The Knight and the Not-Quite Lady, chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don’t own Merlin or its characters.

Despite a restless night’s sleep, Wynne was in good spirits the following morning for two reasons. First and foremost, she still carried in her heart the memory of the conversation and the playful scuffle she’d had with Gwaine the previous afternoon, a memory that was both strong enough and pleasant enough to shove to the back of her mind the all-too-realistic dreams that had disturbed her slumber. The other reason was that Lady Retta had offered her a reprieve from that morning’s singing lessons. Lady Retta truly liked Wynne, and she couldn’t bear to put her through another hour of humiliation. Since Lady Magdalen would once more be busy with the queen and Berte, she would be none the wiser.

Wynne looked forward to spending a pleasant morning with Gaius and Merlin grinding herbs and mixing tinctures, something she was becoming quite good at. She was so light-hearted that she fairly skipped as she made her way down the back staircase and along the passageway to Gaius’ chamber. So happy was she that she unconsciously began singing the song they had danced to yesterday, making up lyrics about Gwaine to match the tune. She winced as she heard her voice echoing back to her. Oh my, she thought to herself, a little less light-hearted than before. I truly cannot sing. She stubbornly shoved the unpleasant thought to the back of her mind as she knocked on Gaius’ door.

Almost immediately, Merlin yanked the door open. Forcing a serious expression, he said, “I’m sorry, Wynne, but Gwaine isn’t here.”

Wynne’s face flushed scarlet as she gaped at him, unable to believe he’d just said that in front of Gaius. Merlin laughed as she shoved him and hissed, “You clotpole, you promised you wouldn’t say anything.”

As Gaius bustled around the small room gathering supplies, he chuckled to himself and pretended not to hear their exchange. As he took in the mortified indignation in Wynne’s eyes, he thought how lucky Merlin was that she didn’t have magic, or else he might have found himself in a heap on the floor.

A quarter hour later, Wynne was seated at a table with a mortar and pestle and a large basket of dried yarrow in front of her. As she ground the herbs and measured them into clay jars, she smiled to herself as she happily thought of the singing lesson she was missing.

~.               ~.                 ~.                  ~.                ~.                ~

In the sunny solarium, Lady Retta had finished warming up with scales and was teaching the young ladies a courtly love song. Suddenly, the door opened, and in came Lady Magdalen. Lady Retta’s heart leapt into her throat. What would she say when she discovered that Wynne was not participating in the lesson? She swallowed hard and pasted a smile on her face. “Good morning, Lady Magdalen. What a…pleasant surprise,” she greeted haltingly.

Lady Magdalen smiled warmly in return and replied, “Good morning, Lady Retta, young ladies. The queen was detained by some unexpected business, so I wished to see how you were faring with singing lessons.”

“Oh,” Lady Retta said nervously. “Fine. Everything is just fine. We were just working on one of the songs you taught me when I was in finishing school.” She tried to stand in such a way that she hid the fact that Wynne was missing.

Unaware of Lady Retta’s tension, Lady Magdalen nodded with satisfaction. “Marvelous! Might I hear a bit of what they have learned?”

“Of course,” Lady Retta responded tensely, her cheeks flushing. She turned to the young ladies, trembling slightly.

Lady Magdalen clasped her hands, eager to hear the ladies sing. However, just as Lady Retta was about to have them begin, Lady Magdalen held up her hand. “Wait a minute,” she commanded. Her sharp eyes had noticed what Lady Retta had hoped to hide. “Where is Wynifred?”

A couple of the ladies tittered; others, including Anora, looked anxiously at Lady Retta, wondering what she would tell Lady Magdalen. After a moment’s hesitation, she instructed her class, “Ladies, please practice the chorus we just learned while I have a word with Lady Magdalen.”

As the two women walked a few feet away, the young ladies began to sing, though they did so softly so that they could overhear the conversation. Lady Magdalen turned to Lady Retta and asked coldly, “Why isn’t Wynifred here? Is she ill, or is there some other reason?” Her tone suggested that she already knew that Wynne wasn’t ill.

Lady Retta fidgeted with the ribbons on her dress. She knew that Lady Magdalen wanted the truth, but she was certain that the older woman would not be convinced of Wynne’s lack of ability. The last thing she wanted was to get Wynne into trouble again; she knew how much the girl clashed with Lady Magdalen. At last she sighed and began. “Lady Magdalen, believe me when I say I tried, and so did Wynne…” Lady Magdalen cocked her head and raised her eyebrows, already not liking what she heard. Lady Retta cleared her throat and went on, “Lady, truly, she…cannot carry a tune. At all.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Magdalen interrupted. “Neither you nor I have ever encountered anyone who cannot be taught to sing at least passably, and I refuse to believe that Wynifred is the first.”

Lady Retta smiled grimly, recognizing the very words she had said to Wynne. She shook her head and argued, “I’m afraid I have met my match in Wynne. I even met with her privately, but she simply cannot follow a tune. She is…” Lady Retta hated to say the word. “…Unteachable.”

“The only reason Wynifred is unteachable is because she desires to be,” Lady Magdalen insisted. She raised her chin to look imperiously down at the younger woman and continued icily, “There is something you must understand about young Wynifred. She is extremely bright, maybe too bright for her own good, and is also quite stubborn. Wynifred’s aunt informed me that she is very good at finding ways around that which she does not want to do. Obviously, singing is one of the things she does not want to do.” She turned abruptly and dismissed Lady Retta. “I will put an end to this foolishness right now.”

~                   ~                         ~                ~                  ~                    ~                      ~

In Gaius’ chamber, Wynne was watching the aged physician measure herbs into bottles to make some of the more common tinctures used at Camelot. “Now, Wynne,” he said, dropping large pinches of yarrow into a small bottle. “This herb, when combined with white sage, will prevent infection in all but the most grievous of wounds.”

His words were interrupted by a loud rap at the door. Wynne’s eyes widened as Merlin hurried across the room to open the door; she had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach who was there, and she knew it wasn’t a mere social call. Her feeling was proven correct as Merlin opened the door and Lady Magdalen’s piercing eyes immediately found Wynne. “Wynifred, why are you here instead of at singing lessons with the others? Your herbal lessons are not until tomorrow.”

Gaius stood and was about to make excuse for her, but Wynne stopped him. “No, Gaius, it’s all right.” She stood and brushed some stray yarrow from her gray dress before facing Lady Magdalen. “I begged Lady Retta to excuse me from singing lessons because…” she began. That statement wasn’t entirely true, but she did not want Lady Retta to get in trouble for her kindness. “…because I cannot sing. I’m a hopeless case.” She glanced at Merlin, her defiant eyes daring him to laugh at her again, but there was no amusement on his face this time.

Lady Magdalen raised her chin imperiously and glared down at the girl. “Nonsense, Wynifred,” she exclaimed. “You need only to apply yourself to your voice lessons as you obviously have to your kitchen skills and your herbal knowledge.” Wynne barely contained a gasp; was that almost a compliment? For her? From Lady Magdalen? “I cannot and will not have one of my young ladies shirking her lessons simply because she finds something difficult.”

Having no knowledge of what had occurred the previous day during singing lessons, Gaius took Lady Magdalen’s side. “Wynne, I believe Lady Magdalen is correct. We can continue this later. You run along to your voice lesson.”

Wynne’s eyes pleaded silently with Gaius to persuade Lady Magdalen to allow her to stay, but his mind was set. She cast a helpless glance to Merlin before Lady Magdalen ushered her out of the room; Merlin’s expression was just as helpless as he watched them leave. After the door had shut with a bang, Gaius turned to Merlin with a look of amusement. “Honestly, the girl acts as though she were headed for the gallows instead of the solarium.”

Merlin gave him an apprehensive look and replied grimly, “I believe Wynne feels as though she’s headed for the gallows.”

~.          ~.           ~.         ~.          ~

Wynne swallowed hard as they reached the door to the solarium. A pleasant, upbeat melody came from inside, the song they had learned yesterday. To Wynne it sounded like a funeral dirge. She hesitated until Lady Magdalen cleared her throat meaningfully. Wynne glanced up at her and then tugged the door open and went inside, followed closely by Lady Magdalen.

The young ladies stopped singing, and Lady Retta turned abruptly to face them. She immediately took in the stony yet fearful expression on Wynne’s face and the hard, determined expression on Lady Magdalen’s face, and she knew that Wynne had been unsuccessful in convincing the older woman of her plight.

“Wynifred will rejoin the class now,” Lady Magdalen announced. A few of the ladies tittered and glanced at each other, and Bronwyn whispered something to Lavinia, making her choke a laugh into a cough. Wynne tried to ignore them, but Lady Magdalen fixed steely eyes on them as she continued, “I will stay to hear the ladies’ progress so far.” Wynne clearly heard what she did not say, that she would keep an eye on her as well. Her gaze shifted to Wynne, indicating that the girl was to take her place among the others.

Wynne trudged over to stand beside Anora, who squeezed Wynne’s hand and gave her a brief sympathetic glance before turning her attention back to Lady Retta. Lady Magdalen took a seat on a bench along the wall as Lady Retta turned to the ladies once more. Her eyes were glassy with anxiety, and her voice trembled as she asked, “Wynne, do you remember the song…we…sang at yesterday’s lesson?” More suppressed giggles from the other girls as Wynne nodded. Lady Retta nodded in return and then cleared her throat and raised her hand. “All right, ladies. One, two, three…”

The next hour was spent in unsuccessful attempts to get Wynne to sing something–anything–in a way that didn’t make everyone around her cringe and cover their ears. After an hour of humiliation, frustration, and irritation, the singing class was dismissed. While Lady Retta and Lady Magdalen huddled together to discuss what could be done about Wynne, Wynne and Anora escaped out a side door and into the courtyard. They sat down beneath a tree, and Wynne rested her head on her knees and groaned, “Could that have possibly gone any worse?”

Anora rested her hand on Wynne’s back and replied indignantly, “How could Lady Magdalen be so cruel, not only making you rejoin the class, but making you sing alone for her while she criticized everything?”

Wynne raised her head to look at Anora. She knew that speaking harshly against Lady Magdalen would be disrespectful and wouldn’t make her feel any better, so she simply said, “She doesn’t mean to be cruel; she just believes that if I practice and apply myself, I’ll be able to sing without sounding like…a lovesick frog.”

Anora couldn’t help it; she had to stifle a giggle. When Wynne turned miserable eyes to her, she bit the inside of her cheek and quickly apologized. “Sorry, Wynne. They call you Wynifrog…and you said you sing like a frog…sorry.” She looked away, feeling horrible for laughing at her friend.

Wynne sat up and smiled wanly. “It’s all right, Anora,” she said. “That’s why I made that joke. Laugh to keep from crying, right?”

“Oh, Wynne,” Anora sighed, her eyebrows coming together in frustration. “I just wish…”

A man’s voice interrupted her thought, and both girls leaned over to peer around the tree. By Anora’s reaction, Wynne didn’t need to look to know who the voice belonged to; it was Boris, and Anora immediately flushed pink and giggled excitedly. When Wynne heard a second voice, it was her turn to flush pink; Gwaine was with Boris.

Boris heard Anora’s giggle and turned his attention quickly to her. A wide grin split his face as it did every time he saw Anora, and his voice softened as he said, “Hello, Anora. All finished with singing lessons?”

