Chapter Text
They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
In Arthur’s experience, this has typically turned out to be code for “so stop complaining”. Right now however, he is achingly aware that he can say without a shadow of a doubt that it is gone.
It had all started with his father’s new lady. Only the second since Arthur’s mother’s death and, in a huge improvement on Catrina, not an actual troll so, while Arthur and Morgana had not exactly made any particularly effusive overtures of friendship, they had at the very least not actively tried to drive her out. Which had proved to be a disastrous mistake. For both of them.
The Lady Mathilde was from Gaul. Unlike many of the noble, and not so noble, women who had tried to woo his father throughout their childhood, she had not made any effort to appear as a damsel in distress, pliant and hanging on his every word. Rather, she had begun her courtship by sweeping into the palace and declaring that, on passing by the citadel, she had noticed that the flags on the town gates were dragging in the mud. What sort of an impression did that create of the legendary Camelot? Having said her piece, she had then genuinely seemed to be making to leave, but the rather stunned king managed to snap out of his daze just in time to ask her her name. And whether she wished for a room in the castle, as her multi-shaded blue gown identified her clearly as a woman of means. She had been a bit taken aback, but had cautiously accepted. Three months ago.
-
At first everything had stayed the same and Mathilde proved to be a polite, and generous, guest. According to Morgana, she even treated Guinevere quite well, and was very understanding of the timekeeping problems that could arise from serving as a lady’s maid to two women in separate wings of the castle.
In the evenings she would dine with the family, and regale them with tales of the sophisticated Gaul court. Apparently Arthur’s father had visited the country as a boy, and the couple found they had a few acquaintances in common, a fact that seemed to placate Gaius’ usual suspicions.
“You wouldn’t recognise it now, though,” the lady said as she sipped from her goblet. “Like all of the palaces in Europe, it has changed much since we were young.”
“Is that so, my Lady?” his father had inquired. “Although, I suppose the same could be said for Camelot.”
Mathilde gave a small, noticeably non-committal, nod, turning her attention back to the drumstick she was elegantly dissecting.
“You would not agree?” The king placed his knife back on his plate, apparently willing to pursue the matter.
“Camelot has more of an emphasis on tradition,” their guest said carefully.
“You believe we are behind the times.”
The statement was made with no accusation, just genuine interest. Arthur and Morgana exchanged glances. It looked like Uther was more far gone than they’d thought if a criticism of his kingdom, however diplomatically put, had not caused immediate outrage.
At that moment, the suspiciously absent Merlin finally made an appearance, careening through the double doors with a platter of fish, spilling the herbal garnish all over his hands. He skidded to a stop just before the table, before very slowly placing the dish next to Arthur, outrageously using his proximity to subtly wipe his sticky hands on the prince’s trousers, before scurrying off again.
Conversation turned to the increasingly pleasant weather, and no more was said on the matter.
-
Or so Arthur thought until a week later, when a furious Morgana burst into his room and flung herself on his bed.
It was a similar reaction to when she’d cracked her head open falling off a chair and had been banned from riding for at least two weeks.
“Something bothering you?” He wasn’t too worried; if Morgana was actually, properly, upset, she tended to retreat into herself. Outbursts were reserved for more trivial events.
“Deportment!” she wailed to the canopy of the bed.
“I see.” Arthur did not see. “And this has, of course, made you feel…”
“Frustrated.”
Helpful. Really narrowed down his options.
“Mm hm.”
“You don’t know what it is, do you? No, of course not, because you’re a male!” she spat, shooting up into a sitting position.
“Deportment is where I have to do ridiculous things, like balancing this-“ she strode over to his desk and grabbed a book, “- on top of my head.”
Arthur stared at the lady dubiously. “Like a costume?”
He was already ducking when the book was launched towards his head. As was Merlin who’d just walked through the door with the washing basket.
The prince and lady glanced at the manservant, who had several twigs and leaves stuck to his jacket and in his scarf, with some concern.
“Has the laundry room been moved to a forest?”
Merlin looked a bit baffled, but gave his usual reply. “Collecting herbs, Ar-sire.”
“Ah I see, now my understanding is that the usual way of doing that would be to put them in the basket, as opposed to your clothes.”
It’s not herbs adorning his manservant’s person, so much as actual shrubbery, but Arthur decides to let it slide. He probably went for a nap in the woods or something.
“And it’s not just that!” Morgana recommences her pacing. Back to deportment then.
“A lady has to hold her head high, but not too high so as to seem intimidating, and she must not slouch, she must have her shoulders back-“
Arthur wisely refrained from pointing out that she was doing every single one of those things as she marched in front of him. He didn’t want another literary missile heading his way.
“Right. And why has this happened?”
