It is a shining day in Nemeth. Queen Guinevere had taken the morning to stroll about the grounds with Leon, and then was escorted to the paddocks, now full of the various horses and cattle and other assorted livestock carted here from about Albion. It's impossible–to her, at least–to truly tell which are prized racing stallions, which are ornery work horses, and which are placid working mares. But before too long, she is joined by the Princess Elena and her brother, Prince Caradoc, and they pass some time complimenting stable hands and horses as they pass along the gate for a turn in a muddy exercise paddock.
Princess Elena leans on the fence, a scrutinizing eye leveled at a particularly spirited black mare being led out into the exercise paddock.
"We need to make friends," Elena grumbles, perching her chin on the palm of her hand.
"But we are already in the graces of such good friends," Caradoc points out next to her. "Our dinner last night should have proven that."
Elena sighs. "Yes, but we're none of us gossips. Except for maybe you, Caradoc, and Gwaine, perhaps."
"Darla has a knack for it, I think," Guinevere offers. At the other two's questioning looks, she adds, "A servant in the household of Nemeth. Quite good friends with Sybil and Greta, who are Princess Mithian's maidservants."
"Ah," Elena says. "A good start then. But we'll need to make friends from other courts as well if we want to succeed in our goals."
Guinevere knows what she means. Rumor is a powerful thing, especially at functions such as this. Their best bet at accomplishing their goals–namely, gaining information on potential matches, spurring on Merlin as a potential match, and elevating Mithian in her own right–would be to get the fete speaking about it. They're already speaking about Merlin, surely, but even this early in the morning on the second day, Gwen knows his popularity must be waning among the attendants. Someone without the title of duke or earl or viscount does little to ignite the blood of such rich folk.
Elena casts her eyes about as if looking for inspiration. Guinevere can't blame her, and feels that under normal circumstances, this may not be the best area in the castle to find suitable friends.
But despite this area being reserved for horses, cattle, and other assorted livestock carted here by the various nobles of Albion, there appears to be quite a good mix of serving staff and nobility here.
This place, she would think, would normally be reserved for dead-on-their-feet stable hands and groomsmen and farriers, merchants and butchers and footman, and only the most awkward or devoted nobles would be here directing their servants or checking on their horses. However, she spies Queen Annis, looking over two prized stallions–freshly groomed–that she had brought all the way from Caerleon as a gift to King Rodor and Queen Adelaine on the celebration of their country's founding.
And just there is Sir Galahad with Lady Lian on his arm, complimenting a local farmer on his prized sheep currently being shown to a contingent of admiring servants and sharp-eyed wool merchants. She sees, too, Sir Gwaine happily chatting up a pretty milkmaid who got caught in his line of vision. And just over there is the Earl of Realing negotiating some trade with an angry-looking horse breeder, and there is the beautiful and shrewd Viscountess of Ewe showing off her nephew's war stallion to a few wide-eyed squires. And not too far away is Princess Mithian herself, being toted around by Lord Rian and an excitable Henry to tour all the different animals they thought worthy of the princess's attention.
Mithian turns and catches sight of Gwen, Elena, and Caradoc. She gives them a jaunty wave, then sees from the corner of her eye a knight in shining armor despite the relaxed and already stiflingly hot summer day approaching with an overtly gallant swagger to his walk. She asks a quick and unheard question of little Henry, who grabs her hand in his and pulls her away toward some unknown destination and away from the knight.
The place is a-bustle with potential prospects for friend and foe. But a particular group catches the queen's eye.
It is a collection of young noble women, most from different countries based upon the subtle differences in the color palette and jewelry choice displayed among them. Their ringleader appears to be a young woman, perhaps only a few years the queen's junior. She has pretty blonde ringlets perched just so on the top of her head, and a small button nose that she hides often behind shiny gloves and an ever-present fan.
She seems hard at work entertaining the attentions of a young knight wearing the colors of Essetir who himself seems overwhelmed and agog with the attentions of the young women and her noble sorority. He holds loosely in his hands the reins to a spirited young horse, barely not a colt anymore, and obviously impatient with not having been already delivered to a stall with dry ground and sweet hay. It stamps at the ground and whinnies, exciting a wave of titters from the group.
Another young woman stands directly beside the blonde-haired lady. Guinevere spots how she takes a beat or two to titter at the jokes with all of her friends, the way her eyes immediately jump to the blonde to gauge her own reaction when someone else speaks. The other young woman is taller, and while still slim, endeavors to make herself smaller amid the gaggle of young noblewomen. Her gloved hands clutch a bit too tightly at her shawl, and she allows a few loose curls, all shining and honeyed-brown beneath the sun, to fall into her downcast eyes.
Guinevere allows her eyes to remain on the young women. She remembers them from the social the day previous. That slight, pretty young thing with the blonde hair and pleasing grey eyes–she was the one who dropped her fan in Merlin's path as an excuse to speak with him, and the young ladies who surround her now were also there that night. And the one with golden-brown hair had been with her, too, though she had managed to obscure herself more successfully amid the group.
"What about them?" Guinevere asks, inclining her head slightly to indicate the group.