Anora took the hand he offered and stood before responding, “Yes. All done with archery?”

He chuckled and nodded. “Shall we take a walk before lunch?”

“All right,” she giggled, before remembering her friend. She turned quickly, suddenly apologetically flustered. “Sorry, Wynne. I didn’t mean to…is it all right…?”

Wynne pasted on a smile and waved them away. “Of course, Anora. You two go on ahead.” To herself, she thought, I’m sure I’ll mess up dancing for you again, so enjoy some time together now. She plucked a weed and twirled it in her fingers as she enviously watched them walk away, hand in hand.

She had forgotten about Gwaine standing there until he stepped around the tree and seated himself next to her in the shade. Noticing her expression and the direction of her gaze, he smiled and commented, “Young love, so sweet, so innocent, so sickening for everyone else.”

Wynne barely cracked a smile before looking down at her weed. “I suppose,” she mumbled, not even in the mood for Gwaine’s jokes.

Gwaine recalled that Wynne had just finished singing lessons and deduced that that was the reason for her ill humor. He had overheard part of the girls’ conversation, and he decided, perhaps unwisely, to tease Wynne. “Well, they say that in Spring, a young man’s heart turns to thoughts of love.” Wynne glanced at him, wondering why he was going on about young love. Did he have someone special too? Seeing that he had her attention now, he grinned mischievously and teased, “Now for me, springtime makes me think of the frogs in the moat. I fall asleep at night listening to the frogs singing to each other.”

Wynne’s face fell, and she threw down her weed, jumped up and shouted almost tearfully, “Not you too! Am I meant to be the butt of everyone’s jokes? I can’t help it if I sing like a frog!” She turned and stormed off towards the castle.

Gwaine realized at once that he had chosen a bad time and a bad subject to tease Wynne about. He jumped up and hurried after her. Getting in front of her, he grasped her arms and looked down at her apologetically. “Wynne, lass, I was only teasing you. I’ve never even heard you sing. It can’t be that bad, can it?” She glared up at him with tears in her eyes, and he saw that it was. “It is that bad, eh? Do you want to tell me about it?”

Wynne shook her head emphatically. No, if he didn’t already know about it, she didn’t want to tell him. “There’s nothing you can do anyway,” she muttered. “Even Lady Retta can’t teach me.” That was as much as she was going to tell him.

“Wynne, lass,” he sighed. “You’re putting far too much emphasis on one thing you can’t do well. No one in their right mind will look down on you for that.” He didn’t voice the thoughts he had about Lady Magdalen; he had his doubts whether the old hag was in her right mind.

“Well, I can’t dance either,” she sulked, recalling yesterday’s disastrous lesson. Her spirits fell further as she remembered that they would have dance lessons once more after lunch. A sudden ray of hope struck her, and she asked, “Will you be there again this afternoon?”

Gwaine’s smile dimmed a bit, and he responded apologetically, “No, lass, not today, I’m afraid. The Princess doesn’t want me to miss two days of training in a row.” He grinned broadly once more. “Percival has the honors today, even if he is just a big lout.”

“Oh,” Wynne replied, trying to hide her disappointment. Percival was nice, and he didn’t seem like the type who would be critical of her mistakes, but he just wasn’t Gwaine.

Shielding his eyes from the bright light, Gwaine looked at the sky to check the angle of the sun. Seeing there was still time before the midday meal, he gallantly held out his hand to her and asked, “Would you feel better if I led you in a bit of extra practice?”

Wynne’s eyes widened, and her pulse quickened as she stared at his outstretched hand. A slow smile spread across her face as she reached out and put her own small hand tentatively in his. Gwaine led her to a somewhat secluded section of the courtyard, where they weren’t likely to be seen.

The sound of bird songs filled Wynne’s ears as the two assumed the beginning position for the first dance they’d learned. Wynne was suddenly intensely aware of Gwaine’s closeness, of his hand clasping hers and his other hand resting gently yet firmly on her waist. Her breath caught, and her head spun so that she feared she would faint. In the next instant, she panicked as she realized she couldn’t recall even the steps to this simple dance. She glanced up at Gwaine, her eyes glassy and frantic; she wanted so much to dance well with him, to show him she wasn’t just a silly, clumsy oaf.

As if sensing her apprehension, Gwaine reminded her of the steps. “This dance is simple,” he instructed softly. “One long step, two short steps; one long step, two short steps.” He began moving, and as she had the day before, she stumbled along with her partner, either bumping into him or getting out of step and pulling in the opposite direction. Several times she accidentally stomped on his foot, making him grunt and chuckle. With each toe-tramping, Wynne became more flustered, which made her even more clumsy. This was nothing like she thought it would be; she had imagined gliding effortlessly across the floor with Gwaine, as if on a cloud. Instead she galumphed like a lame horse, stepping on his toes even more than she had on Reginald’s. Understanding that much of her clumsiness was due to her tenseness, Gwaine adjusted his hold slightly and soothed, “Relax, Wynne. Just relax and move with me. Let me lead.”

“How can I move with you if I don’t know which direction you’re going to move next?” Wynne wailed matter-of-factly. “I can’t read your mind, you know. Anyway, you try dancing backwards.”

Gwaine couldn’t help laughing. The girl certainly wasn’t afraid to say what she thought, was she? “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded. “I never thought of it that way.” Smiling warmly down at her, he advised, “If you can relax, you will begin to read my body, and you’ll be able to sense the direction I’m going to go. Try it.”

“All right,” Wynne sighed, unconvinced. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, determined to give it her all. Still watching her feet, she willed the tension out of her spine and began following Gwaine across the ground.

At first it made no difference, and she continued to stumble and stomp on Gwaine’s toes, but soon it felt less awkward. To help her more easily read his intended moves, Gwaine exaggerated his cues so she knew where he wanted to go. After a few smooth turns, he encouraged, “That’s much better. Can you feel the difference?”

Wynne smiled and raised her eyes to his face. “Yes,” she breathed, and then locked eyes with him. Suddenly, she felt herself falling helplessly into the depths of his deep brown eyes. She felt the way she had when she was submerged in the moat, but this was pleasant…wonderful…and she didn’t want to be rescued. She knew she should look away or risk betraying her feeling for him, but she couldn’t. And she didn’t want to.

Wynne needn’t have worried; Gwaine was oblivious to the emotion written on her face, but not because he was blind or didn’t care.. He was simply experiencing an unfamiliar feeling. As she had glanced up at him, something in her eyes caught his attention, and he was mesmerized. He noticed for the first time the deep blue of her eyes, and the tiny gold flecks that made her dark blue eyes look like a starry twilight sky. He knew he should look away; she was just a girl, after all, and she must think him a cad for staring so intensely. But he couldn’t look away; he didn’t want to. He wanted to go on dancing forever, lost in those beautiful eyes.

“Now isn’t this a precious sight?” a man’s voice said, close by. “Gwaine, are you giving private dance lessons on the side?”

At the sound of the voice, Wynne and Gwaine quickly jumped apart, startled out of their respective reveries. Gwaine was first to recover, and he turned towards the voice, which it turned out belonged to Sir Leon. He and Sir Percival had been on their way into the castle for the noon meal and saw them dancing. Now they stood with arms crossed, laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwaine responded as nonchalantly as he could. “I was only reviewing yesterday’s lesson with Wynne. You heard how that clotpole Reginald treated her yesterday.” Seeing the unconvinced smirks on their faces, Gwaine’s eyes hardened, and he took a stab at Percival. “Besides, if Percival is assisting today, Wynne will need all the help she can get.”

“Hey,” Sir Percival growled with feigned anger.

Sir Leon just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, “All right, boys,” he jokingly chastised. “No fighting in front of the young lady. Let’s go inside and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

Gwaine quickly agreed, and after a stiff bow and a quick, tight-lipped smile to Wynne, he joined his companions. Maybe some food would clear his mind of whatever strange experience had just befallen him.

As the men left, Wynne leaned against the wall and sank down to a sitting position, her knees suddenly too weak to hold her up any longer. Her heart fluttered as she recalled the lingering gaze and the heavenly, though clumsy, dance she had just shared with Gwaine. She was even more determined to work hard at her lessons so that he might someday see her as a fine lady.

 

The Knight and the Not-Quite Lady, later chapter

One warm afternoon, Wynne sat alone in the solarium working her needlepoint after lessons. Her stitches were still large and uneven, but at least she had improved to the point where her work wasn’t marred by large knots and tangles. She sighed, thinking miserably that at least that small gain had come of her failed attempt at running away and then her fight with Gwaine. As she glanced up to look out the window and give her eyes a break from the close work, she thought about how much she’d give to have things as they were before. She shook her head and sighed again; it was no use to dwell upon it. even if Gwaine and Lady Retta weren’t courting, she had ruined any chance she had ever had with him. Blinking back tears, she bent her head to her work once more.

Wynne was so intent on her needlework that she didn’t hear the door opening and footsteps coming towards her. It wasn’t until the footsteps were a few feet away that her ears perked up. She looked up quickly to see Gwaine standing next to her, looking down at her seriously. “Hello, Wynne,” he said softly.

It took a moment for Wynne to find her tongue. She gulped and choked out, “Hullo, Gwaine,” before dropping her eyes to her lap.

Gwaine stepped closer and asked, “May I sit down?” When Wynne nodded, he sat down on the bench next to her. Her flesh quivered as she felt the heat of his body through her thin, summery dress. “Leon made sure I got the pie you baked. Thank you; it was delicious.” He longed to tease her about it needing improvement, but he thought the better of it.

“You’re welcome,” she replied simply. She didn’t miss the fact that he didn’t mention the pie needing more sugar or less cinnamon, and she took it to mean he was still angry with her. She swallowed hard, trying to force down the lump that had risen in her throat.

Gwaine nervously fiddled with the hilt of the dagger he carried in his belt as he searched for the words he needed to say. “Rumor has it that you think I hate you.”

Wynne’s eyes widened anxiously. She thought he’d make more small talk before getting to the point, but apparently he wanted to get it over with. So be it. “The thought had crossed my mind.” She cringed inwardly at the squeak in her voice.

“Wynne,” Gwaine sighed, and then waited for her to look at him. “I don’t hate you, lass. I never did.” He gave her a brief, tight-lipped smile. “I was angry. Quite angry, in fact.” Wynne looked away quickly, not wanting him to see the tears welling up in her eyes. “And I was worried sick.”

“Worried?” she asked, looking up at him hopefully. “About me?”

His eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Of course, you foolish girl!” he exploded, and then pinched the bridge of his nose. His voice softened. “Of course, I was worried. When I heard you’d run away, all I could think about was something horrible happening to you–Saxons, or Morgana. You were lucky that the worst thing to happen was falling in a hole.” Wynne fidgeted; she knew how lucky she’d been. Gwaine’s mouth scrunched up the way it always did when he didn’t want to say something. “Wynne, you mean the world to me. Besides Merlin, you’re my best friend at Camelot. If anything happened to you…” He didn’t finish his thought; instead, he gazed at her, his eyes bright with unspoken emotion. “I never hated you, even though I spoke so harshly.”