“It was that woman! She has ideas on how to bring our standards up to those of the court in Gaul. She has suggested to Uther, and he has agreed, that I be appointed a tutor to teach me how to walk in a straight line and “be a lady” three times a week! And there are so very many things I would rather be doing than that.”
“Yes, because you’ll be busy doing all your… woman things.”
He can see Merlin raising his eyebrows, before making a break for it with the washing, reaching the wardrobe just as Morgana storms to the door.
“Just you see, Arthur. This will only be the start.”
“Well, it could be a lot worse.”
“Oh, of course you’d think that, when it doesn’t bloody affect you!”
-
A week later, Arthur walked into his chambers after training to find his father seated at his table.
“Ah, Arthur, sit down. I need to talk to you about something.”
The prince turned to Merlin, who was hovering behind him with an assortment of weapons and armour. “Go and put that lot in the armoury, and my dinner will need serving soon.”
Thankfully, Merlin had clocked the presence of the king, and he headed off to drop everything off without the usual comment about his waist.
“Now, I’ve been talking with the Lady Mathilde, and we’ve been discussing a few changes that will be beneficial for the kingdom.”
Arthur sat down, wondering what exactly a noblewoman could have to say about his training and patrol schedule, which were the usual topics his father came to discuss.
“There is a mantra at her court that servants should be barely seen, and never heard. And we have decided that would be a good attitude to take within this castle.”
“I see.” No more Merlin in the Great Hall, Arthur expects. That’s probably not a bad idea, to be honest.
“Starting from tomorrow, all servant duties will be completed when we, the royal family, and Morgana, have left our chambers for the day. Meals will be served only by designated servants, who have received the training required for this task. In addition, there is a move towards elevating the position of royalty, where we may only be touched by those with noble blood. Save for on the battlefield, of course.”
Arthur stared at his father, dumbstruck. “But those are Merlin’s tasks, you can’t just- I won’t ever see him!”
He had not even realised that last part until he said it out loud.
“In all honesty, Arthur, it was the boy who is one of the reasons we have come to this suggestion. Suitable wives for you should be flooding in at your age, but there has not been one proposal for months! From her travels to the neighbouring kingdoms, Mathilde reported that several kings had said their daughters found the boy’s constant presence very off putting. That the prince couldn’t be separated from the peasant!”
“But he’s my manservant.” Arthur tried to keep his voice steady.
“He will still be cleaning your chambers. Really, nothing has changed.”
-
The next morning, Arthur awoke to Leon looming over him with his hands plastered by his side, looking at an utter loss.
“Bloody hell!” he yelled, causing the knight to jump out of his skin.
“My apologies, sire, I just wasn’t really sure how to wake you.”
“What?” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, before being struck by an alarming thought. “We’re under attack?”
“No, no. It’s just that I have been designated, as a member of the nobility, to wake and dress you by the king.”
The conversation he’d had with his father, or rather the orders he had been given, last night came flooding back to him.
“Right, well, I’m up.”
Leon nodded dutifully.
“And I am also entirely naked, so I suggest for both our sakes you turn around until I’m behind the screen.”
The knight whipped round to face the window while Arthur, after a moment of decision, streaked across the floor to his screen. He remembers how his father had explained these changes would add more dignity to their routines. This is proving to be incorrect.
He stands in the corner, shivering in his bare feet on the cold stone floor. No undergarments are forthcoming.
“Clothes, Leon?”
“Right, yes, Sire.”
There’s the sound of rummaging, and the necessary items appear over the top of the screen. Gratefully, Arthur puts on his pants and trousers, before emerging back into the room and bending over, ready for his shirt.
After a good few seconds, he straightens up to look for his new assistant, who is standing politely by the bed, eyes still averted.
“Shirt?”
Leon picks up the aforementioned garment from the pile he’s made on the bed. Arthur resumed his position.
“I have your shirt ready for you, Sire.”
“Put it on then.” Arthur doesn’t mean to be so short with him, but the sooner this is over with and he can start beating the stuffing out of a dummy the better.
Leon first approaches him front on, like Merlin does, and after quite a bit of faff manages to get his arms in, using a similar action to someone skewering some meat. He bends one of his fingers back, but Arthur decides he doesn’t mind taking damage if it’ll speed up the process.
After some more ineffectual fiddling, Leon gave up on this approach and tried going round the back, ending up leaning over Arthur’s back to yank the shirt over his torso. He does better with the chainmail and cloak, although it takes a couple of tries with the clasp, the entire affair soundtracked by the knight’s stream of apologies that he is used to doing it the other way round.
Arthur ends up grabbing his helmet off the table, and making to leave the room the minute all of the armour plates have been secured, and almost runs straight into the kitchen maid just outside the door, one arm occupied by a laden tray.