The trio against the fence watch as a snort from a horse causes all the young women to go a-tittering again. The stable hand blushes at their laughter, and the young blonde lady leans over to whisper something in a friend's ear, this woman taller, yet just as slim, with honey-brown hair and green eyes. The young woman with brown hair throws her head back to laugh, then leans closer as the blonde beckons her forward to whisper a secret in her ear. They share a giggle, then the brown-haired one does her best to meld back into the background. She looks nervously and somewhat disapprovingly at the young knight for a moment before once more replacing her demure smile.
Elena watches them and makes a displeased face followed quickly by a thoughtful one, while her brother next to her manages to maintain a much more placid mien.
"That poor horse," Elena sighs. She considers them a moment longer and says, "They'll likely do. That pretty one, though, the one with the golden-brown hair–"
"She'll go along with her friend," Caradoc pronounces. "I know the type."
Elena scowls. "Just because they're noble women doesn't mean them incapable of independent thought."
Caradoc holds up his hands in a gesture of peace and says, "You don't need to tell me that. More often than not in the waters of the court, women are the sharks and men the remoras. But that girl? She's new blood. I know of her. She's a merchant's daughter. Her parents became so wealthy here in Nemeth that King Rodor and Queen Adelaine gifted them with a landed title. She's a part of the new class."
"The new class?" Elena asks.
"Well-to-do merchants being named minor lords," Guinevere explains. "It's partially where we found the precedent to name Merlin an advisor."
"Speak of a devil and one shall appear," Elena mutters, then raises a hand in greeting.
Cutting their way through the hubbub with surprising efficacy are Merlin and a young man the queen identifies as Prince Bedivere–one of their more promising alternative "matches" currently being considered by the princess. Neither look up to see the gesture from the princess. Instead, their heads are pressed so close together that their black and auburn curls nearly touch, their mouths moving rapidly in some low conversation.
Merlin carries a small book in his hand and flips feverishly from page to page. Every so often, the prince will reach over and thump it for emphasis or point out some line to Merlin, who will frown and pull the parchment closer to peer at it with more fervor.
Part of the way on their course through the livestock area, Dagonet finds them and attaches himself to the end of the train, alternately shooting exasperated looks at the back of his master's head and even more exasperated looks at the back of the severely angular young boy stuck like a shadow to his and the prince's heels.
"On their way to training, I suppose," Gwen says, highly amused at the sight.
Her mirth is not due, however, to the way the two men argue over the book like old generals debating war plans. It not because of the way the two young serving boys alternately trail and amble in the wake of their masters' paths. It is not as a result of the strange looks the pair receive as they cut a miraculously straight line through the throng of people and animals in their way and proceeding as if unencumbered.
It is because their true and efficient path is cut for them by the waddling and ponderous steps of a small white duck, which occasionally nips at someone to bustle them out of the way or quacks at someone in soft thanks for having already moved.
"If it isn't the Order of the Bumbling Duck," Caradoc says. He's obviously just as humored by the sight, but nonetheless looks at the pair carefully as they make their way across the livestock area and more toward the various empty pens meant to act as small arenas during the tournament. "They seem to be getting along much as a hut on fire."
"Quite," Gwen says. "But to our problem, perhaps we should go over to the ladies–"
And here, several things happen at almost the same time.
Sir Quackenfell walks a few feet away from the group of noble ladies, their captive knight, and his young horse. The horse sees the duck and decides it greatly dislikes what it sees. It rears up on its hind legs, kicking its front a few times above the heads of the young ladies.
The young ladies give out a collective screech. The young woman with brown hair darts forward and attempts to grab the reins of the horse when it lands back on its feet, but it tears off immediately into the now panicked group of people and pulls the young woman off her feet. She lets go quickly, but not before she lands heavily on the ground.
It seems as if the whole world pauses.
Then, quicker than anyone else can react, Merlin is there. He looks in the direction the horse had bolted in until he sees the auburn curls of Prince Bedivere running through the path in the crowd left by the horse after the panicked animal. The physician's assistant goes onto one knee next to her and leans close, helping her up into a sitting position.
The sorority, now somewhat recovered from the sudden disappearance of the horse and intrigued by the sudden appearance of a handsome young noble, draw closer.
Elena picks up her skirts and begins marching over. Caradoc raises an eyebrow at the queen, then offers her his arm. Guinevere takes it gratefully and leads the two at a slightly more dignified pace toward the now-growing crowd.
Mithian has had a tolerable day so far. Without doubt, the appearance of the bouquet had been a strange start, and then she had learned that her maidservant and dearest friend disapproved of the scheme to weed out terrible matches and find a suitable one.
She had tried thereafter to skip breakfast and find another one of her friends, the ever intelligent and sweetly quiet Eloise. The young woman had seemed to withdraw when her mother was named Gamesmaster, but this Mithian had expected. There was much excitement and mystery generated over the competitions for this fete, and the Lady Reena only added to it: a newly minted noble, successful in business even as a widow, with a penchant for flair that was the envy of the court and an eye for scandal that was the nightmare of the court.
