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At first, Lancelot mistakes it for a commentary on his heritage when one of the ladies of the court eyes him appraisingly and asks, "Now that you are come to court, perhaps you would care to retire, my lord, to bathe and refresh yourself?"
After all, everyone knows that Sir Lancelot is the knight whose blood was not good enough to serve Uther — whose presence among the ranks of Arthur's followers is as much a political statement about the New Camelot as any reflection on his own skills.
Not wishing to give offence, Lancelot only says, "you are most kind," and makes his way over to stand with the King, the Queen, and the newly minted Court Sorcerer, who all smile warmly in welcome.
The next day a maidservant trips and spills a bucketful of water on Lancelot with great precision. He inclines his head politely to her and pretends not to hear the feminine giggles that follow him back into the castle.
When Arthur claps him on the arm after practice and says, "Let's get out of these clothes, my friend. We smell worse than Merlin that time he fell asleep in the stables — did I ever tell you about that?" Lancelot thinks nothing of it. They are both quite ripe from their exertions and from Arthur, at least, Lancelot has never been made to feel the less for his original station in life.
It's a bit much, though, when Sir Gawain suggests the same thing as they both lean up against the fence of the training grounds, observing the trials of the new recruits, for neither of them has so much as lifted his own sword yet that day. In the interests of fellowship, Lancelot merely shrugs it off and moves to help Arthur in demonstrating a difficult move.
By the fifth time one of the knights suggests this, however, Lancelot can barely bring himself to acknowledge the statment with a curt nod, as he hands off the kitten he has rescued from a low-hanging tree branch, and betakes himself back to the castle in aggrieved silence.
His head down, he is about to duck into a doorway to avoid a servant en route to his chambers when he recognizes the servant as none other than the Queen, who has never wished to change practical clothes for finery outside of the most important state occasions. The tension drains instantly away from him and he stops to give her a wide and open smile, glad to confide in someone who will understand the difficulty of taking on a role one was not born for. However, even as he explains his grievance to her, he notices that her eyes are continually being drawn away from his face, towards his neck and shoulders, where his shirt lies open.
As his explanation comes to a halt, Gwen breathes out quietly, "Perhaps they have the right idea, Sir Lancelot. We really should get you out of those clothes and into some water."
A moment later she snaps out of her reverie and exclaims, "Not that I think you're filthy! I mean, dirty! I mean, it's not as if you have mud all over your face. I mean—"
"Oh dear," says Gwen, as Lancelot stalks off in a cloud of wounded dignity.
King Arthur appears later in Lancelot's chambers, saying that he brings an apology from the Queen, but peters off mid-way to look speculatively between Lancelot and the pitcher of water resting beside him on the table. Lancelot thanks him for his concern, assures him that he bears the Queen no ill will, and mentions a desire to perform his ablutions in private.
Arthur shoots a faintly disappointed look over his shoulder as he leaves and Lancelot does his best not to retort that he is quite capable of washing himself, whatever the snobbish court of Camelot — or its King and Queen — may think.
It continues for weeks, although from the slightly less overt nature of the incidents, Lancelot supposes that either King or Queen must have issued a royal edict not to discuss personal hygiene with Sir Lancelot du Lac. The evidence of their support should improve the situation, but that he no longer feels he can trust in the integrity of that support.
In the end, he goes to the only person left in Camelot whose faith in him and his worthiness to serve as a knight has never wavered.
"Merlin, my good friend," he says regretfully, "I fear I can no longer remain at Camelot. It seems I still have too much to prove — I shall make my way alone once more in the world, until the court of Camelot is ready to accept me as a worthy knight to the King."
Lancelot's heart warms to hear the heartfelt shock and sorrow of Merlin's objections, but at last he lays a finger upon Merlin's lips, begging him not to argue.
"Much as my love of your friendship would keep me here, I cannot endure one more comment from the people of this court about wanting to see me washed, emersed, sodden, drowned, and drenched in water. I do not bathe for their pleasure."
Merlin chokes a little.
"Is that, uh — is that all it is? Because, well, obviously it's not, well, it's not as if they have any right, but if it were between you and me, I can't say that I'd mind—"
"Merlin! Of all the people! You! Who were my first friend here at Camelot..."
Merlin blushes bright, bright red.
"...to think that even you would judge me," Lancelot continues, relieved to be venting his frustration at last, "for not fitting these ridiculous, hypocritical standards of the court. Truly, I think none of you will ever be satisfied to look upon me as a noble of the court, for there is clearly no lavender water potent enough — though I wash with it many times every day — nor clothes pristine enough — though I change my garments almost hourly — to please any of you!"
Despite feeling that he could continue in this vein for much longer, Lancelot finally draws to a halt at Merlin's effusive gestures and the choking noises he has begun to emit.
"Uh, Lancelot," Merlin manages, at last, when given the chance to speak. "I don't think you quite understand what I mean by, what we mean about the water. And the bathing. That is to say, you do remember that day when you first rode into Camelot...?"
"When I had saved your life in the forest, you mean?"
"Uh, no, I mean, just recently. You know — well, once Arthur was king—"
"—it was one of the proudest moments of my life," Lancelot says mournfully. "To think that it has come to this!"
"Right, well, it's just — you remember how it was raining at the time?"
"I took no notice of the weather. I was warmed by my zeal for noble service."
"Yeah, of course. It's just — well, I think you were the only one. Who didn't notice, I mean. Um. There was the rain, and the way... you were wearing this white shirt, you see, and most of Camelot saw you..."
Merlin trails off at the blank expression on Lancelot's face, sighs, and steps out into the other room. Lancelot waits, bewildered and somewhat impatient, as he hears a series of noises — the banging of a trunk, the clank of metal, then finally, oddly, a rush of water — before Merlin finally emerges.
Lancelot's eye is drawn immediately and inexorably to the path of a rivulet of water that makes its way from Merlin's hair, to his neck, down to his shirt... to where the white fabric, rendered transparent by its recent drenching, has plastered itself against Merlin's skin, his collar bone, his chest, his nipples...
Lancelot feels his face heat with sudden embarrassment and understanding.
"So, what you're saying is that all of Camelot..."
Merlin nods.
"There is a reason they call you the finest knight in all the realm."
Lancelot gulps.
"I always thought they were referring to my skill with a blade."
"That too," Merlin says with a slow and meaningful smile. "Now, I know there's another pitcher of water around here somewhere, if you still need me to explain anything about court etiquette to you."
Lancelot grins back at him.
They both get very wet indeed that day, and Lancelot finds it no burden to remain at Camelot after that. So long as he takes care to cool himself frequently by drenching himself with water while on the practice field, his position as the most popular knight of Camelot is assured.