The tournament

It would be the last tournament that Tintal hosted before the Continent descended into chaos. What Igraine now saw as bad augurs, were then mere grievances. But warnings became threats. Dark clouds on the horizon turning to thunderstorm. A gash on the hand that you thought would pass, left to fester to an infection that required amputation.

But Igraine did not know that at the time. And so life went on, bustling and busy and exciting as the Court prepared for the festivities. The brunt of decision-making fell on Igraine and her Aunt Julia. Her mother had long relinquished her role as Queen, as far as responsibilities were concerned – soon she would give up the title too, and bestow it on Igraine. No one wished to test the Queen’s frail heart more than it had already been tested, with the passing of her spouse. She spent most of her days out in the garden, reading and staring out at the sea as she drank her medicinal tea.

People came from every corner of the Continent. Royal carriages rolled up the winding hill path to the Castle, striving to rival each other in splendor and foppery alike. People spilled into the streets, dragons blotted the sky. The air thrummed with excitement and anticipation. It echoed in Igraine’s ribcage, matching the wild rhythm of her heart.

The first day of festivities was spend receiving the guests, a blur of familiar faces, both welcome and not so much; Igraine passed the start of the feast roaming about the hall, playing host and mingling with the other royals. She was content to play the role – it was her duty as Princess. And though custom dictated that her brother should assist her, she shouldered all the work to allow Elie respite from the crowds she knew he so despised. He was far more suited to the quiet corners of the library, to his study up in the tower where he only had his tomes of magic for company.

Talking at length with the Tanwen twins of Cornwallis – the Golden Dragonbloods, called so after their brilliant yellow scales. Alyden ascended to the throne, not two years ago; Adelissa, who had donned armor and brandished her sword since childhood, was named General after she’d wreaked havoc on the dragon hunters, far north in the harsh, cold islands of perpetual winter. From the Twins she hopped to the Queen Eloise of Astolat, laughing at her anecdotes. Igraine drifted from guest to guest – from from monarch to duke to lords and ladies and knights – without feeling much tired. There were those in whose company she could linger all night long; and those she dreaded to approach, yet had to approach all the same.

King Uther of Camelot and King Lot of Lothia belonged to the latter. She took her time making her way to them, carefully constructing a polite smile on her face.

Uther was loud and brash – his inflated ego needed the room. His voice was brash and loud, demanding your attention whether you wanted to give it or not. And then there was Lot, who followed him around like a puppy – she could just imagine him, slobbering in his footsteps waiting for a thrown bone, playing along with his games, picking up his worst habits, barking when he did.

She could not call the conversation in any way pleasant, but past the usual pleasantries, it only got worse. He tried to goad her away from the hall, onto the balcony, into the gardens, and she had to skillfully evade all his – frankly insulting – invitations with a tight, polite smile.

Uther did not relent easily; he insisted with the same impertinent confidence with which he ate into her personal space. With every step forward, she took another back, holding her head high, eyes on him, treating the man as she would a wild, dangerous animal. When her patience ran out, she decided to down the beast in one fell swoop.

“If you wish to stroll through the gardens, I’m sure Lord Lot would be more than happy to accompany you.” Igraine did not wait for a response. She spun on her heels and took off, searching for the one whose presence she actually desired.

She found Gorlois easily enough. He was in need of rescue from an awfully dull conversation on the subject of horse-breeding and the merits of pedigree.

He twined his fingers with hers and whispered, “Thank you,” once they were out of earshot.

She squeezed his hand and smiled wryly. “You can repay me by not leaving my side tonight.”

“I wasn’t intending on leaving,” he readily said.

“Good, since King Uther seems in need of reminding that I am betrothed.”

Gorlois flung his gaze around the room, horrified, looking for the offender. “Did he say anything? Did he do something?”

“Nothing more than being a pain in the neck and an offense to good sense.” Gorlois’ concerned expression did not abate so she patted the back of his hand and glibly added, “Let’s not waste a moment’s thought more on that man. It’s what he wants, and does not deserve it.”

They spent the rest of the night together, dancing, drinking and seeking out far more agreeable company.

***

The tournament started in earnest the next morning. The clang of armor and clash of swords rang across the arena, only rivaled by the roaring of the crowd.

