Endeavor (King Arthur and Her Knights Book 6)

by K. M. Shea

  Endeavor

  Book 6 of King Arthur and Her Knights

  By: K. M. Shea

  a Take Out The Trash! Publication

  Copyright © K.M. Shea 2015

  ENDEAVOR

  Copyright © 2015 by K. M. Shea

  Cover design by Myrrhlynn

  Edited by Jeri Larsen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any number whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  www.kmshea.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: A Magic Fountain?

  Chapter 2: The Tournament

  Chapter 3: The Queen’s Champion

  Chapter 4: Reassurances & Arrivals

  Chapter 5: True Colors

  Chapter 6: The Holy Shield

  Chapter 7: Sir Lancelot’s Deeds

  Chapter 8: Sir Ywain’s Fate

  Chapter 9: The Talk

  Chapter 10: A Storm of Feelings

  Characters

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  A Magic Fountain?

  “We should muster your armies.”

  Britt frowned and looked to Merlin—her sharp-minded advisor. “What?”

  “We should muster your armies,” the handsome man repeated. He leaned against the Round Table, his arms folded across his chest, and watched Ywain throw Cavall’s beanbag.

  “I heard you the first time,” Britt said, watching her apricot-colored mastiff pad around the table to get the beanbag. “What I meant was what do we need the armies for?”

  “Ah. You really should have stated your entire question, if that is the case.”

  Britt leaned back in her chair. “Merlin, stop dancing around the subject and tell me.”

  Merlin’s pale blonde hair looked more colorful in the orange glow of the crackling torches, but his handsome face was devoid of expression. “It is time we look to expand your kingdom into Ireland.”

  “No,” Britt said.

  Merlin sighed. “At least think it over before giving your refusal.”

  “I don’t have to think over it, because there isn’t one good reason in this ancient world to attack Ireland. They haven’t attacked us—they don’t even plot against us. If you were suggesting we finally tweak that weasel King Ryence, I might consider it; but until we face a direct threat, I will not ask my knights and subjects to throw away their lives for me—for your desire of a unified Britain.”

  “There is a threat,” Merlin said.

  “You’ve mentioned Rome, but they have yet to make a move of any kind,” Britt objected.

  “That’s because they are planners—like us.”

  Britt tucked her chin, prepared to argue, when Sir Ector—her foster father—spoke. “He’s right, Britt.” His stout belly jiggled, and his eyes glowed with the simple pleasure of openly calling Britt by her real name. Only a few weeks ago, Sir Ector had no choice but to call her by her alias: King Arthur.

  Britt was an American girl from the twenty-first century. When touring England with friends, an ancient magic pulled her through time, plopping her in medieval London where Merlin explained that the real Arthur had run off with a shepherdess, and Britt was going to be the replacement. Her gender was a carefully guarded secret for over two years until a few short weeks ago when she had been accidentally outed by the less-than-chivalrous actions of her least-favorite knight, Sir Lancelot du Lac.

  “What is Merlin right about, Father?” Britt asked, her lips curling into an indulgent smile. She loved all of her knights (well, except Lancelot), but Sir Ector and Sir Kay were special. They had taken up the role of her family when her life had been abruptly wrenched from her.

  “Rome is a terrible threat,” Sir Ector said. “And with all your best knights out questing with your blessing, it’s risky not to prepare.”

  “Not all of My Lord’s best knights are out questing,” Sir Ywain objected. He had grown again—in the shoulders and arms this time—and moved more like a noble lion than the spider-limbed youth he had been when Britt first met him. The young knight glanced at Britt before bowing in reverence to her. “I beg your pardon, My Lord. I did not mean to presume.”

  The realization that Britt—Arthur—was female had shaken the confidence of the knights of Camelot. They had accepted her and reaffirmed their vows to her, but things were still…tense. The close sense of camaraderie was gone, but both Britt and her knights were trying to bridge this new gap.

  “Ywain is right. To say all her best knights are out is dramatic,” Merlin said. “Sir Lancelot remains here, after all.”

