Stave I: The Mischievous Visitor
It was Yuletide in Camelot, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.
Gathered upon the streets were piles of muddied snow, trampled underfoot by the people of the town who bustled along, baskets in hand, shawls and scarves pulled tight against the ice of wind. Though despite the bitter chill in the air, despite the furrowed grey sky above, despite bare trees and barren fields, Yuletide celebrations were in full swing, to be sure. All sorts of merriments were to be had to chase the cold winter away; no spirit would be dampened.
In the markets, food vendors cried, advertising hot roasted apples, warm spiced ale, great wheels of sharp cheeses, all to be bought. Craftsmen and artisans displayed their wares to folks' free perusal. They offered tokens for the folk to gift their loved ones: carved and painted figures of knights and horses, polished buttons of bone, handkerchiefs delicately embroidered with evergreen motifs, beaded clay necklaces, and many more trinkets that pleased the eye. Meanwhile, on street corners, the mummers gathered, voices lifting in carols to the snowy sky. They formed rag-taggle groups, dressed in horned masks, guising themselves as oxen, stags, horses and hares. They frolicked and capered after children, making jests to enamoured crowds. Folk filed past, some stopping to toss a coin, or to pause and revel in the lively singing.
Beyond the frosted rooftops of the lower town the castle's windows glimmered brightly, a beacon of warmth against winter's shadow. Inside, every fire was roaring heartily, to banish the chill from the castle's draughty halls. Windows were barred shut against the rattling wind, and in each a candle was lit, scented with beeswax and juniper. In the corridors, servants hurried back and forth, hanging garlands of fir, blood-red holly, and dripping ivy. Permeating every passageway within the castle was the aroma of resinous evergreen, the smoky fumes of wood fires, and cutting through, the delicious wafting of roasting meat. The preparations were truly underway for the grand Yuletide feast that would be commencing the very next eve.
Inside the King's chambers, Merlin was busying himself, gathering clothes to be laundered. The room was particularly stuffy, owing to the thick tapestries draped over the walls and the fire crackling away in the corner. Merlin, clammy with the heat, plucked up a tunic that was strewn across the bed. Unsure whether it was clean or dirty, he gave it an investigative sniff. Merlin winced in immediate regret, coughing at the pungent sour stench clinging to the tunic. He added the garment to the growing pile of laundry under his arm. Arthur, hunched behind his desk and squinting at scrolls, mumbled a disgruntled protest.
"Can't you go and cough somewhere else? I'm trying to concentrate here." Arthur raised his scowl from his papers, glowering with irritation.
"I'm sorry, I can't help it if your clothes stink," Merlin answered with a toss of his head, shrugging his shoulders.
"Since it's your job to clean my clothes, you can help it." Arthur offered a tight-lipped, sardonic smile that Merlin knew to be dangerous. Throwing a hand up in resignation, Merlin turned back to his work, though not before voicing a snide mutterance under his breath.
"Someone's in a mood today."
In vexation, Arthur decisively threw his quill down. He collapsed, sighing, back into his chair, head in his hands. Merlin twitched a glance in Arthur's direction, pondering whether or not it would be prudent to poke the bear further than he already had. He ventured that it wouldn't do any harm.
"Okay, what is it?" He asked, setting aside his task while his friend was in turmoil.
"V'e mot oo gt a prsnt fr wenyveer," Arthur lamented into his hands.
"What was that?" Merlin's nose wrinkled in bafflement.
"I've got to get a present for Guinevere!" Arthur burst out, peeling his hands from his face.
Merlin quailed back in shock.
"But I haven't the faintest clue what to get her," Arthur added. With another sigh, he slumped forwards and rested his chin on his hand. He glared at his desk, eyes glazed and pensive.
"Well, that's easy. Get her something she likes."
"Yes, thank you Merlin. That's very astute advice. I'd never have thought of that on my own." Arthur's eyes narrowed, his words lacquered with ice; all the signs Merlin needed to know he was treading perilous ground once again.
"Alright, I won't help then," Merlin answered, turning his back on Arthur to hazard an eye-roll. It went unnoticed.
"The trouble is, Gwen isn't the type to appreciate finery like jewels or silk. A gown or a necklace would be wasted upon her. She deserves something more- something meaningful…" Arthur mulled aloud.
"Make a romantic gesture," Merlin suggested, discovering a stray sock that had been thrown under the wardrobe. "Something that tells her she has your heart forever."