As knights stepped out into the ring, proud and mighty and determined, Igraine thought back on what her aunt had told her, one late afternoon after hours of planning. Julia had leaned back in her high-backed chair, goblet in hand, gaze scouring over the map of the arena and fair as the calculating gaze of a general weighing the chances of her success. You know tournaments are more than just entertainment, Igraine, she’d said. We must not appear weak, lest our neighbors get the wrong idea.

She saw the wisdom in her words, and kept them close to mind as the trials unfurled. At her side, Gorlois didn’t seem particularly keen on the spectacle. She spared him from his boredom by making jokes and remarks every now and then, to draw a smile or a chuckle out of him. When languor touched her too, they’d put their head close together and talk in hushed voices, discussing matters they both found more engaging than the entertainment at hand.

On Igraine’s other side, her mother reclined in her queenly seat as placidly as she did in her wicker chair overlooking the sea, nursing a goblet in her hand – not filled with wine but her medicinal tea, which she sipped on slowly, neither perturbed nor particularly roused by the violence playing underneath them. On her left side, Elie had his long, dagged sleeves pulled over his hands to conceal the puzzle box he was fidgeting with; he looked up every now and then with idle interest, and grimaced at the crowd’s hooting and whooping. By far the most excited seemed to be Minerva, not even ten summers old, who sat on the edge of her seat as her mother – Aunt Julia – and grandfather talked to her about weaponry and fighting technique.

It was halfway through the tournament that Uther decided to perform his greatest offense to Igraine yet.

The King had chosen to participate in the one-on-one duels, to showcase his might and valor – and, in Igraine’s opinion, to satisfy his thirst for violence, with no complicated political consequences attached.

Uther strode onto the arena with the confidence of one who has decided he’d already won the contest. He wore little armor – made of steel, that was. He had his scarlet-dyed cuirass, embossed with the golden Pendragon symbol, and shimmering ripples of red scales taking up the expanse of his arms, his neck, his face, and wore a grin as sharp as that of a dragon.

Igraine shifted her attention to the other side of the arena. Sir Agathe stepped into the ring with a brisk, unwavering step, stopping only when she was before the royal booth, where she dropped to one knee, head bowed. Her tightly coiled hair was cropped short, leaving the nape of her neck bared, showing off the serpent inked in azure blue there.

Agathe was a promising young knight; not a year ago she was a squire, kneeling before Igraine’s mother to receive her title, as shiny new as her polished armor. She’d spoken her oath with earnest, solemn confidence, and she beamed a brilliant smile as she rose, holding her sword.

“My Queen,” Agathe called out, gaze still pinned reverently to the ground, “may I ask for your favour to wear in battle?”

Mother smiled warmly. “You may.” She made to gesture at Igraine, but she was already on her feet, knowing exactly what to do.

With the blue ribbon tied securely to her arm, Sir Agathe strode off to face her opponent.

As soon as the signal was given, Uther pounced on her like a hungry wolf. Her blade met his with a terrific screech, and so the fight commenced, vicious and relentless.

Igraine watched it unfold with all-consuming focus. Even Gorlois seemed to have honed in back to the moment, from whatever daydream his mind wander off to.

Later that night, Igraine would have to console an apologetic Sir Agathe. You fought well, she’d say. You fought honorably, you’re not the one who brought me offense.

But for now, all Igraine could do was watch helplessly as Agathe fell to her knees, the ribbon limp on the ground, a cut down snake.

King Uther sheathed his sword, took of his helmet and snatched up the ribbon. He approached the royal booth, fist raised and clutching the stolen favour.

“Your Highness,” he said/boomed, “Queen Matilda, I may not have carried your favor in this battle, but I would still like to dedicate this win to you.”

Mother merely inclined her head, a gracious allowance. Igraine wanted to take the ribbon and choke him out with it. It would have stopped him from uttering the next offense.

“Your Highness,” he went on, “I believe I have shown myself to be a valiant warrior, a worthy man not just by dint of my status and blood. I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

The stands exploded with voices. Igraine picked up an undercurrent of hoots and cheers, but it was swiftly swallowed up by the overwhelming exclamations of shock and confusion.

Igraine did not like the way her mother’s chest fell and rose, as if every breath was laborious, neither the way her knuckles stretched taut as she clutched the armrests of her seat. Beyond her, Elie had gone still, fingers frozen on his puzzle box, gaze flickering between his sister and the impertinent king.

She slid her hand over her mother’s, gave a reassuring squeeze, and got up to face Uther herself.