  “Lancelot doesn’t count,” Britt snarled. She smoothed her face and smiled in Ywain’s direction. “But Ywain is right. All of those present in this room are among the greatest of my knights.”

  Ywain smiled shyly and busied himself with petting Cavall to hide his blush.

  Merlin openly rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust.

  “We’re honored by your words, My Lord,” Sir Ector said.

  Sir Kay, paging through a logbook next to his father, paused in his work to bow to Britt in acknowledgement.

  Britt shook her finger at her foster-father. “Britt.”

  Sir Ector smiled again and stroked his bushy beard. “As you wish, Britt. Though I’m afraid I must ask you for a boon.”

  “What is it?” Britt asked, leaning forward in her chair with interest.

  “I wish for your permission to return home for a lengthy time.”

  “Of course,” Britt said, disappointed the request wasn’t something grander. As Sir Ector held the lands of Bonmaison, he often left her courts to check on his holdings—and his much beloved wife.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” Sir Ector said, bowing.

  “How long will you be gone?” Merlin asked before Britt could launch an argument over her title.

  “The rest of the summer at least, possibly the fall—unless you call for my return sooner, of course,” Sir Ector said.

  Britt tapped her fingers on the Round Table—which was a misleading name as it was more oval and was pieced together like a train track. Sir Ector had never been gone so long before. “Is everything well with Bonmaison?”

  “Of course, of course!” Sir Ector laughed, making his belly jiggle. “It is only that I have been gone so long, and I miss my lands.”

  “I see.” Britt’s heart twisted oddly in her chest. She could sympathize with Sir Ector, as she had been torn from her home and family to live in medieval England, but she was still sad to know that he would be gone for so long. Britt shook her head to rid herself of the selfish thought. “Enjoy your return home. You won’t leave until after tomorrow’s tournament, won’t you?”

  “Aye,” Sir Ector said. “I wouldn’t miss your first tournament for all the riches in England!”

  “It’s not my tournament,” Britt said, shooting Merlin a glare. “I can’t even enter it.”

  Any reply Merlin would have made was cut off when someone banged on the large doors.

  “Who would want to see me at this hour?” Britt wondered. She started to stand, but Ywain was already halfway to the door.

  Merlin frowned. “It must be trouble.”

  Ywain hauled a door open to reveal Sir Tor.

  “Oh, good. I thought you might be here,” Sir Tor said, his usual good nature was a little subdued. “There’s a knight here to see you, My Lord.”

  Out of all the knights of Camelot, Si
r Gawain and Sir Tor were the most at ease with Britt’s gender reveal. Gawain wasn’t much of a shock—he had known all along Britt was a girl and kept his silence—but Tor’s quick acceptance was a testimony of his good nature rather than a show of the esteem in which he held her.

  “Who is it?” Britt asked, pushing back from the Round Table.

  “Sir Lanval,” Sir Tor said, stepping aside.

  The knight—younger than Britt but older than Ywain and Gawain—stiffly entered the room. The normally handsome knight—who was a member of the Order of the Round Table—looked haggard and pale. His torso and right shoulder was swaddled in bandages that were rust-red with dried blood, and he walked with a limp.

  “What happened, fair knight? Who did this to you?” Ywain gaped.

  “Never mind that.” Britt hurried to her wounded knight. “Call for a medic, er, healer. Send a servant to fetch new bandages—and hot water.”

  Sir Tor bowed. “As you wish, My Lord.”

  “Thank you, Sir Tor,” Britt said, distracted as she studied the wounded knight. “Sword thrust to the shoulder?”

  Sir Lanval inhaled slowly. “Yes.”

  “And the belly wound?” Britt asked with less worry. The fact that he could stand and walk assured her—it meant the belly-blow must not have pierced deeply—a fortunate thing as abdomen and belly wounds were the worst.

  “A glancing blow,” Sir Lanval said.

  Britt frowned and leaned closer to look at his wrapped shoulder. “How did he get through your armor?”

