Dakin, the youngest, was all muscle and little brain. According to Lance, he frequently boasted of his outlandish sexual exploits in the guard’s mess, despite spending all of his spare time lifting weights. Then there was gray-haired, battle-hardened Brannor, who, if he’d ever had one, had lost his sense of humor long ago. Arthur hated having an experienced soldier stuck standing outside his bedchamber, and wished he could trade them both for some of the younger, friendlier guards he’d seen around the castle. But, as with most things, his father got his way.

Thankfully, having Lance and Merlin along on the journey was far more enjoyable.

Lance rode alongside him, and the young wizard trailed behind, letting out a steady stream of expletives at his horse. They were all dressed plainly, so as not to attract attention. Not even their saddles bore the stamp of the castle armory. It gave Arthur a thrill, but Lance, without his uniform, looked distinctly uncomfortable, as though he wasn’t sure which role he was expected to play: friend or guard.

The last time they’d traveled together was three years ago, on a visit to Lance’s family home, just before his half brother Sir Hector had inherited the estate. They’d been two young nobles then, both with disapproving fathers, both with a penchant for finding trouble and a knack for pretending trouble had found them first, both on the cusp of choosing their own paths: Arthur a scholar, and Lance a knight.

Funny the difference a few years could make.

Behind them, the wizard let out a particularly colorful swear, and Lance grinned, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Merlin clearly had little experience riding. He kept jerking the reins and muttering foul curses, and if it wasn’t so entertaining to see the lad fail at something, Arthur might have advised him to use a softer grip.

Except it was entertaining, which meant he wasn’t saying a word.

“Hey, wizard!” Lance called over his shoulder. “Are you trying to choke your horse?”

“He’s plotting against me,” Merlin insisted.

Arthur bit back a snicker. He’d chosen the mounts himself. They were slim gray palfreys, bred for their smooth gait and ability to cover great distances. The most manageable and docile beasts in the royal stables. “I thought every country lad could ride a horse,” he said.

Hadn’t the boy grown up on his family’s estate? Or perhaps not, he realized, taking in the wizard’s plain, worn clothing. Even so, Merlin was acting as though he’d never sat astride a saddle.

“I’m from a town, not a country farm,” Merlin retorted, lifting his chin. “Until a few weeks ago, I was a member of the Lord Brocelande’s Men.”

“You belonged to a theater troupe?” Arthur said, recognizing the name. “You never mentioned that.”

What an odd place for a wizard. But then, nothing about Merlin was as he’d expected.