now filled to the last spot. Guards were stationed at the two doorways, as Sir Gwaine had said. Any minute now, they would start moving. Any minute now, Sir Gwaine would stand up and order them to seize the King. Then, Cyril would walk up to him, make him sign the parchment and then—
"Your Majesty."
Cyril jumped. Sir Gwaine had indeed got up and addressed the King, so loudly that the hall had immediately grown quiet, all heads turning to the front. Cyril tensed, anticipation rising. He looked at the guards at the door, but they had yet to move. He let his eyes roam over the knights next, only to realise he had never asked Sir Gwaine which of them were ready to support his claim.
Well, he would find out in just a moment.
"Sir Gwaine." The King looked surprised to be addressed by the knight. "Did you want to make a toast?"
Cyril smirked, rubbing the persistent tiredness from his eyes. King Arthur had no idea what awaited him. Again, Cyril looked at the guards, two of whom had finally started to move. Good.
"I'm afraid not," answered Sir Gwaine. "I'm sorry to disturb our merry festivities, but it seems we have a traitor in our midst."
Cyril froze. What in all hells' name…?
The King got to his feet, too. "A traitor?" he repeated, alarmed.
"Aye," Sir Gwaine confirmed, then turned his head to look at Cyril. "Guards!"
Before Cyril knew what was happening, strong hands had curled around his arms and the two guards he had spotted moving were dragging him off the bench and directly towards the high table.
Immediately, Cyril started struggling, but found that his arms and legs had gone strangely leaden and were hardly obeying him. Blinking rapidly, he ended up on his knees before the King, flanked by the guards. Meanwhile, the whole hall had broken out into whispers and murmurs.
The King gave him an intense look. "Lord… Cyprus?"
"Cyril," Cyril corrected, only to find that his speech was slow and a little slurred.
"You spoke of treachery. What has he done?" King Arthur asked, addressing Sir Gwaine again.
"I fear this man has been plotting against you. He wants the throne of Camelot for himself."
The King frowned, then looked at Cyril again. "Him?" he asked doubtfully, as if he couldn't quite take the accusation seriously; so doubtfully, in fact, that Cyril found himself insulted by it.
How dare this man underestimate him!
"Have you got any proof?" the King added.
Sir Gwaine nodded. "I must admit that I have been watching this man for some time. I thought he was behaving suspiciously. Merlin thought the same thing. Together, we have carefully followed his activities around the castle, only to realise that he might soon make a move. In fact, Merlin and I are quite sure he is currently carrying the proof for his treachery on his person." Sir Gwaine looked at the guards. "There should be a parchment on him. Search him!"
The guards promptly started patting Cyril all over. He dearly would have liked to make another effort to struggle, but his eyelids were rapidly starting to droop. Where was this strange fatigue coming from? He really hadn't drunk that much wine…
At last, one of the guards retrieved the scroll from inside Cyril's doublet. Out of nowhere, Merlin appeared, snatching the parchment from the guard's hands. He flashed Cyril a broad grin, then made directly for the high table, where he presented the scroll to the King with a bow.
"Thank you, Merlin," King Arthur said and unrolled the scroll. He read over the parchment, his face growing darker and darker. When he looked up, his expression was thunderous. "I have here," he said, loudly enough for entire court to hear, "a letter, signed by Lord Cyril of Nemhain himself, telling an anonymous recipient that he has claim to the throne of Camelot through his father's bloodline, and is planning to have me poisoned within the week." He glared at Cyril. "Is there any explanation you would like to give for having this on you?"
Cyril's head was spinning. What was the King talking about? That's not what he had signed, was it? It had merely been a text about his noble ancestry, a proof of his royal pedigree! Suspicious, perhaps, but nowhere near as incriminating as a letter!
He opened his mouth to speak, but much like his extremities, his tongue had become slow and leaden. All he managed was a strangled gurgling noise.
The King shook his head. "I see," he said gravely, then waved at the guards. "Bring him to the dungeons to be dealt with at a later time. I won't have this ruin our Beltane." Through quickly blurring eyes, Cyril watched the King turn towards Sir Gwaine and smile. "Thank you, Gwaine. Your loyalty is appreciated." He turned to his other side, where his servant was still standing, "You, too, old friend."
Cyril's world went black.
Cyril awoke to a strange crunching noise. He groaned and blinked, momentarily disoriented. At last, he convinced his eyes to stay open, finding himself chained to a dungeon wall.
There was another crunching noise, then a smug voice said, "Why, hello there, Your Majesty."
Cyril looked up. On the other side of the iron bars stood Sir Gwaine, holding an apple. Next to him was the servant, Merlin, grinning from ear to ear.
Cyril's head was pulsing. Belatedly, he realised that Merlin must indeed have laced the wine – Cyril's. "You two," he rasped, when he had gathered the strength, "betrayed me."
Sir Gwaine took another crunching bite from the apple. "Yup," he said around his mouthful. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"
Cyril struggled to sit up on the straw, chains clinking. "You got cold feet," he accused, anger slowly burning its way through the lingering grogginess. "You got cold feet and turned on me!" He glared at them. "Oh, but I will tell the King! I will tell the King you were involved. I will—"
"Tell him when?" Sir Gwaine interrupted with a lazy grin. "You won't be seeing the King again. He's having you sent away, first thing in the morning."
Cyril shook his head, trying to rid himself of the last of the fatigue. "What do you mean?"
"That's the thing about Arthur, you see?" This was Merlin speaking. His grin had faded to a strange smile and he suddenly sounded much more astute than ever before. "He's kind-hearted, and much too forgiving. When your father and brothers approached him to beg for mercy on your behalf, he couldn't say no. So execution is off the table. You're to be sent into exile."
Cyril stared at them. "Exile?"
"I'd be concerned about revenge, if you weren't such a complete idiot," Sir Gwaine said, chuckling. "I doubt you could even find your way back here, once they've marooned you at the border."
Cyril scowled. "You will regret this."
Sir Gwaine laughed and tossed the half-eaten apple through the bars. "Here. Better keep your strength up for the journey." He slung an arm around Merlin's shoulder. "How about some ale, my friend? All that bloody wine made me crave a proper drink. The Rising Sun?"
"Wonderful idea! Lead the way, Sir Gwaine," Merlin replied, and they walked off.
Cyril looked after them, mouth agape. How dare they speak to him this way! How dare they betray him! Him, a lord!
Oh, but they would regret this… How very, very much they would regret this. As soon as Cyril managed to escape this dungeon, he would make them pay!
He looked around, a plan already forming in his mind.
Yes, he would break out of here. How difficult could it be, for a man of his intelligence? He would be out of here in no time. If not that, he would simply gather support in exile, find others who had been wronged by King Arthur and his presuming peasants.
Really, all this was merely a little bump on his road to success. There was no doubt in Cyril's mind that he was destined for greatness. Why had the gods favoured him with such brilliance otherwise?
One day soon, Cyril knew, he would finally get what he deserved.