Arthur snapped up straight-backed in his chair.
"That's not a bad idea," Arthur said slowly, his brow creasing with ignited thought.
Kneeling on the floor, Merlin squeezed his arm under the wardrobe, grasping for anymore stray socks. He unearthed gasping with a hand stuffed full of old, stale socks. A streak of dust marked his right cheek where he had pressed it against the floor.
Arthur rose from his desk and made purposeful strides across the room.
"Thanks Merlin," he said, all traces of anxiety gone from his tone.
Where Merlin stooped on the floor, he heard the heavy chamber door creak open. He craned his neck, spying Arthur loitering in the doorway, newly bedecked in riding gear and polished boots.
"Hang on! Where are you going?" He remonstrated while struggling to stand, dropping laundry as he did so.
"That," Arthur began, vigorously tugging on a pair of leather gloves, "is really none of your business."
"But- you've got your speech to write for the Yuletide banquet!" Merlin spluttered.
"That's no bother, you can write it for me." Arthur flashed Merlin a mirthful grin as he leaned on the door.
"I don't know how to write a speech!" Was Merlin's ardent protest.
"I'm sure you'll manage it, if you're as clever as you think you are." He began to leave, but momentarily, ducked his head around the doorway, adding, "Make sure it's done by this evening, or you'll be in the stocks. Oh, and Merlin, perhaps you better mop the floors?" Arthur indicated a wagging finger to the dust on Merlin's face.
With that, he left, leaving an incredulous Merlin staring after him with his mouth agape.
Merlin studied the mess around him, forming a mental tally of the impossible number of tasks needed to be done. Arthur's clothes were to be laundered, the bed needed making, the floor mopping, the room dusted, boots to be polished, dinner to be served, Arthur's garb for the Yuletide banquet needed preparing…and now Merlin had to find time amongst all of that to write an address to the court. Well, certainly none of it would be done if he continued standing in Arthur's chambers all day. Merlin huffed, but with renewed motivation set to his work, first to retrieve the clothes he had previously dropped upon the floor.
Only mere minutes into shuffling and bending over, a metal clanging rang in the corridor outside, diverting Merlin's attention. This was presently followed by the patter of scampering footprints which swivelled his head in intrigue. The sound was not like the ordinary heavy stomp of the guards' boots, nor was it akin to the scurry of busy servants. The footsteps were light whispers, like fingertips brushing over parchment. A second metallic clatter proceeded the flurry of footsteps, this time sounding directly outside the chamber door.
Merlin threw down his bundle of laundry, eager to catch the culprit before it scampered away. For good measure, he snatched from the table a heavy wrought-iron candlestick-holder, just in case the perpetrator was malicious.
Merlin peeped around the door, searching scrupulously for the source of the unusual sounds. His eyes widened to disks when he was confronted with the catastrophe before him.
Something had almost certainly torn through the corridor, and seemingly, something quite sizable. Tables were tipped over, the decorative earthenware urns that once adorned them shattered upon the ground. Ornamental swords and shields that once flanked the walls had been flung astray, while tapestries had been torn down, their fragile threads frayed. Wisps of smoke buffeted down the darkened corridor; Merlin's nostrils stung at the charred scent emanating from the extinguished torches. He stood, frozen, calculating the scene of disaster. A thin, black trail upon the floor sparked his intrigue. Crouching down, he wiped a fingertip through the sediment, discovering it to be ashy and caking to his finger. It was soot. As he lifted his head, he found that the trail wended to the end of the corridor.
An amorphous shadow flickered upon the wall. The whisper of pittering footprints was barely detectable. Merlin sprang to action, always keeping the shadow in his peripheral vision as he chased it light-footed down the corridor, with the intent of ambushing whatever it was that had wreaked havoc. Turning a sharp corner, Merlin came face to face with the wicked little beast.
Merlin had anticipated something brown and furry, with pointed teeth and a long tail. Instead, cowering within his shadow was a tiny, imp-like creature, no taller than a few inches. Despite its short stature, it was unfathomably gangly, teetering on spindly legs and waving billowy long arms. Its scrawny body was clothed in a greyed ashy mantle, while wiry hair atop its head was veiled by a pointed cap. The abomination shrieked when it was ambushed by Merlin, a shrill, crooning shriek resembling that of a barn owl's. When it screamed, its mouth was a black pinpoint in its chalk-white round face.
