Chapter Nine

                                    

                                          
Arthur is unsure how he feels about Agravaine. His uncle has an undeniable charm about him and, when Agravaine agrees with him, it makes council sessions go a great deal faster. When he doesn't agree, however, things get difficult. Everywhere Arthur goes it seems his uncle is there, ostensibly for something unrelated, but inevitably the ensuing conversation diverges onto whatever matter it is upon which they have most recently disagreed.
It is midway through one of these irksome discussions that Merlin turns up and, after a quick bow to Agravaine, announces,
"The knights are waiting for you, sire."
"The knights? But I-" Arthur stops talking, because Merlin has just winked at him. "Right, yes. The knights. Agravaine, perhaps this can wait for council tomorrow?"
"I suppose so." There is an undercurrent of annoyance in Agravaine's reply, but Arthur ignores it.
"He can be a bit of an ass, can't he?" Merlin notes cheerily as they walk to the training field.
"He is certainly persistent." Arthur doesn't need to say any more - Merlin has always been able to read him like a book. "He'll see through the weapons practice excuse in a heartbeat, by the way."
"Oh, it's not weapons practice. You missed a bit of drama while you were talking to your Uncle."
"Oh?"
"Sir Bors was making some unsavoury comments..."
Arthur groans. Bors is an older knight, twenty years Arthur's senior, and one of the most loudmouthed opponents of the Regent King's changes to the First Law of Camelot. Every chance Bors gets he makes snide comments about the commoner knights' apparent deficiencies.
"So I proposed a wager," Merlin continues as they turn a corner. "Noble knights versus commoner knights, each side could pick their strongest fighter. Bors chose Sir Edmund and Lancelot chose Sir Percival."
Arthur can't suppress a smile. "And who's to judge this contest?"
"You are, Sire."
They have reached the training field now, the last rays of summer sunshine near blinding when reflected against the mass of chainmail-clad men who await them. The knights cheer when they see Arthur.
"So was this diversion a way to get me away from Agravaine, or a way to put Bors in his place?"
"Two birds with one stone?" Merlin suggests with an air of unconvincing innocence.
Sir Edmund is a quiet man, brooding and strong - but not so strong as Percival, who has him defeated in under five minutes.
"Sir Percival, the victor!" Arthur raises Percival's arm up, the bashful knight beet red under everyone's gaze.
"It wasn't exactly a fair fight!" Bors calls petulantly from the crowd. "Sir Edmund isn't the strongest fighter among the nobility. Arthur is! Why don't you fight, Sire?"
Arthur drops Percival's arm and directs an icy glare in Bors' direction. "I have no need to. All of you have been chosen for knighthood because of your strength, your talent and - most importantly - your commitment to Camelot. We need not fight among ourselves."
Bors pivots on his heel to storm off, but trips and falls flat on his face in the process. This prompts a wave of laughter from the men around him and he leaps up, red-faced, to hurry away before he can embarrass himself further.
As they depart the training ground, Arthur asks Merlin in an undertone, "Was that you?"
The monarch's voice is quiet and serious, a marked contrast from the raucous laughter of the knights who follow a few feet behind them.