A small part of her heart soared. So he did care about her, even though he was courting Lady Retta. She smiled to herself as she suddenly realized that her father and brothers would have been just as harsh with her if she’d done such a thing. She cleared her throat and responded, “I’m sorry…again…for running away. I just couldn’t take it anymore–Lady Magdalen always finding fault, the others always taunting me, Anora and Boris always wanting to be alone together…” She glanced at him quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “I mean, I’m happy for them; I just feel so alone and left out.” Gwaine smiled and nodded understandingly. She poked at her needlework with her needle and blurted out, “And then seeing you and Lady Retta cuddled up all lovey-dovey together.” She cringed inwardly again; she hadn’t meant to say that. She hurried to cover herself. “I mean, that didn’t bother me (What a big lie!), at least not as much as hearing the things you two said about me behind my back.” She glared accusingly up at him.

Gwaine turned to her, his expression a mixture of confusion, amusement, and something he couldn’t quite decipher. His mouth worked wordlessly for a moment; there was so much wrong with what she had just said that he wasn’t sure where to begin. Finally, he blurted out, “What do you mean, ‘cuddled up all lovey-dovey?’ When was this?” He knew there had been times when he’d been drunk and done some things he couldn’t remember, but he doubted Lady Retta had ever been involved.

Wynne cocked her head, giving him a don’t-play-stupid-with-me look. “That day you two were sitting beneath the big oak tree, over by the moat. You had your arms around her, and she was lying against your chest.” Wynne recalled every detail of that day, from the weather, to what they were both wearing, to the awful things she’d overheard.

Gwaine looked away, searching his memory for whatever scene Wynne had witnessed. When he finally recalled something resembling what Wynne said she’d seen, he smacked his forehead and chuckled at her misinterpretation. “Wynne, lass, we were sitting beneath the oak tree, and it may have looked as though we were cuddling, but there was nothing lovey-dovey about it.”

Wynne stared at Gwaine, a mixture of irritation and confusion in her eyes. If sitting that close together wasn’t lovey-dovey cuddling, then what was it? “You mean…you’re not courting her?” she asked. She knew she had probably betrayed her affection for him, but she didn’t care; she needed to know.

“No, lass,” he replied, laughing. “We’re not courting, not even close.” His dark eyes sparkled as he searched her face. A part of him suddenly realized what his earlier indecipherable feeling had been. he had sense that Wynne was jealous over seeing him with Lady Retta, and to his surprise, that realization pleased him. He pushed that thought from his mind and continued, “Wynne, Retta and I grew up in the same village. Our parents were good friends, and so we became close friends as well.” He laughed shortly. “We had to suffer through formal dance lessons together, which is why we dance so well together; we’re each quite familiar with the way the other moves.”

That makes sense, Wynne thought, but it still didn’t answer the question that bothered her the most. “Then why were you…?”

Gwaine laid his arm easily across her shoulders and gave her a sad look. “Retta’s cousin Amelia…had died in childbirth a couple weeks before, and Retta had just gotten word of it that day. She was devastated to hear the news, and very upset that she had missed the funeral. We were sitting so closely together because I was comforting her.”

“Oh…” Wynne replied, feeling horrible not only for her misinterpretation of what she’d seen, but also for the unwarranted nasty thoughts she’d had towards both of them. Still, there was something that was yet bothering her, something that she couldn’t see how she’d misinterpreted. “Then why were you saying all those awful things about me? She said I’m clumsy as an ox, and you said you’ve never had such a horrible dance partner, and that your feet still hurt whenever you think of dancing with me…” As she listed the things she’d heard, she got angrier, and her voice grew louder until her chest heaved as she practically yelled, “It’s bad enough hearing those things from Lavinia and Reginald, but to hear them from someone I thought was a friend is…too much.”

Gwaine’s eyebrows came together, and his eyes widened as he sorted through her accusations. Suddenly, it clicked, and his shoulders began to shake with suppressed mirth, building up till he at last doubled over with laughter. When he straightened up, tears ran down his face as he looked at Wynne, whose eyes flashed with indignation. “Oh, Wynne,” he exclaimed, gathering her stiff body into his arms. “I can certainly understand how you thought that.” He drew back and kissed her forehead before explaining, “Those things we said weren’t about you at all, lass. We were reminiscing about Amelia. She took lessons with us, and she was a truly horrible dancer.” He couldn’t help chuckling at the memory. “Lass, you tell yourself what an awful dancer you are, but truly, next to Amelia, you are pure grace and elegance.”

Wynne couldn’t believe there was a worse dancer than she was. She smiled sheepishly and asked, “Really?”

“Really,” Gwaine replied softly, smiling tenderly at her. “Wynne, you remind Retta…and me…a great deal of Amelia. That’s part of the reason she’s taken such an interest in you as a pupil. For all your awkwardness and all the things you think are so unbearable about you, you have a good heart and such a sweetness about you that she and…others…can’t help but adore. Just like Amelia.”

Wynne looked away, blushing. If he and Retta knew half the things she’d thought about them throughout this whole misunderstanding, they certainly wouldn’t think of her as sweet.

 

The Knight and the Not-Quite Lady, ch. 7

I do not own Merlin or its characters.

Wynne dashed down the back staircase and through the passageway to Gaius and Merlin’s chambers. She knocked softly but urgently on the door, hoping to find at least one of them there. To her relief, Merlin opened the door almost immediately. Seeing her tear-filled eyes, he grasped her hand and pulled her inside, shutting the door tightly. “Wynne, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” he asked, concerned.

Bursting into sobs, she sputtered, “Oh, Merlin, it was awful, just awful!” He guided her to a chair and poured two mugs of cider. She cradled her mug in her hands as she told Merlin about that whole horrible day–the disastrous singing lessons (although Merlin found it humorous and had to cover his mouth to keep his chuckling at bay), learning of Anora’s love for Boris, Reginald’s cruel comments, and her failure at formal dancing. “What if Reginald is right, Merlin? What if I never learn to be a lady? What if Gwaine–and everyone else–rejects me and I end up an old maid?”

Merlin sighed, unsure of what to say to the self-conscious young lady sitting in front of him. He doubted it would help to remind her that his mother wasn’t a fine lady, but she had been adored by his father and all who knew her. He doubted it would help to remind her that Gwen had been just a servant, and now she was queen. He had his doubts that Wynne would ever perfect the finer points of etiquette and deportment that she was expected to learn, but he certainly wasn’t going to say that. He thought about telling her that he doubted Gwaine really cared about any of those things; the tavern girls he favored certainly lacked those qualities. No, he couldn’t say that either.

Before he could say anything, there was a loud knock at the door, and Gwaine called out, “Merlin? Are you there?”

“Oh no,” Wynne hissed, her eyes flying open wide as she bolted out of her seat. “I can’t talk to him, I can’t face him. Don’t tell him I’m here.”

“Just a minute, Gwaine,” Merlin called out, and then mouthed to Wynne, “What should I tell him?”

Wynne frantically glanced around for a place to hide. “Just tell him you haven’t seen me,” she whispered, and then dashed across the room to crouch behind a large trunk full of books near the door.

Merlin hurried over to the door and yanked it open. “Hello, Gwaine. We missed you at practice,” he said, a bit too cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”

Gwaine cocked an eyebrow at him and gave him a curious look. “Is everything…all right?” he asked, knowing there was something that wasn’t.

Merlin nodded emphatically and assured him that everything was fine. His eyes drifted to the side, making it obvious that he was hiding something…or someone.

Gwaine’s eyes followed Merlin’s gaze, and he caught a glimpse of Wynne’s dark hair behind the trunk. He fought to suppress a grin as he continued, “Poor Wynne had quite a time of it at dance lessons, and she seemed distressed when she left. I just wondered if you’d seen her.”

Merlin’s grin widened for a moment before he forced a concerned expression as he shook his head and answered loudly, “No, no, haven’t seen her all day, I’m afraid. Just got in myself…polishing armor, cleaning boots, gathering herbs…”

Gwaine fought even harder not to laugh at his friend as he glanced over Merlin’s shoulder and spotted two mugs of cider on the table. His grin finally won out, and he teased, “I see. Such hard work obviously made you quite thirsty.” Merlin suddenly looked trapped, as though he knew what Gwaine was looking at. “So thirsty you needed two mugs of cider. If it were something stronger, I’d have some myself.”

A barely audible gasp from behind the trunk, as well as Merlin’s guilty countenance, made Gwaine chuckle. Merlin sighed and then laughed sheepishly before saying to the trunk, “You might as well come out, Wynne. He’s onto us.”

After a moment, Wynne crept out from behind the trunk and stood up, barely able to raise her eyes to the two men standing by the door. Gwaine, still in his crisp white shirt, smiled his cocky but sweet smile, his eyes dancing merrily as he crossed his arms and gazed at her. Merlin’s face was kind and sympathetic, but his eyes were full of guilt. “I’m sorry, Wynne,” he said. “I’m a terrible liar.”

“That’s all right, Merlin,” she replied in a small, shaky voice. “I’m a terrible dancer. And an even worse singer.” Her voice quavered with tears once more as she sank down onto the trunk. “And a failure at being a proper lady.”

At the sight of Wynne’s tears, Merlin cast a helpless glance at Gwaine; Gwaine was much better at dealing with women than he was. Gwaine’s smile melted, and his brows furrowed with concern. He hadn’t realized she was feeling so defeated. He pushed past Merlin and sat down next to Wynne on the trunk, gathering her into his arms and holding her tight against his broad chest. “Wynne, lass, you’re not a failure,” he soothed, brushing a cobweb from her hair and laying his cheek against the top of her head. “Not at all.”

The warmth of Gwaine’s embrace and the scent of sweat and clean linen calmed her a bit, but she still couldn’t see past her ineptitude. “How can you say that?” she asked, pushing away and burying her face in her hands. “I’m nothing like the other ladies. I’m loud, I’m clumsy, I use harsh language, I like frogs and snakes and bugs, I’m always dropping something or spilling something or tripping over my dress…” Wynne didn’t notice first Gwaine and then Merlin begin to shake with suppressed laughter as she continued to catalog her shortcomings. “…I fell in the bloody moat; now they all call me Wyni-frog. I fell asleep at the table with my hair in my soup…”

Gwaine gave up trying to contain his mirth; he doubled over with laughter, and Merlin soon followed. After a stunned moment, Wynne got quickly to her feet to storm out. They thought she was a joke too. Seeing the mortification on her face, Gwaine grabbed her hand and spoke through tears of laughter. “Wynne, I’m sorry. Don’t go.” He looked up at her pleadingly as she tried to pull free. “Wynne, those things don’t mean you’re a failure, or that you’re not a lady.”

She reluctantly sat down on the edge of the trunk and wailed hopelessly, “But I can’t do the things a lady is supposed to do. I can’t sing beautifully like Anora can; in fact, I can’t sing at all.” Gwaine bit back a laugh; Lady Retta had mentioned her disastrous attempts and praised her perseverance. Wynne shot him an annoyed glance before continuing, “I can’t dance gracefully like Lady Retta, I can’t play the lyre like Priscilla and Bernice, my needlework is always in knots, and I just make a mess of everything.”

Gwaine’s expression was a mixture of disbelieving amusement and tenderness as he listened to Wynne berate herself. Wasn’t the girl aware of all the things she could do? He reached over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and then placed a finger under her chin to tip her face up to look at him. “Wynne, I never would have believed you’d be the type to measure your own worth by the things others can do.” His eyes gleamed mischievously as he teased, “Besides, I think it’s safe to say that you wield a sword better than all the other young ladies.”