A sickening chill swept down Merlin's spine when the creature seethed at him through two cavernous button eyes, its contempt keenly palpable. When the thing had concluded its banshee shrieking, it launched itself into the safety of the shadows, flashing along the corridor with spider-swiftness.
Raising a battle cry and with his candlestick-holder brandished aloft, Merlin hasted after the scampering beast. The creature's bare white feet raced, though not fast enough to outrun Merlin's determined strides. Soon, the creature was in grasping distance, screeching its foul cries of protest with all the force it could muster. Merlin lunged and swiped with his rudimentary weapon, aiming to knock the creature off its feet. Instead, he came down upon thin air. Unable to control his momentum, Merlin stumbled, falling flat upon his face.
While a distracted Merlin groaned in pain, straining to pull himself up, the creature seized the opportunity to dive headlong into the sanctuary of an abandoned mousehole. Merlin cried in protest, crawling with gritted teeth to continue the pursuit. He pressed himself flat against the floor, sweat beading upon his brow as he peered into the mousehole's black dustiness. Two baleful button eyes blinked at him, gaping out of the shadows, as if daring Merlin to try anything and risk the consequences. And Merlin dared, hazarding to stuff his hand into the gap, though only succeeding to squeeze in a few fingers. In response, the creature released a vehement shriek. Vainly, Merlin stuffed his fingers as far as the narrow gap permitted and wriggled to gain a catch hold, all the while, the creature was scrabbling about vigorously and battering against Merlin's fingernails.
"Merlin? What are you doing down there?" queried a bemused voice.
Askant, Merlin shot his head up to discover mulberry-red skirts wavering before him. Gwen surveyed him from above, brows knitted in genuine concern.
"Oh- I was… trying to catch…" Merlin's cheeks blushed as he flustered for a plausible answer, "a… rat?"
"With a candlestick-holder?" Gwen replied, the corner of her lips quirking upward.
"Yes, it's the best way," Merlin assured as convincingly as his agitated state would allow.
With what little grace he possessed, Merlin hauled himself to his feet, and with a last-minute consideration for decorum, dusted off his clothes. The candlestick-holder dangled limply in his hand, now proven to be a rather inefficient weapon. Merlin fumbled an apologetic grin in Gwen's direction.
"I was looking for Arthur. You haven't seen him, have you?" Gwen returned Merlin's smile. She bore in her hands a finely crafted jug bursting with a posy of winter hellebore, hued the deepest of purples. Merlin suspected she had sculpted the jug and gathered the blossoms herself.
"He's out," Merlin spoke abruptly.
Gwen tilted her head, urging him to divulge.
Scratching his head, he continued wearily, "He's gone… wassailing! With the other knights. It's an ancient Yuletide tradition. The knights of Camelot ride out to the orchards and sing to the trees, asking to be blessed with good cider next harvest time." Merlin held his breath, silently praying that Gwen had bought the deception; it would be best if Gwen didn't find Arthur while he was seeking a gift for her.
"I can't imagine Arthur singing." Gwen tittered a laugh.
Merlin breathed an inconspicuous sigh of relief.
"Oh, you wouldn't want to. He sounds like a donkey in pain when he sings."
Even in the dimness, Gwen's grimace was all too evident, as though she were recalling an unsavoury image that she would have rather forgotten.
"Well, when he's finished wassailing, could you let him know I'm looking for him?"
"Of course," Merlin replied, nodding dutifully.
"I wish you good fortune with your rat-catching," Gwen offered, lips curling upwards again. She swept off down the corridor, skirts billowing.
Merlin kept to his station, calling his farewells after Gwen, however, once she was safely out of sight, he dived back down to all-fours. He peeped an eye into the mousehole. All was silent.
Merlin scoffed in defeat, standing up begrudgingly. He glanced up and down the corridor, yet no sight or sound of the creature was to be found. The castle's corridors were chilled with silence. Merlin shivered miserably, blowing warm air into his hands. Where could it have gone, he pondered to himself. He didn't even know what it was. That was a problem, however, that was easily remedied. Merlin concluded that he would begin there: discover what the creature was, then contrive a means to rid the castle of its presence.
Abandoning the candlestick-holder where it lay on the ground, Merlin thundered down the winding corridors and leapt up flights of stairs.
Unbeknownst to him, a reprisal whisper of pittering feet stirred, while a trail of sooty footprints were smudged along the corridor, following in Guinevere's wake.