Arthur’s heart pounded under the thin sheet of practice armor, but he played it off with a shrug. “Go again,” he insisted, clenching his jaw and raising his weapon, arms trembling. He was a better swordsman than this. He had to be.

Lance shook his head. “No way. Not unless these things are blunted.”

“I’m not going back to wooden practice swords,” said Arthur, making a face at the humiliating thought. They weren’t twelve-year-old pages.

Lance’s eyes lit up. “Hold on, what if you asked the wizard to make us something?”

“Merlin?” Arthur pulled off his helmet. “Can’t you strike him with a sword instead?”

Lancelot let out a hearty laugh. “That poor lad had no clue.”

“Honestly.” Arthur sighed. “Do I look like a librarian?” Off Lance’s grin, “Don’t answer that.”

“Wasn’t going to. Although if you want some advice, I think you should befriend the kid.” Lance lowered his blade and leaned forward on the hilt. “He’s useful, he’s surprisingly entertaining, and you’re stuck with him.”

“Don’t remind me,” Arthur muttered. “Bringing him here was in no way my idea.”

“Exactly. Let your father think he’s won. But show the kid that he should be loyal to you,” Lance advised. “Otherwise, he’s in the perfect position to become your father’s spy.”

Lance was so obviously right. Arthur couldn’t believe he’d missed it earlier.

Tormenting the boy had been a terrible idea, even if it had been amusing, and even if the wizard had been asking for it. Life at court was lonely, and besides the guards and squires, Arthur rarely came across anyone his age other than calculating young noblemen and desperately flirtatious court ladies. So he supposed he could do far worse than show a little kindness to the sarcastic wizard whose family name carried power in his father’s court.

“You make a good point,” said Arthur.

“I have my moments,” Lance acknowledged. He glanced toward the window, where the sky was just beginning to lighten with the first streaks of sunrise. The guard had started to assemble for morning training in the courtyard below.

Lance sighed. “I should get back,” he said without enthusiasm.

It was obvious how much he was hurting, despite his brave face. Almost two years ago, Lady Agravaine had caught Lance in a compromising position with her youngest son, Lord Jereth. The boy had been too cowardly to own the truth about their relationship. Instead, he’d insisted Lance’s attention was unwanted, and things had blown out of proportion.

Assaulting a member of the royal family was a serious crime, and one that needed no trial. Jereth was the king’s cousin, a blood relation, and Lance merely the illegitimate son of a minor knight. It was all Arthur could do to save Lance being stripped of his family name, or worse.