Merlin laughed as she let her breath out in a huff. “But a lady isn’t supposed to wield a sword,” she argued, even though she truly loved sparring with her cousins or with the younger squires. She met Gwaine’s eyes once more and said, “Reginald says all the knights think I’m a joke because I don’t know my place and I don’t act like a lady.”

Merlin snorted with disgust, and Gwaine laughed humorlessly. “Why would you take to heart anything Reginald tells you?” His eyes hardened as he added grimly, “I’ll show that horse’s ass what it means to be a joke.” Suddenly remembering that he was in the presence of a young lady, he quickly apologized.

Wynne gave him a watery smile and met his eyes pleadingly. “So you don’t think it’s a joke that I handle a sword better than a sewing needle?”

Both men laughed at her joke, and Gwaine pulled Wynne close. “I wouldn’t want you to make a habit of it,” he warned good-naturedly. “But you’re far from being a joke. Wynne, you’re a breath of fresh air; I wouldn’t want you to be a stuffy, proper lady, even if it means you can’t sing or dance or embroider your name on a hankie.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Wynne,” Merlin interjected. “I heard Gaius telling Lady Magdalen that he’s quite impressed by your ability to identify herbs and know when to use them. He says you’re far ahead of the others,” he smiled sheepishly, “And he said he might trade me in on you if I’m not careful.”

Gwaine laughed at Merlin’s comment and gave Wynne an encouraging shake. “There now, you’re not such a failure then, are you?” Wynne smiled a little broader at his comment as some of the heaviness left her heart. He gave her hair a playful tug and whispered, “I hear you’re also quite the mistress of the kitchens.”

Merlin chuckled and added, “Berte tells me she’s learned a few things from you.”

Wynne giggled, blushing at the praise. She was certain Berte had only been teasing when she said that. She commented, “My mother used to tell me I was trying to cook before I could even reach the top of the oven.”

Gwaine laughed easily, happy to see the dark cloud had finally passed. He was truly fond of Wynne, and he knew that someday someone would appreciate her for the wonderful young woman she was. He suddenly felt a twinge of…was that envy?…as he thought of another man courting her when she came of age. He shook his head to rid him of that annoying thought, and then turned mischievous eyes to her and teased, “That may be true, but your apple pies could use a bit of improvement.”

Merlin stared at Gwaine, dumbfounded; why would he say something like that? Wynne, too, gaped at him for a moment before she realized he was teasing her. She gave him a shove and then began playfully pommeling his shoulder. He laughed and protested, holding up his hands to defend himself, and then reached over to tickle her. She giggled and squealed and grabbed his hands to make him stop.

It was this fun-filled scene that met Gaius’ eyes when he suddenly opened the door and walked in the room. He stopped dead in his tracks, surprise and confusion on his face. Merlin noticed him first and jumped to his feet. “Gaius!”

Gwaine and Wynne both looked up guiltily. Gwaine stood quickly, his expression immediately dispassionate. “Well, I suppose I should go see the Princess since I was forced to miss training this afternoon.” He hurried out the door as though nothing unusual had happened.

Wynne, too, stood up, although she wasn’t as skilled as Gwaine in hiding her emotions; her cheeks flushed rosily as she stammered, “I sh-should really…be getting ready…f-for dinner…” She ducked her head and darted out of the room.

Gaius turned to Merlin, a slight smile on his face. He hadn’t missed the fact that there had been something in Gwaine’s eyes as he tickled Wynne, something he had never seen there with any of the women he had wooed. Wynne’s feelings were far more obvious; apparently she had taken quite a liking to Gwaine. Gaius’ smile widened as he took in Merlin’s guilty expression. “I do believe we have a bit of secret admiration in our midst.” He walked over to the table and set down his medicine bag.

Merlin came to the table to help him replenish the herbs he had used. He grinned sheepishly as he confirmed, “Yes, Wynne is quite smitten with Gwaine, I’m afraid. She thinks no one knows, but I’m afraid it’s pretty obvious.”

Gaius chuckled. “Yes, it is. But unless I’m mistaken, I believe the feeling is mutual.” Merlin cocked his head questioningly, and Gaius nodded. “Gwaine will never admit to it, but Wynne has a place in his heart. I have a feeling that once Wynne is old enough to be honorably courted, Camelot’s playboy knight may just lose his title.”

 

The Knight and the Not-Quite Lady, ch. 6

Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or its characters.

When Wynne and Anora reached the ballroom, they both stopped dead in their tracks with mouths agape. The other young ladies were already there, and to Wynne’s horror, so were the squires. Quickly realizing what was to happen, Wynne turned to Anora with bulging eyes and whispered, “The squires? We must learn to dance with the squires?”

Anora did not meet Wynne’s eyes, but she could see that her friend’s eyes bulged as well. However, instead of being glassy and anxious as Wynne’s were, Anora’s eyes sparkled with joy and excitement. Wynne followed the direction of Anora’s gaze and realized she was staring at two squires who were leaning casually against the wall. Wynne recognized her cousin Boris and her nemesis Reginald. Her lip curled involuntarily as she fervently wished her cousin had better taste in friends.

Suddenly, Boris noticed them standing in the doorway. A huge grin split his face as he left Reginald’s side and hurried over to them. Thinking he wished to speak to her, Wynne stepped forward to greet him. To her surprise, Boris walked right past her without even looking at her. He stopped inches in front of Anora and took her hands awkwardly in his as he smiled down at her. Anora’s cheeks grew rosy as she giggled and gazed up at him. “Hello, Boris,” she said softly.

“Hello, Anora,” he replied, a lock of dark hair falling forward into his eyes. Wynne had never seen him acting so…nice.

Realizing the two wanted to be alone, Wynne slowly walked towards the other side of the room to wait for Lady Magdalen. Anora and her cousin? She never would have guessed they had feelings for each other. While a part of her was jealous that her friend could be open about her feelings for Boris–not to mention the fact that he shared her feelings–another part of her was happy and excited for her friend, and for herself. After all, if they married, she and Anora would be cousins.

Wynne made her way to a bench by the window, where she sat watching Arthur and the knights as they practiced sword fighting. As the knights parried with each other in mock battle, Wynne silently critiqued their skills. Suddenly noticing that Gwaine seemed to be missing, she frowned in disappointment and turned her attention back to the ballroom, where the other ladies and the squires were enjoying each other’s company. Lavinia and Bronwyn, of course, each had two squires vying for their affections, and the others gathered in threes or fours, chatting amicably. Wynne glanced over to where Anora and Boris still stood holding hands and talking. Usually it didn’t bother her that she was by herself, but seeing her one close friend among the ladies paired off with someone suddenly made her feel sad and left out. She sighed and turned to look out the window once more.

“I’ll just bet you’d rather be out there with the knights,” a voice beside her sneered.

Startled, Wynne turned quickly and saw Reginald glaring down at her with his beady blue eyes. She narrowed her eyes at him and responded, “Maybe I would; maybe I wouldn’t. I can’t see why that concerns you.” Reginald’s mere presence made her wish she truly were by herself once more.

Reginald leaned down and brought his face close to Wynne’s, hissing, “It concerns me because when you forgot your place the other day during my training, you made a fool of me in front of the Knights of Camelot and my fellow squires.”

Wynne stood and met his eyes steadily; he was not going to intimidate her. “No, Reginald, I didn’t make a fool of you,” Wynne replied evenly. “You do that well enough yourself.”

Two red splotches appeared on the squire’s cheeks, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Make no mistake, Wyni-frog,” he growled low. “You may think your little performance impressed the knights, but you’re wrong; you’re nothing but a laughingstock. No one wants a lady who doesn’t know her place.” He looked down at her condescendingly. “Not that you’ll ever be much of a lady.”

Wynne pursed her lips, and her eyes flashed fire as her chest tightened till she could barely breathe. Unable to speak, she raised her hand to slap Reginald. However, before she could strike, Lady Magdalen swept into the room followed by Lady Retta and…Gwaine? Wynne let her hand drop and gave Reginald one final glare before shoving him from her mind and scurrying over to where the other young ladies had gathered. Gwaine was not wearing his chain mail, but was clad in his usual brown breeches and a crisp, clean white shirt that offset his dark hair and eyes and his tanned skin. She was drinking in his handsomeness so intently that for a moment she didn’t notice Anora had slipped in beside her.

Anora looked curiously at her friend’s odd expression–her rosy cheeks, her sparkling eyes, and the way she was nervously biting her lip. She followed Wynne’s gaze and realized who had captured her attention, and she smiled as a number of events from the past months suddenly made sense to her. Her best friend was obviously in love with Sir Gwaine. She glanced once more at the handsome, carefree knight, and she wondered if he knew Wynne’s feelings for him, and more importantly, if he shared those feelings. She hoped so; she wanted her friend to be as happy as she was with Boris.

Suddenly, Lady Magdalen clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention and then began, “Young ladies…and young gentlemen, today we will begin instruction in formal dancing.” Most of the ladies appeared to be pleased with this announcement, while most of the squires curled their lips and scowled in silent displeasure. “Formal dancing is an important part of courtly celebrations, as well as an indication of a well-bred lady or gentleman. Therefore, it is my sincere hope that you will all do your best to learn enough to make a good showing, not only at the Presentation Ball a few months hence, but also at any feast or celebration you may find yourself attending.” She turned to Lady Retta and Gwaine. “I have asked Lady Retta…” Here she paused to beam at her former prize pupil. “…and Sir Gwaine…” Her opinion of Gwaine was obvious in her expression of disapproval. “…to help me demonstrate some of the more common dances you will encounter.” Lady Retta gave them all a warm smile and a quick curtsy, and Gwaine gave them a curt bow and an even briefer tight-lipped smile, making it obvious that he would much rather be out in the courtyard wielding a sword.

Gwaine and Lady Retta stepped into a large open space before the group and faced each other, then looked to Lady Magdalen for instruction. “We will begin with one of the newer dances that is becoming quite popular throughout the southern kingdoms. This one is a simple, medium-tempo dance that you should all…” Her eyes sought out Wynne and fixed pointedly upon her. “…learn fairly easily.”

As Lady Magdalen began clapping out a rhythm, Gwaine and Lady Retta bowed and then came together, holding each other close, but still a proper distance apart. They glided together around the floor, one long step, two short steps, as Lady Magdalen hummed a tune and kept time by clapping. Every so often they would stop so Lady Retta could twirl out and back in again, and then they would dance gracefully around the floor once more. Their movements were so beautiful that Wynne couldn’t help swaying back and forth and humming as she imagined dancing through the ballroom–no, in the courtyard beneath a full moon–with Gwaine. Oh, how she yearned to excel at these lessons, especially if Gwaine were present. She still felt the sting of Reginald’s words, and she thought that if she could dance as beautifully as Lady Retta, she would prove Reginald wrong, and maybe Gwaine would dance with her at the ball.

When they finished, they bowed, first to each other and then to Lady Magdalen’s pupils. The young ladies applauded enthusiastically, while the squires rolled their eyes and clapped once or twice. Lady Magdalen applauded as well; as strongly as she disapproved of Gwaine’s laissez-faire attitude and his reputation with the ladies, he was without a doubt the most skilled of the knights when it came to courtly dance. “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Lady Magdalen announced. “Please quickly find yourselves a partner, and we will guide you through the steps.”