Lady Reena, in fact, was one of Mithian's personal mentors, and her daughter longly deemed one of her best friends.
But then the fete had started, and Eloise had learned of Mithian's designs to earn as many prizes for herself as possible, and the younger woman had retreated slightly from their closeness in order to preserve the princess's favor in the games.
After all, if she were even rumored to be close with the daughter of the Gamesmaster Lady Reena, any attempt to resemble impartial and unfair would seem hollow.
Mithian missed her friend, and only wanted a word or two of reassurance leading up to the Royal Luncheon.
But upon arriving at her chambers in the castle, Mithian was informed by a servant that the Lady Eloise was promenading with the Lady Fara down at the livestock grounds, and would not be back for some time.
Then Lord Rian and little Henry had found the princess, as had an insufferable man called Lord Byron who was droning on about his terfs' inability to produce quality cabbages. The princess had jumped at the opportunity to get away from Byron, and soon found herself at the same grounds as her friend was rumored to be, and largely away from the more shameless men who considered themselves suitors.
And then, in the middle of an excited explanation from Lord Rian about exactly how many pigs a full-grown dragon could eat, a horse came tearing down the laneway, threatening to bowl over anyone in its path.
Mithian moves quickly. She runs out into the road and holds up her arms. The horse stops short with great effort and rears on its hind legs. Mithian reaches up, grabs its reins, and tugs downward while stepping backward.
The horse's front hooves crash down onto the earth in front of her, sending a spatter of mud up her dress. Mithian ignores this and continues to pull the horse's head downward. She frees a hand of the tangle of leather reins to stroke at its nose. Without thinking, she brings up a calm and free-flowing susurrus of calming words.
The horse stamps, then snuffs. It champs at the bit and attempts to jerk its head back.
Mithian holds the reins firmly and takes a step forward to match it. Her petting hand forces its head even further downward, endeavoring to reduce its sight to the still legs and flat ground around it rather than the alarmed faces of the crowd.
Someone jogs up to her, out of breath. It's a young man with an angular face, a sharp nose, and intelligent eyes. He runs a hand through his curls, then transfers his hands to his knees as he bends over and tries to regain control of his breath.
"Well done, my lady," the man tells her, still fighting for breath. "I was… just… just about to do that."
"I can tell," Mithian replies. "Is this your horse, sir?"
"Mine?" the young man replies, throwing his hands and torso upward. He peers at the sky, cheeks bulging hugely with the effort of his exhale, his arms stretched upward and bent at the elbows to clutch at his auburn hair. "N–no. Just… a helpful bystander. Not as helpful… as helpful as you, though… I suppose."
He waves a hand through the air to indicate her at large and bends forward again, bracing himself for further heavy breathing.
"I suppose not," Mithian says, raising an eyebrow at him. "And do you know who I can return this horse to?"
The man shrugs. "Dunno. But it came from over there, originally." He waves even more vaguely in the direction that both he and the horse had come.
"Right," Mithian says, pausing in her ministrations.
The horse cautiously lifts its head. It snorts at her. It may be her imagination, but it sounds slightly embarrassed.
"Well, then," Mithian says. "I suppose I ought to try and return it then."
"Uh," the young man says. "May I join you?"
Mithian looks at him questioningly.
"It's just that I ran after it to capture it," the man says. "All credit will go to you, of course, but it will injure my honor if I am seen skulking by a candlemark later without a horse after setting off after it with such purpose."
"Very well," Mithian says. "If you must."
They begin walking back together. The young man takes up position on the other side of the horse's head, still obviously out of breath, but more well off than he had been earlier.
"Are you a… lord?" Mithian asks. At the young man's look, she rushes to explain, "I just mean, I'm wondering what you were doing rushing off after a loose horse."
"Ah," the young man says. "A misplaced need to be helpful, I suppose. I'm Bedivere. And you are, my lady?"
"Prince Bedivere?" Mithian asks before she can stop herself.
They are approaching the end of a lane, at which point a large group of people are gathered. She glances at the young man from the corner of her eye.
If the young man weren't so already flushed from his exertions, he would likely have blushed.
"One and the same," he replies.
"Ah," Mithian says. "And a prince is running after a horse because…"
"Because my friend had already jumped to the aid of the young lady," Bedivere jokes, "so I had to try to do the next gallant thing."
"Am I gallant, then?" Mithian asks, "for having calmed the beast?"
"My lady, you are so gallant I should be calling you sir," Bedivere answers with a huff.
Mithian laughs. They come closer to the crowd, which parts slightly at their approach.
In the middle of the group is Merlin, looking wind-swept and concerned. He kneels on the ground, hovering over a young woman, his left arm extended around her so as to support her back off the ground. His right hand is missing his glove and gently pinches her wrist between thumb and forefinger. He frowns slightly down at her, brow furrowed. She looks back at him, breathless with wide eyes.
Merlin glances behind him and sees Mithian, turning the corner and laughing with Bedivere.
Mithian looks back and sees Merlin, holding in his arms her friend the Lady Eloise and surrounded by attentive courtiers.