“You’re breakfast, my Lord,” she announces, dipping into a curtsy with his meal still expertly balanced; not even a drop of water spills from the silver jug, despite the fact that it’s full to the brim.
Arthur glances outside, noting dejectedly that the sun is already well over the castle walls.
“Tell the rest of the knights I will be late for training,” he informs Leon, who had made his way to the door, clearly hoping to be dismissed. “I should be with you in,” he surveyed the food, “five minutes.”
The knight left swiftly, shutting the door behind him. Arthur barely waited for the latch to fall before he started stuffing bread into his mouth, in an effort not to outright miss the session. The increased dignity, he feels, is still very much absent.
-
In the end, Arthur lasts two days. Two days of Leon failing to get a shirt over his head without practically straddling him. Two days of kitchen maids and boys bringing him a selection of beautifully cooked, utterly impersonal dishes, delivered to his table without a crumb having made its way to the tray, or the corner of their mouth. Two days of returning home to passably clean but completely deserted chambers, through which the clang of his discarded sword echoes.
He is training, as usual, in the mid-morning, supervising sparring sessions between varying groups of the knights. The idea was they fought in groups of five, and the strongest then went up against Arthur. This was a structure his father had been pushing recently, the idea of him no longer being just a knight, but their leader, someone to aspire to. It was still feeling a bit unnatural to walk on the outside of the little circles, a position previously reserved for a true veteran.
The sun was bothering Arthur, despite it being unusually weak for May. It kept getting in his eyes, causing iridescent spots to appear. His head was buzzing, and he hadn’t had nearly enough breakfast after Leon had yet again failed to rouse him, still unable to bring himself to lay a hand on the prince.
The constant clashing of swords was not helping, and neither was the breeze that had just started up, causing the striped weapons tent to ripple, adding to his increasing feeling of disorientation.
He needs to leave, he needs to go back to his chambers. He can sit on his bed and breathe. And maybe Merlin will be there.
He needs an excuse.
“I need to get my shield!” he calls to the nearest vaguely senior knight, before striding off towards the castle.
Only to be immediately headed off.
“One of the squires can do that for you, Sire, no need to trouble yourself.”
“No, it’s fine, I’ll get it.” Arthur has no idea where this urgency has come from, but suddenly he is desperate to leave the field. It’s as though there’s an invisible force pulling him back to the castle.
The knight gestures towards the squire again, but Arthur takes off running. It feels like everything is spinning, and he can feel the blood pulsing through his brain.
He powers all the way through the courtyard and up the stairs, just about slowing to a jog outside his chambers door, hand already pulling down the handle before he’s particularly registered his flight.
As the door swings open, Arthur is greeted by an almighty crash and the sight of Merlin jumping out of his skin.
“Arthur!” Merlin is so startled he luckily fails to notice that the prince is also trying to steady his breathing. “What-“ It comes out as a bit of squeak, and he tries again after a couple of swallows. “I thought you had training.”
“I do,” Arthur reaches out an arm to lean as casually as possible on the doorframe. Now he actually is here, he doesn’t really know what he needed to do in the first place. Although he must remember to take back a shield.
As his vision properly clears, he takes the time to survey his room. There is stuff everywhere- goblets all over the table, pieces of armour strewn throughout the space, not including the items Merlin is unsuccessfully trying to hide behind his back.
“What was that noise?” Arthur asks suspiciously, crossing his chambers to sit on his bed. Strangely, despite the very loud noise and the total mess, his head feels so much clearer.
“I, um…” Merlin glances around the room, moving what looks like at least a couple of armour plates around his body in an effort to keep them from Arthur’s sight. “I knocked a chair over.”
“There wasn’t a chair on the floor.” Merlin’s attempt to rearrange the larger metal plate behind his back gives Arthur a clear view of the spectacularly large dent in it.
“It… fell into the table.” Merlin looks disproportionately satisfied with his answer.
“Well, carry on then.” Arthur gestured vaguely, still sitting on the bed.
His servant waited a couple of seconds, but upon realising the prince wasn’t leaving, he stashed the damaged armour under the table and trooped over to where he’d left a cloth on the other side of the room. Arthur couldn’t help but wonder how much cleaning had actually been happening while he was training.
A tightness behind his eyes that Arthur hadn’t even really noticed was there, begins to ease as he watches his servant bustle about the room with his bucket and cloth.
The prince suggests various methods he can think of to improve the process, and barely suppresses a whoop of joy when the soaking, grimy rag is subsequently lobbed at his face.
The next morning, every single shield from his room is on the rack in the battlements field, neatly arranged by size. His impromptu, mid-training, visit to his chambers had been noted and met with disapproval.