The room suddenly came to life as the squires and the young ladies quickly paired off. Boris and Anora found each other, and there was a brief scuffle between Daffyd and Roderick over who would dance with Lavinia. Everyone else quickly found a partner, leaving Wynne glancing around in a panic. How humiliating it would be to be the only one without a dance partner! The only thing worse would be…

“I suppose I’m stuck with you, Wyni-frog,” said an all-too-familiar and irritating voice behind her. She could not hide her disgust as she turned to face Reginald. Honestly, she’d rather dance with her cousin, or even with one of the stable boys, than with Reginald. “Wipe that grimace off your face, you little troll,” he ground out, low. “I’m the one who should be disgusted. I’d rather dance with Lady Magdalen than with you.” A malicious smile spread across his face as he grabbed Wynne’s hand and pulled her roughly to him. “Actually, this might work to my advantage.”

Wynne struggled against him, but refused to show the sudden fear that gripped her at his words. She glanced helplessly in Anora’s direction, but she was gazing longingly at Boris and didn’t notice her predicament. A glance at Lady Magdalen’s stern face told her she would receive no help there; she stood ready to chastise Wynne for delaying the lesson by wrestling with Reginald. She swallowed hard, fixed her eyes over Reginald’s shoulder on a point on the opposite wall, and got into position, her spine as stiff as a board.

Lady Retta and Gwaine resumed their positions, and Lady Magdalen began, “The basic pattern of this dance is one long step followed by two quick short steps–one, two-three, one, two-three. We’ll worry about the twirling later. Now everyone try it.” She began clapping the beat as she hummed the song.

All the couples began moving at the same time, trying to emulate Lady Retta and Gwaine. A few seemed to pick up the rhythm right away, while the rest loped clumsily across the floor, though none so clumsy as Reginald and Wynne. Reginald was being intentionally rough with Wynne, and Wynne resisted his every attempt to lead. Lady Magdalen stormed over to them, still clapping the beat and humming. “Wynifred, you are a lady,” she sang to the tune she was humming. “You are supposed to let your partner lead.”

Wynifred opened her mouth to protest that Reginald wasn’t leading; he was bullying, but Lady Magdalen turned and walked over to guide another couple before she could say a word. She glared at Reginald and stopped pushing back against him, thinking that maybe he wouldn’t bully her so much if she allowed him control. Just as they turned and took a long step, Wynne accidentally tramped on his foot. “Ow, you clumsy oaf!” he cried, drawing everyone’s eyes.

“Beg pardon,” Wynne said, her cheeks flaming. She really wasn’t sorry at all, but she didn’t want everyone watching them. Having to dance with Reginald was bad enough; having everyone’s attention on them was more than she could bear.

As they turned again, she caught Gwaine’s eye over Reginald’s shoulder. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement as he winked at her. He knew she couldn’t stand Reginald, and he obviously thought her moment of clumsiness was deliberate. Wynne’s cheeks dimpled as she suppressed a smile; she didn’t care if he did think she did it on purpose. Unfortunately, because she wasn’t paying attention to her feet, she came down hard on Reginald’s toes once more, making him cry out again.

“Wynifred!” Lady Magdalen called from across the room, where she was showing Bronwyn how to turn daintily on her toes. “You must allow your partner to lead. If you are stepping on his toes, it is your fault!”

Wynne glanced up at Reginald, who was giving her a superior smirk. Obviously, he was using her clumsiness as a means to get her into trouble. She wanted nothing more than to slug the smirk right off his face, but she decided he wasn’t worth the additional trouble she would get in for doing it. In the next instant, Gwaine and Lady Retta danced in their direction. With a stern expression, Gwaine leaned in close to Reginald and instructed, “And if a lady does mistakenly step on your toes, it is in very poor taste to make a scene and draw attention to her.” As they danced away, Lady Retta gave Wynne a sympathetic glance of encouragement.

Wynne and Reginald did a number of turns without incident, and Wynne relaxed and allowed some of the stiffness to leave her spine. However, just when Wynne thought she might get the hang of dancing, she felt a foot hook around hers and give a quick jerk. Before she knew what was happening, Reginald let go of her, and she tumbled backwards, landing hard on her backside with a yelp of surprise and pain.

Amid the gasps and giggles of Wynne’s classmates, Lady  Magdalen, Lady Retta and Gwaine all descended on her and Reginald. “Wynifred, what is the meaning of this?” Lady Magdalen cried, horrified.

“Me?” Wynne sputtered, not caring if she spoke disrespectfully. “That clotpole tripped me! Deliberately!”

“Wynifred, you will mind your tongue!” Lady Magdalen chastised, before turning hawkish eyes to Reginald. “Young man, did you indeed trip Wynifred?”

Of course, all malice had fled from Reginald’s face, and he was the picture of innocence and hurt surprise as he gaped at her and shook his head. “N-no, milady. Why would I trip a young lady?”

Lady Magdalen put her hands on her hips and glared down at Wynne. “Shame on you, Wynifred, for blaming your clumsiness on your partner!”

Gwaine was not so easily fooled by Reginald’s act. Although he had not seen what had happened, he was familiar enough with Reginald’s behavior to know Wynne was telling the truth. His brown eyes blazed as he glared warningly at Reginald, and the squire knew that he would suffer the consequences at his next training. He didn’t care. It was worth it to see this little chit ripped to shreds by Lady Magdalen. Gwaine’s eyes softened as he looked down at Wynne and gave his hand to help her rise. He kept his voice stern, but he hoped Wynne understood his intentions when he growled, “Wynifred, perhaps you would do better with a partner who can keep you in line.” He bowed to Lady Retta and said, “With your leave, milady, I believe we should exchange partners.” Wynne indeed caught Gwaine’s intent, and for a moment, her heart soared.

Before Lady Retta could agree, Lady Magdalen stepped in. Recalling that Wynne was smitten with Gwaine, she misinterpreted not only Gwaine’s gesture, but also wrongly assumed an ulterior motive for Wynne’s clumsiness. “That will not be necessary, Sir Gwaine.” Lady Magdalen turned to the others and called out to the first couple she laid eyes on. “Boris, Anora, you will exchange partners. Boris, I am confident that you can keep your cousin in line.”

Boris and Anora exchanged a crestfallen glance before Boris bowed to her and replied, “Yes, Lady Magdalen.” His gaze lingered on Anora as they parted.

As Anora came to stand beside Reginald, Wynne caught her eye regretfully and whispered, “I’m sorry, Anora.” Anora gave her friend a tight-lipped smile in return. She knew Wynne was not at fault.

Boris took Wynne’s hand and got into position. His eyes were hard as he glared down at her. “Way to go, cousin. Why can’t you just do as you’re told for once?”

As the lesson resumed, and Wynne stumbled around the dance floor with her cousin, she watched Gwaine and Lady Retta gliding effortlessly around the dance floor. Tears filled her eyes and threatened to fall as she felt the disappointment of being denied a dance with Gwaine. She was certain that she wouldn’t be so ungainly with a skilled partner like him, but now she would likely never know. As she caught a glimpse of Anora and Reginald turning around the floor, the obvious misery on her dear friend’s face made her heart sink even lower, and she fervently wished for the lesson to be over.

Lady Magdalen taught them two more dances. Though Boris wasn’t as cruel as Reginald, he was still impatient and very critical whenever Wynne stumbled or stepped on his foot. Wynne tried her hardest to hold her tongue, knowing much of his ill humor came from being denied dancing with Anora, but after he’d snapped at her for what seemed like the hundredth time, she’d had enough. In the middle of the galliard, she pushed away from him and snapped back irritably, “I’ll bet you don’t criticize Anora like that!”

Boris threw his hands up in frustration and replied loudly, “I don’t have to; Anora doesn’t have two left feet!”

Wynne’s face grew hot as everyone else once again stopped to stare at her. She heard Bronwyn whisper loudly to her partner, “If you think she dances badly, you should hear her sing.” Wynne tried to act as though she didn’t hear as Bronwyn and her partner both laughed.

Lady Magdalen tapped her foot as she scowled in their direction. “If the two of you are finished, we will continue.”

Wynne suffered through the remainder of the lesson, keeping her jaw tightly clenched and her eyes unblinking so that the rising tears would not fall. When at last the lesson was over and Lady Magdalen dismissed them, Wynne pushed past Boris and darted out of the ballroom. Anora would have hurried after her, but Boris stopped her. Anora protested, “Oh, Boris, she is my friend, and your cousin. We should make sure she’s all right.”

“She’ll be fine, darling,” Boris insisted, pulling Anora close to stroke her cheek. “Wynne prefers to be alone when she’s upset. You can speak with her at dinner.”

Anora wavered, knowing she should follow her friend, but wanting to stay with Boris. “But she’s had such an awful day, first the singing lessons and now the dancing…” she argued weakly.

Boris sighed, “Poor Wynne never has been musically inclined. Or graceful.”

“And it was quite brash of you to point it out to everyone here.” Boris and Anora both jumped; they did not see Gwaine approaching. “Just because she is your cousin does not make it acceptable to be harsh with her or to make a fool of her. Reginald did enough of that, and I was under the impression you had a bit more character than he does.”

Boris hung his head in shame, knowing Gwaine was correct. Anora gave him a reproachful yet loving glance before taking his hand. “We should really go check on her.”

Gwaine grinned knowingly at her and replied with a wink, “I know you two young lovers want to be together. Why don’t I go check on her? I have a good idea where she may be hiding.”

As they watched the knight hurry out of the ballroom, Anora smiled to herself. Maybe Gwaine did know how Wynne felt about him, and maybe his concern for her was evidence that he felt the same way. She certainly hoped so.

 

The Knight and the Not-Quite Lady, Part 5

I do not own Merlin or its characters.

Much to Wynne’s frustration, her prowess in the kitchens did not extend to most of her other lessons. She had hoped that demonstrating her abilities in cooking and managing the kitchens would lead Lady Magdalen to look on her with a bit less disapproval for her shortcomings in the other areas of her training, but it actually had the opposite effect. “Wynifred,” she had said, exasperated. “The fact that you can excel in something as difficult as preparing food for a meal at Camelot proves that you could excel in all your lessons and be as fine a lady as your Aunt Giselle or your mother, God rest her soul, if you would only apply yourself.”

“Yes, Lady Magdalen,” Wynne replied demurely, although inside she wanted to fly at her, screaming that she didn’t want to be a fine lady. The only thing that compelled her to hold herself together was Lady Magdalen’s mention of her mother. Before Aunt Giselle had brought her to Camelot, Wynne had promised her father that she would conduct herself in a way that would make her mother proud. And so Wynne went into her lessons the next week with every intention of honoring her mother’s memory. Unfortunately for Wynne, she was simply not destined to be accomplished in much of the art of being a refine lady, as the events of the next week proved.

The first disaster came only a few days after the ladies’ lesson in the kitchens, on a day when Lady Magdalen’s presence was requested by Queen Guinevere and Berte in order to plan a feast for a visiting delegation from the North Kings. Lady Magdalen gathered her young ladies in the solarium early one morning and announced, “I will be discussing matters of importance with the queen for the next two mornings. Therefore, I have decided it is time for you to learn some of the rudiments of musical accomplishment. It is crucial for a proper lady to be able to entertain guests and her own family even on the coldest, darkest winter nights, and what better way to do that than with music?” She turned to present to them a tall, buxom woman not much older than they were. Her sleek black hair was done up in a chignon, with tiny ringlets dangling around her ears. “This is Lady Retta, and she will be sharing her expertise in the musical arts.” To Lady Retta, she said, “I’m sure you will find these young ladies eager both to learn and to please. But if you should have any difficulties,” here she turned to give Wynne a stern gaze. “Do not hesitate to send for me.”