The crowd quietened down as she approached the rail with a placating hand raised high. Once there was silence, she placed her hands on the banister, wide apart, and tilted back her chin ever so slightly, looking down at the King.

“Your Highness,” she said, both voice and expression carefully blank. “If you wish to ask for my hand in marriage I would appreciate it if you addressed your question directly to me.”

Uther grin, flashing white teeth. “Your hand in marriage, Princess?”

“I’m sure your offer is flattering, Lord Uther, if only it were addressed to the right woman. As you remember, I am already engaged. You are acquainted to Sir Gorlois, are you not? Unless all the bashing has affected your memory, in which case I highly advice you seek out the help of our brilliant healers.”

Laughter cleaved through the silence. Loudest to her was Elie’s amused snort he failed to hide.

There was movement behind her, and Igraine did not need to turn to know it was Gorlois coming to join her side.

But Uther was not cowed. “Ah, Lord Gorlois.” As his attention shifted to him, his smirk only grew wider. Sharper. “How could I forget? It is as you say, Princess Igraine, but I would like to challenge your betrothed to a duel for your hand.”

Gorlois had never picked up the sword for he had no interest in it, and it was common knowledge. Skill or not, Igraine knew he’d never agree to this. So his answer was not surprising, yet it still filled her with a vicious sense of affection.

“Princess Igraine is not a prize at the fair for us to squabble over like children.”

“Ah, but is it not the greatest compliment to be considered a great prize?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Igraine said, “a prize neither thinks nor feels.”

Laughter rippled through the stands once again, but Uther would not let himself laughed out of the arena so easily.

He drummed his fingers against the hilt of his sword. “Perhaps you are not confident in your skills, Lord Gorlois.”

“You may think of me however you wish,” Gorlois replied, “but I will not agree to a duel.”

Igraine decided it was time to end this charade. “Neither do I wish to see the two of you fight, but I’m sure we’re all anticipating your next duel with your scheduled opponent.” She looked to the side and called out, “May they step into the arena!”

Igraine felt vindicated as she watched Adelissa Tanwen sprawl Uther on the ground.

***

At the feast that night, Igraine and Gorlois sneaked out not long after it began. They took to the gardens, wandering about ‘till they came upon a stone bench sheltered by rose bushes.

They were in no haste to return, but their goblets were running dry.

“I’ll go refill them,” Gorlois said, and kissed her forehead before he left.

When she heard rustling soon after, she expected to find Gorlois rushing back to ask if she wanted something sweet as well, but instead she found a less welcome sight.

“Are you lost, Lord Merlin?”

“Good evening, Lady Igraine. Excuse me for the intrusion, I was merely out for a breath of fresh air.” He gestured to the stone bench across from her. “May I?”

Igraine nodded, and the sorcerer smiled. People had talked of Lord Merlin and his rapid rise to power; the King liked to keep him close and the court clamored to him, wishing to have their fortune told. They say he was a mere merchant’s son blessed with magic to carve a higher purpose for himself. What they fail to mention is that, even before his birth, the family dressed as lavishly as the nobles they garbed.

Merlin made pleasant remarks about the starry sky and the roses, but Igraine could not shake off the annoyance that prickled at the back of her neck.

Tone light, she said “If you’re here to petition me on behalf of Uther, do not waste your breath. My answer hasn’t changed, and it won’t change no matter what.”

He inclined his head obligingly. “I understand, my lady. Though my King’s heart is broken -”

“I highly doubt it. I do believe I saw him take refuge in the company of more willing ladies.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Ah, but it is merely a balm for his broken heart.”

“You understand that I refused not only because I am betrothed. My heart belongs to Gorlois, but also to my country, to my people. I will soon step up as Queen, and it is a duty I gladly embrace, but one I cannot perform if I am bound to another kingdom.”

“How admirable.”

She suspected that veneer of politeness only concealed his ridicule. Before her patience could run out, Gorlois was back with the cups of wine. He startled when he saw the uninvited visitor.

Merlin got up and gingerly smoothed his clothes. “Once again, pardon me the intrusion. Have a good night, Lady Igraine, Lord Gorlois.”

Once he was away, Gorlois asked, “Was he rude to you?”

“Not overtly,” Igraine said, taking a long sip of her wine. “But I do not want to hear anything about Merlin, or Uther, or the other Camelotians tonight.”

Gorlois smiled. “How about some gossip then?”