Wynne crossed her arms in consternation as Lady Retta’s eyes curiously drifted her way. Lady Retta looked at Wynne curiously and wondered how so slight a girl might cause her any difficulties, but she simply responded, “I am certain we will all get along just fine.”

The first thing Lady Retta did was to line up the young ladies into two rows in front of her. The taller ladies–Lavinia, Caitlyn, Rosalynde, Priscilla and Theresa–stood behind Wynne, Anora, Bronwyn and Bernice. Next, she taught them the proper stance for singing. “Now ladies, stand tall, raise your chin like so, and clasp your hands in front of you.”

Wynne thought this “proper stance” was just as silly as many of the other proper things she was expected to do, but she complied and was both rewarded and encouraged by Lady Retta’s praise. She smiled slightly to herself and thought that maybe music lessons wouldn’t be so bad. Unfortunately, Wynne’s good fortune ran out the moment Lady Retta held up her hand to lead them in warm-up scales. Most of the ladies were more or less able to hit something close to the correct notes, but two voices stood out above the rest. Anora’s sweet soprano rang true and clear, and every eye turned to her for a moment. Wynne’s voice likewise stood out, but for the opposite reason, and soon all eyes were on her. As the voices ascended the scales a second time, one by one the others stopped and just stared at poor Wynne.

Lady Retta likewise stared at Wynne, wondering if this was the reason Lady Magdalen had  silently warned her about the girl. Was she truly unable to hit the notes, or was she mocking her instructor and the lesson? She decided to give the girl the benefit of the doubt and said, “Wynne, dear, I will sing the scale, and you sing it after me, all right?”

Wynne nodded, and Lady Retta sang a simple scale. When she finished and held her hand up, Wynne assumed the proper stance and tried to sing the scale, trying not to notice the other ladies, even Anora, cringing at the sound of her voice. As Bronwyn plugged her ears with her fingers and made an exaggerated grimace, Wynne felt her chest tighten, which didn’t help her attempts to sing the scales. She simply could not hit the notes Lady Retta wanted her to sing.

After fifteen minutes of trying to teach her pupil, Lady Retta stood looking helplessly at Wynne. She had never failed in an attempt to teach a young lady to sing, and she was at a complete loss. Glancing at the other girls who were either snickering at Wynne’s lack of ability or refusing to look at her out of sympathy, Lady Retta finally said softly to Wynne, “I believe it would be best if you sat out for the remainder of the lesson.”

Wynne wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or mortified at being excused from the lesson. Trying to hold her head up high, she marched over to a bench in the corner and looked out the window at the courtyard where Sir Leon and Sir Percival were working with several squires on shooting a bow and arrow. Oh, how I long to be outside with them, Wynne thought to herself. I’m sure I would do much better with a crossbow than with my voice.

Priscilla suddenly hit a sour note as she sang a simple tune, and Wynne’s attention was drawn back to the singing lesson. Priscilla stood red-faced, looking apologetically at Lady Retta, who just smiled and said, “Don’t be discouraged over a wrong note; making a mistake does not make you a bad singer.” Her eyes inadvertently drifted towards Wynne as she continued, “It is a rare person who cannot learn to carry a tune.”

Lady Retta’s ill-chosen words made Wynne’s cheeks burn with shame. As several of the other girls tittered at her comment and Lavinia and Bronwyn whispered behind their hands, Lady Retta’s eyes met Wynne’s. Wynne held her head high and refused to let her hurt show. After a moment, Lady Retta looked away guiltily and with some difficulty continued the lesson.

After the lesson, Lady Retta dismissed the young ladies for a bit of free time before the midday meal and their lesson in courtly dancing. Wynne was only too glad to escape and all but bolted from her seat to Anora’s side. Although Wynne was painfully jealous of her friend’s angelic voice, she would never let it show if she could help it. She grasped Anora’s hand and gushed, “Oh, Anora, your voice is so beautiful! The others couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

Anora’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink as she squeezed Wynne’s hand and replied, “Oh, Wynne, you’re such a darling to say so. Father always said I inherited his looks and Mother’s voice.” Her face clouded over for a moment as she gave Wynne a look of sympathy. “I’m so sorry Lady Retta made you sit out. How are you to learn to sing if you can’t participate in the lessons?”

Neither girl noticed Lady Retta approaching, so they both jumped guiltily when she responded right next to them, “Indeed.” Wynne’s eyes grew large as saucers, and Anora’s face went from pink to crimson as they both searched for words of apology. Lady Retta’s smile was kind as she said to Wynne, “There is no need for you to apologize. Anora is correct. It was unfair and unkind of me to have you sit out. It seems I gave the other girls even more reason to make sport of you, and for that I apologize.”

Wynne felt her heart swell. It wasn’t often that someone was so gracious in light of her shortcomings. Still, she knew that sitting out was a kinder option than participating would have been. She responded, “It’s of no consequence. Lavinia and Bronwyn find reason to make sport of me even when I do something well.” She made an unladylike face and continued, “Besides, it’s obvious that the gifting fairy forgot to leave me the gift of music when I was born.”

Anora giggled at Wynne’s joke, but Lady Retta’s face flushed as she recalled her careless remark to the class. “Wynne,” she began apologetically. “I truly meant what I said about it being a rare person who cannot be taught to sing at least passably. Would you let me try, privately? We could go over the scales at least just after the midday meal, before your dancing lesson.”

Wynne’s expression was doubtful, but Anora bounced excitedly on her toes, clapping her hands. “Oh, Wynne, do let her try. I’ll come too and help you.”

Wynne was still apprehensive, but she didn’t want to appear unappreciative or make it seem she was unwilling to try, so she agreed. Anora stifled a girlish squeal, and Lady Retta’s eyes lit up with delight. Wynne couldn’t help thinking this wouldn’t end well, but she smiled and said nothing.

After a light lunch of nothing but fruit (Lady Retta stressed that eating too heavily or eating the wrong foods would make it difficult to sing well), Wynne and Anora started down the long passageway towards the solarium. Anora chattered happily about whatever came into her mind, but Wynne hardly heard her as she fretted over her lack of musical talent. She suddenly recalled seeing some of the eligible ladies sitting in the courtyard, warbling away to entertain a suitor. She had a vision of Gwaine sitting next to her, gazing adoringly at her with his enchanting brown eyes. As she opened her mouth and began to sing, Gwaine’s eyes flew open in horror, and he ran away, covering his ears and begging her to stop.

“Wynne, are you listening to me?” Anora’s voice startled Wynne back to reality, and she turned to her friend with a look of sheer panic on her face. Anora grasped Wynne’s shoulders and asked anxiously, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“What if I truly can’t sing, Anora?” Wynne asked almost tearfully. “What if…” She almost said Gwaine’s name. “What if a suitor asks me to sing for him, and my singing frightens him away? I don’t want to end up an old maid.”

“Oh, Wynne. I’m sure that Lady Retta will be able to help you,” Anora assured her, “And anyway, no man in his right mind would cast you off because you can’t sing.” Wynne hoped she was right.

Lady Retta was waiting in the solarium when Wynne and Anora arrived. Her glassy eyes and too-broad smile told Wynne that she had doubts as well. “Are you ready, then, Wynne?” Giving Anora a hasty glance, Wynne nodded, and Lady Retta replied quickly and nervously, “All right, then. Let’s get started.”

For a torturous half hour, Wynne tried again and again to sing the scales, but she just could not control her voice. She could hear the notes that Lady Retta sang, and she could hear that the notes she sang were not the same ones that Lady Retta sang, but she simply did not know how to make those notes come from her throat. Once or twice, quite by accident, Wynne managed to hit the correct notes, but even then the sound of her voice was anything but pleasant.

When the lesson was over, both Wynne and Lady Retta were close to shedding tears of frustration. Abashed at her utter failure, Wynne looked at Lady Retta and wondered what she would say. Lady Retta seemed just as distressed as Wynne. She wrung her hands and said with empty encouragement, “Well, Wynne, at least you hit some of the notes this time, even if you did it without trying. Maybe with more practice…and more extra lessons…” She glanced helplessly at Anora, who stood with her hands on her cheeks, staring wide-eyed at Wynne. Realizing that her friend’s assessment of her own lack of talent was indeed accurate, she had run out of words of honest encouragement.

Wynne sighed resignedly and replied, “No, Lady Retta. I appreciate your trying, but I think we all know I am not destined to sing well. It’s no use to waste your time or mine. I’ll just have to find other ways to entertain guests.” Her brow furrowed as she recalled her nightmarish vision of  singing for Gwaine. “Or suitors.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Lady Retta said faintly. She tried to avoid meeting Wynne’s eyes, but she could not hide her obvious relief at Wynne’s hasty decision to abandon extra singing lessons. She wondered if Lady Magdalen could be persuaded to allow the girl to discontinue lessons with the group. After a quick goodbye, Lady Retta hurried down the passageway towards the Council Chambers where the queen was meeting with Lady Magdalen and Berte.

Seeing that her friend was discouraged at her failed lesson, Anora attempted to cheer her. “Well, Wynne, even if you can’t sing, you’re still far ahead of everyone in the kitchen. My father always said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

After a moment, Wynne smiled. Anora was right. She was quite good at cooking, and Gwaine had truly enjoyed her apple pie, even if he did tease her and try to make her think she needed more practice at baking. With that thought to encourage her, she headed off to courtly dance lessons feeling more confident and more hopeful.

 

Sir Leon, the Immortal, Chapter 2, Merlin fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or its characters.

“Gaius!” Myron burst into the physician’s chamber so forcefully that the door hit the wall and bounced back to hit him in the face so that he saw stars.

For the second time in the space of an hour, Gaius was startled into dropping something he was measuring. He turned around, exasperated, and exploded, “Myron, how many times must I tell you not to do that? I am an old man; my heart can’t take such commotion!” Suddenly, he noticed the look on his young assistant’s face. “Myron, what’s wrong?”

Myron waved his hands in front of his face, still trying to chase away the stars dancing in front of him. At Gaius’ question, he shook his head and stumbled towards him, babbling, “Sir Leon…the sleeping draught…fainted…something not right.”

Gaius grabbed the boy and shook him, trying to get him to calm down. When Myron grimaced and clutched his throbbing head, Gaius stopped shaking him, apologized, and said calmly, “Take a deep breath and tell me exactly what happened.”

Myron closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then another, and then a third before he began, “I took the sleeping draught up to Sir Leon’s room. He must have thought I was Sir Percival because he nearly ripped my head off when I knocked on the door, although I can’t imagine why he’d be so angry at SIr Percival; Sir Percival is Sir Leon’s best friend…”

“Time may be of the essence, Myron,” Gaius interrupted, resisting the urge to shake the boy again. “Please just tell me what happened to Leon.”

“Oh, right,” Myron replied brightly. “I told him you’d sent up a sleeping draught and gave it to him. He said he’d take it later if he needed it, but I told him you wanted me to be there when he drank it…that is what you said, right?”

Gaius’ rheumy eyes almost bulged out of his head as he gave Myron another shake. “Yes, yes, now what happened?”

Myron reached up to scratch his head, recalling what happened next. “He took the vial from me and walked over to the bed; I followed him. He smelled the draught and asked me what you’d put in there.” Myron grinned at Gaius and asked, “What did you put in it?”

“Ague root, willow bark…oh, for heaven’s sake, Myron! That’s not important now!” Gaius cried, throwing his arms up in the air. “Get on with it!”

“Oh, of course,” Myron stammered. “He closed his eyes and swallowed it down in one gulp, just like when I take Mother’s tonic.” Remembering what happened next, Myron’s expression became frightened. “Sir Leon glared at me and told me to tell you your potions taste like wet, moldy…”

Gaius shook his head. “Like wet, moldy what?”

Myron’s face crumbled as though he would cry. “That’s when his eyes got really big and he just fainted dead away. I came running as fast as I could to tell you. Is he going to be all right?”

Gaius began pacing around the room, thinking. Something suddenly occurred to him, and he looked sharply at Myron. “You said he told you the draught tasted like wet, moldy…something?” When Myron nodded, Gaius put his hand to his chin. “That’s odd. This sleeping draught shouldn’t taste that bad. I’ve even given it to children, and they seemed to find it quite pleasant.” Remembering that he had some left, he hurried over and picked up the flask. He held it up to the window and assessed the color. Pursing his lips, he held the flask to his nose and inhaled. His eyes flew open wide and he sniffed again. “Oh, dear…” he muttered. “Oh, dear, this isn’t good at all.”

“What is it?” Myron asked, clutching the back of a chair so that his knuckles turned white.

Gaius looked up at him. “When you burst into the room while I was mixing up the draught, you startled me. I was measuring valerian into the flask. I must have put too much in by mistake.” He thought back to when he was holding it over the flame, how long it had taken to turn the correct shade of green. “Oh, my. This could be serious.” He looked at Myron and started for the door. “Come with me.”

Gaius hurried up to the third floor as fast as his arthritic legs could carry him, with Myron close behind, fighting the urge to plow past his mentor to get to Sir Leon. The younger man’s mind raced with fear and feelings of guilt; if he hadn’t burst in and startled Gaius, he never would have measured too much valerian into the draught, and SIr Leon wouldn’t be…whatever he was.

As they reached the third floor, Gaius grabbed a torch from its holder on the wall and burst into Sir Leon’s room, followed closely by Myron. He quickly assessed the unconscious knight before thrusting the torch into Myron’s hands. “Hold this so I can see what I’m doing.” He leaned over Sir Leon, laying his ear against the young knight’s chest. Yes, his heart was still beating, though faintly. He held a mirror just beneath Sir Leon’s nose and breathed a sigh of relief to discover that he was still breathing, though only just.

Myron looked down at Sir Leon with anxious eyes. Even with his lack of training, he could tell the situation was serious. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously and asked, “Will he be all right?”

Gaius didn’t answer right away, but stood staring at Sir Leon with his hand on his chin. He seemed to be searching his memory for something. Suddenly it seemed to register that Myron had spoken. “I don’t really know,” he replied with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “I have never had something like this happen before.” He turned to face Myron. “Come with me, Myron. We have some research to do.”

Back in Gaius’ chamber, the two men pored over books trying to find some kind of remedy for Leon’s condition. Actually, Myron was doing more fumbling than poring; the inexperienced man wasn’t entirely sure what he should be looking for. Three hours and a half dozen stacks of discarded books later, Gaius tossed aside his magnifying lens and rubbed his eyes. He looked across at Myron, who was paging through an ancient grimoire trying futilely to match up the negative effects of the herbs Gaius had used with counter active effects of other herbs. Seeing the look of hopeless confusion on Myron’s face, Gaius said, “Myron, I’m afraid this is beyond my abilities. I haven’t a clue what to do.”

Myron looked up at the sound of Gaius’ voice and blinked his blurry eyes quickly. “But I thought you could work anything out,” he replied reverently.

Gaius closed his final book and laid it atop a stack of books at his elbow. He chuckled at the boy’s words; he could be so naive at times. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of my skills, Myron, but you need to always remember that no one, no matter how wise, knows all things.” He picked up his magnifying lens and slid it back into its pouch before continuing grimly, “By all accounts, the potency of the sleeping draught…” He looked pointedly at Myron. “…should have killed him.”

Myron’s eyes widened, and he gulped audibly. “Why…why do you suppose it didn’t?”

Gaius sighed heavily, realizing there was much the boy did not know about events from Camelot’s not-so-distant past. “The reason Sir Leon is still alive is that he once drank from the Cup of Life.” Myron’s brows knit together in confusion, so Gaius related the story of how Sir Leon was mortally wounded in a skirmish but was then brought back from Death’s door when a Druid gave him water from the Cup of Life. “That is why he survived this fatal draught,” he concluded. “However, I do not know what to do to either awaken him or…” He gave Myron a pained looked. “…or allow him to pass on peacefully.”

Myron’s green eyes misted over with tears, and he was unable to speak for a moment. When he did, the wisdom of his words surprised Gaius. “The obvious answer is to find this Druid and seek his counsel,” he declared with a firmness and confidence that was unnatural for him.

Gaius smiled and nodded at the boy’s insight. Maybe there was hope for him after all.”I believe you are correct, Myron,” he agreed. “But first, we must inform the queen what has happened.” Looking out the window and noting the position of the moon, he continued, “However, the hour is late, and I see no need to waken her.” He rose stiffly from his chair and blew out the candles on the table before looking at Myron. “I am certain there will be no change overnight, but I still want you to stay with him. You can let me know at once if anything changes.”

And so Myron made his way back to the third floor and slept awkwardly in a chair next to Sir Leon’s bed. Sometime during the night, he heard footsteps coming down the passageway. They stopped in front of Sir Leon’s door before continuing on their way. Myron recalled Sir Leon’s reaction when he had knocked on the door earlier, and the knight had been angry because he had thought it was Sir Percival. He wondered again what the two had disagreed about, and he wondered how Sir Percival would react when he heard about his friend’s condition. For the briefest moment, he thought about running after Sir Percival and telling him the awful news, but he thought the better of it, knowing that Gaius would want to inform the queen first. He settled back in his chair and stared intently into the darkness till sleep overtook him once more.

Bright and early the next morning, Gaius seated himself in the Council Chamber before anyone else arrived so that he could speak privately with Queen Guinevere. The warm morning sun was just beginning to filter in through the windows when the queen entered the room. She was as beautiful as always, with her wavy black hair pulled back and secured with a simple gold and pearl comb, and wearing her favorite periwinkle-colored gown. Her confidence had grown during her time as queen, both during the time she ruled as Arthur’s consort and since his passing, and she carried herself regally, though never haughtily. Her dark eyes radiated wisdom, kindness and a touch of sadness that Gaius knew would never leave while she still breathed. Gaius rose from his seat as she suddenly noticed him sitting there, and she smiled as she greeted him. “Good morning, Gaius. You’re certainly an early bird this morning.”

Gaius smiled fondly at her, recalling the quiet, kind, and loyal servant she had once been and marvelling again at how much she had grown into her role. Taking her hands in his, he replied, “Good morning, Gwen. I wished to speak to you about…a delicate matter before Council meets this morning.”

Gwen’s brows came together in concern as she wondered what could be amiss. “Of course, Gaius. Please, let us be seated.”

The two sat down at the table, and Gwen asked, “What is it, Gaius? It’s obvious that something is troubling you.”

He raised his eyes to hers before looking away uncertainly, searching for the words to explain what had happened the night before. He worried about how she would take the news. She had already lost her brother and her husband, which had left her nearly devastated. Gwen and Sir Leon had grown up together; what would it do to her if she were to lose her dearest childhood friend as well? Knowing there was no way to get around telling her, he took a deep breath and began, “I am sure you have noticed that Leon has been…less than happy of late.”

A spark of sadness lit in her eyes as she nodded. “Yes, I have noticed that myself. I feel so bad for him, but I don’t know how to help.”

Gaius nodded. “Yes, and you’re not the only one who has noticed. Percival went to his room last night to urge him to come along with the other men to the tavern. He said he noticed that Leon had injured his hand again, apparently by punching the wall.”

Gwen sighed and threw up her hands in frustration. “Leon is so full of anger and regret over all that has happened. I fear he blames himself for much of it. He seems to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.” She looked at Gaius. “And I fear he doesn’t sleep much; he always has those dark circles under his eyes.”

Gaius closed his eyes, knowing that Gwen knew much more than he realized. “Yes, well, I have been watching him as well, and when Percival came to me last night, I thought…I thought I could at least help him get some sleep.” He looked at Gwen, and his lower lip quivered. He did not want to bring Myron into this, fearing she might blame the lad and punish him, so he bent the truth ever so slightly. “I fear I measured incorrectly, and I put too much valerian into the sleeping draught.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

Gwen’s eyes suddenly flew open. “Oh, Gaius! Leon isn’t…he didn’t…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“No,” Gaius replied quickly. “He is not dead, but…you know the situation with the Cup of Life.” Gwen nodded, tears forming in her eyes. “Well, that has afforded him some protection, but it has also left him in an unconscious state that I fear I haven’t the ability to remedy.”

Gwen was silent for a long moment, obviously mentally preparing herself for what she was afraid her mentor would tell her. “So, what do you think we should do?”

Gaius sighed with some measure of relief. “It was a Druid–Iseldir–who brought him back from death with the Cup of Life, so I ask your permission to consult with that same Druid to see if by chance he may know what to do to either awaken Leon…” He laid his hand on Gwen’s. “…or to allow him to pass on.”

Gwen choked back a sob and bit down on her knuckle. After a long moment, she composed herself once more and nodded. “Yes, Gaius, I grant you permission to consult Iseldir and bring him to Camelot. You have my word that he will be under our protection. Why don’t you take Percival, and maybe Beldyn and Brandis. Go as soon as you feel ready.”

As she finished speaking, the doors opened, and the other counselors entered the room. Gaius bowed quickly to her and excused himself from the meeting, knowing that Gwen could competently handle making excuse for him and for Sir Leon. He had more urgent matters to attend to.

 

Sir Leon the Immortal, Chapter 1: Merlin fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or its characters. I also have not yet seen the final episodes of Season 5, so if I have certain details wrong, I apologize.

Sir Leon stood at the window of his chamber and stared out at the houses beyond the castle walls. He could see the faint glow of fireplaces through many windows in the deepening twilight, and he knew that the inhabitants of Camelot would sleep safe and sound this night, enjoying the hard-won peace that had cost Camelot so dearly. Morgana was dead and was no longer a threat to the kingdom or to Queen Guinevere. Sir Leon shook his head sadly, thinking once more of her tragic spiral into evil after finding out that King Uther was not only her guardian, but also her father, and that she had magic. Damn you, Morgause, he thought bitterly; if Morgana hadn’t gotten mixed up with her evil half-sister perhaps none of this would have happened.

His thoughts drifted to Arthur, his king and his closest friend. He was dead too, slain by one of his own knights in the last battle; many other brave and loyal knights died as well, not only in that last battle, but throughout Morgana’s quest to claim Camelot’s throne for herself. Sir Lancelot had sacrificed himself at the Isle of the Blessed to close the veil and defeat the Dorocha that Morgana and Morgause had released. Sir Elyan had been slain by an enchanted sword in the Dark Tower where Morgana had imprisoned Queen Guinevere after capturing her. Sir Gwaine had been tortured and slain when he refused to tell Morgana where Merlin had taken the wounded Arthur. Merlin. He too was gone, disappeared after Arthur’s death, never to be seen again. Was he dead too?

Of the original Round Table knights, only Sir Leon and Sir Percival remained. Sir Leon and Sir Percival had had to bring the tragic news back to Gaius and Queen Guinevere, and Sir Leon and Sir Percival–but mostly Sir Leon, having been the king’s right-hand man–had had to stand in support of the widowed queen as she learned to rule through her grief. Not that Gwen had really needed my strength, Sir Leon thought. True, she still grieved Arthur’s death and would do so the rest of her life, but she had risen to the challenge and was proving to be a very competent queen.

Which was part of the reason Sir Leon felt the way he did now.

He found himself thinking once more that he was no longer useful to anyone here, and he asked for perhaps the thousandth time, why couldn’t I have died along with them? Of course, he recalled bitterly, the Cup of Life. He was still alive because he had drunk from the Cup of Life. In a once-unusual, but now becoming more frequent flare of temper, Sir Leon suddenly and with great force punched the wall in front of him, splitting the skin on his knuckles so that blood trickled down his hand and dripped onto the floor. He grimaced momentarily at the pain, physical pain that did nothing to dull the raw emptiness and the guilt he felt deep inside at the loss of his friends. Cursing under his breath, he turned away from the window to find the scrap of linen he had used to bind his hand the last several times he had punched the wall.

After wrapping his hand to staunch the flow of blood, he threw himself onto the bed and lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. It would be full dark soon, and the room was growing chilly; still he didn’t light a fire, not really caring anymore. Sometime later–he wasn’t really sure how long; what did it matter anyway?–there was a soft knock at his door. Without taking his eyes from the ceiling, he called out flatly, “Enter.”

The door opened wide enough for a man’s head to pop in. Sir Leon could barely make out the man’s features in the torchlight from the passageway, but he knew it was Sir Percival. “I hope I didn’t wake you,” the young knight softly apologized, although he knew it was still quite early.

Leon laughed shortly. He hadn’t had a decent sleep in months, not since well before…he shook his head, trying not to think about it again. “No,” he responded simply. Sir Leon had always been a man of few words., but lately, he spoke even less. “Was there something you needed?” Right, he thought. Like anyone needs me anymore.

Sir Percival gave a slight shake of his head. “Just heading to the tavern with a few of the other men. Would you care to join us?”

Sir Leon closed his eyes miserably. He had gone with them a couple times before, thinking that being out with others would help him shake his morose mood, but he had been wrong. Being in that raucous atmosphere with all those laughing, talking people only made his loneliness and sense of loss seem so much stronger. How could they all move on so easily, especially Sir Percival? True, the large but quiet knight had felt the loss of Sir Gwaine more deeply than that of the others, but he had eventually come to the conclusion that his friend would have wanted him to go on with his life. Sir Percival still wore the necklace that Gwaine had always worn; he had taken it from his lifeless body and kept it to remind him of his fun-loving friend. Sir LEon had no such token to remind him of Arthur or any of the others; he was certain it would do nothing but remind him of his guilt anyway. Suddenly remembering that Sir Percival was waiting for an answer, he replied, “No, you go ahead.”

“Are you sure?” Sir Percival asked. “You hardly leave the castle anymore. Bloody hell, you hardly leave your chamber. A change of scenery might do you some good.”

Sir Leon sighed irritably. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. “Maybe next time, Percival.” He rolled over to face away from his friend, letting him know the conversation was over.

However, Sir Percival didn’t take the hint. He marched purposefully into the room and sat down on the bed. “That’s what you said the last time, and the time before that.” His forehead showed lines of worry that he was much to young to be wearing.

Sitting up and facing Sir Percival, he replied irritably, “Then it shouldn’t surprise you that I’m saying the same thing again. I just don’t feel like being sociable.”

Sir Percival’s sharp eyes spotted the blood-stained linen on Sir Leon’s hand. “Leon, your hand. Again?” When Sir Leon wordlessly jerked his hand away and tried to hide it, Sir Percival continued, “Leon, you must talk to Gaius, or to Gwen, someone. You need to move on…”

“She is your queen; show her some respect and call her by her proper name,” Sir Leon spat angrily, startling his friend. “Please just go away. Go enjoy yourself at the tavern and leave me be.” He threw himself back down on the bed, facing away from Sir Percival once more.

After a moment’s silence, Sir Percival stood and walked to the door. He stood staring at the broken man on the bed for a moment, and then left, closing the door softly. He walked steadily down the passageway to hiso wn chamber, where he grabbed his cloak and pinned it on. He was about to leave the castle to join his friends at the tavern, but he could not get Sir Leon out of his mind. He turned and hurried down the back staircase into the lower level of the castle where Gaius’ rooms were. He knocked softly on the door and heard a cheerful young voice call out, “Yes?”

Sir Percival opened the door and stuck his head in. He saw Myron, Gaius’ new assistant, hastily sweeping the floor. “Hullo, Myron. Is Gaius in?” The boy’s eyes involuntarily swept to the side room, where Gaius often consulted books, but he said nothing. “Please?” Sir Percival continued. “It’s quite important.”

Myron was about to formulate an excuse when Gaius’ weary voice came from the side room. “It’s all right, Myron.” A moment later, Gaius appeared at the door. “Percival, what can I do for you?”

Sir Percival edged into the room and looked pointedly at Myron, who shrewdly took the hint, propped the broom in the corner and hastened out of the room. Gaius chuckled. “Nice boy. Reminds me a bit of Merlin when he first arrived here.” A brief look of sadness passed over his eyes before he cleared his throat and asked again, “Was there something you needed?”

Sir Percival, too, had a brief moment of sadness as he thought of the young assistant who had been so close to Arthur. Banishing the thought, he looked at Gaius and began, “I’m worried about Leon.” Gaius raised his eyes to Percival’s, obviously thinking the same thing. Sir Percival quickly related what had occurred in SIr Leon’s chamber.

When the young knight finished, Gaius stood silently for a moment, thinking. Finally, he shook his head. “I wish there was something I could do for him, but it seems some part of him has lost the will to move on.” He did not voice the thought he had that if it weren’t for the Cup of Life, Leon might have already succumbed to his grief and passed on as well.

“Isn’t there anything?” Sir Percival asked pleadingly. “He looks as though he hasn’t slept since…before the last battle.”

Gaius looked sharply at the knight. He doubted it was the answer, but what other course of action did they have? He replied, “Maybe I can mix up a sleeping draught for him. A good night’s rest may not solve all his troubles, but it certainly can’t hurt.” He nodded, dismissing Sir Percival, and turned to his bottles and potion books. He paged through an old dog-eared volume and quickly found what he was looking for. After scanning the ingredients, he went to his storage shelves and grabbed the bottles and pouches he needed.

A few minutes later, Gaius was at work measuring out ague root, willow bark, anise and chamomile into a large glass flask. Every few minutes, he held the flask over a candle and heated the mixture, shaking it gently. At last, he came to the last ingredient, valerian. As he was carefully measuring the powdered herb into the flask, Myron came bursting into the room, startling Gaius and making him unknowingly dump too much of the powder into the flask. “Myron, how many times have I told you not to burst in here like a pack of wild donkeys?” he asked in an exasperated voice.

The boy was immediately apologetic, making Gaius feel guilty for snapping at him. “I’m sorry, Gaius. Really, I am. I’ve just too much energy, I suppose.”

Gaius chuckled and waved away Myron’s apology. “Well, in just a minute, I’ll have something for you to take to Sir Leon. You can run off some of your energy going to the third floor.”

“Is Sir Leon sick?” the boy asked innocently, his shaggy blond hair hanging down in his eyes.

Gaius sighed; Myron was a nice enough boy, but he lacked any real insight when it came to people. Merlin was able to see beyond the surface, and he wished for the hundredth time that the young warlock was still here with him. “In a manner of speaking, he is,” Gaius replied. “He is heartsick, one of the most difficult illnesses to remedy.” He doubted Myron would really understand, but he tried anyway.

Gaius held the mixture over the candle for a few minutes. He couldn’t remember it taking so long to make this potion, but then he hadn’t had need of it for some time, and his memory wasn’t what it used to be. When the liquid in the flask finally darkened to the correct shade of green, Gaius took the flask away from the flame and allowed it to cool. When it reached room temperature, he measured some of the potion into a small vial, stoppered it, and handed it to Myron. “Take this to Sir Leon and give it to him. Stay with him until he’s drunk it down.”

Myron furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “But what if he’s asleep? I’d hate to wake him.”

Gaius sighed and looked at the boy once more. No, he certainly lacked Merlin’s insight. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he won’t be sleeping. This potion is to help him sleep.”

Myron’s mouth formed an “O” as he finally understood. He turned to go a bit too quickly and almost stumbled over a stool. He looked over his shoulder and grinned sheepishly as he dashed out the door and up the stairs. On the third floor, he hurried down the West passageway, trying to remember which chamber was Sir Leon’s. At first he knocked on a door, and Sir Afton, on his way out to patrol, greeted him and pointed him in the right direction.

Sir Leon’s door was tightly closed, so Myron hesitated before knocking softly. When he got no answer, he knocked a bit louder. An irritated voice from inside said something that he couldn’t quite make out, so he knocked again, even louder. This time he heard feet hit the floor and stomp across the room. The door suddenly flew open, and an angry Sir Leon growled, “Percival, I already told you…” Seeing Myron’s startled, apologetic face, he stepped back and ran his hand over his face. “I…apologize, Myron. I thought you were Sir Percival. Was there something you needed?”

Myron gulped, staring up at the tall, reddish-blond knight, and answered timidly, “Gaius sent up a sleeping potion for you. He..he said it might help.”

Sir Leon looked curiously at Myron, wondering how Gaius might have thought he needed something. Realization swept over him as he thought to himself that Percival must have paid Gaius a visit before he went to the tavern. He tried not to be angry; he knew that Percival was only trying to be a friend. He took the draught from Myron and thanked him. “I’ll take it later if I need it.”

As Sir Leon was shutting the door, Myron stammered, “Uh…um…begging pardon, Sir Leon. Um…Gaius wanted me to stay with you…to be sure you’d taken it.”

Sir Leon rolled his eyes, then let out a defeated sigh and motioned for Myron to come in. He walked over to his bed and sat down, then pulled the stopper out of the vial. He held the vial under his nose and took a whiff–he didn’t like to be surprised by a nasty taste on his tongue. Grimacing, he asked, “Bloody hell, Myron, what did Gaius put in this?” When Myron shrugged, obviously clueless, Sir Leon shook his head, closed his eyes tightly and drank it down in one swallow. He thrust the empty vial into Myron’s hands, coughing, and lay back on his bed. Glaring up at the boy’s apologetic face, Sir Leon muttered, “Tell Gaius his potions taste like wet, moldy…” He didn’t finish his thought before his eyes went wide for a second and he lost consciousness.

Myron blinked rapidly a few times, unsure of what had just happened. He had given people sleeping draughts before, but he had never seen one work this quickly. As slow as his mind could sometimes be, he knew something was amiss, and he hurried back down to tell Gaius what had happened.