  “I wasn’t wearing any, My Lord.”

  “What?”

  Sir Lanval’s face was downcast. “It was an unexpected encounter.”

  “Sir Lanval,” Britt said.

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  Britt sighed when he wouldn’t meet her eyes—a common occurrence since her big reveal. “Come, sit down. Standing around isn’t going to do your injuries any favors,” she said, leading the way back to the table.

  Sir Lanval mulishly took up his assigned seat at the table, letting Britt, Sir Ector, Sir Ywain, and Merlin crowd around him. Sir Kay hung back and, to all appearances, took notes.

  “Why have you come before the King, Sir Lanval?” Merlin asked, tilting his head back.

  “Because of my strange encounter with the man who gave me these.” Sir Lanval motioned to his wounds with his good arm.

  “Who did it? Where were you?” Ywain—always eager for an adventure—drew closer to the knight.

  “I was riding in the Forest of Arroy, searching for a new adventure or quest to set out upon, when I came across a magical fountain,” Sir Lanval started. “I stopped to drink from it when a knight who called himself Sir Esclados the Red attacked me. He said he was the lord of a nearby castle and the protector of the spring.”

  “Spring?” Britt asked. “I thought you said it was a magical fountain.”

  “It is,” Sir Lanval said, his eyes still downcast.

  “But you just called it a spring.”

  “I did.”

  Britt looked to Merlin. “I don’t understand. Does fountain mean something different, here?”

  “Describe the fountain, Sir Lanval,” Merlin instructed.

  “It is a clear spring, and beside it stands a large block of marble and a gold basin.”

  “In what way is that supposed to be a fountain?” Britt grumbled. She sat down in one of the chairs next to Sir Lanval and petted Cavall when the mastiff placed his giant head on her lap.

  “The knight said he guarded the fountain because if someone poured water on the marble, a fierce storm would suddenly break out,” Sir Lanval continued. “He feared I was there to do just that, and attacked me, driving me from his lands.”

  “If he was so concerned about someone pouring water on the marble, why doesn’t he remove the gold basin?” Britt asked.

  “Hush,” Merlin ordered.

  “It’s a fair question,” Britt argued. “After all, how often do you go pouring water on chunks of marble?”

  Merlin glared at Britt and pointedly turned his attention back to Sir Lanval.

  “Well. I think it is a good point,” Britt muttered, caressing Cavall’s ears. When she looked up, she found Sir Ywain watching her.

  “There is not much else to tell,” Sir Lanval said, wincing when he tried to lift his injured arm. “Though I do not enjoy admitting my shameful defeat, I thought it would be wisest to inform you, My Lord, so you would know such a device exists.”

  Britt set aside her attitude to give the knight a smile. “You have my thanks, Sir Lanval, for bringing your knowledge forward. It is certainly a strange tale.”

  Sir Lanval still did not look up.

  “What shall you do about it, Arthur?” Sir Ector asked, returning to her alias out of habit.

  Britt shifted her eyes to the wizard. “Merlin?”

  “We must address it. If such an artifact can be moved, it may be troublesome in the future.”

  “I agree,” Britt said.

  Merlin drew back in shock. “You do?”

  She nodded. “At the very least, this Sir Esclados must be taught he cannot attack an unarmed man who has done him no harm.”

  Sir Lanval shook his head. “‘Tis my shame that I lost, My Lord. I brought dishonor upon you by losing. As a knight of the Round Table, I am expected to be better.”

  “There is no shame in losing, Sir Lanval,” Britt said.

  Sir Lanval tucked his chin.

  Britt stifled a sigh. “Look at me,” she told the young man. She was shocked when he complied, raising his eyes to meet her gaze. “I have lost more jousting matches to Sir Bodwain and Sir Kay than I can count. Does that make me ignoble?”

  “Of course not, My Lord.” Sir Lanval’s lips morphed into a sharp frown.

  “Winning all your fights is great and wonderful, but there will always be a knight who can match you in one area or another. It is not losing that brings shame, but how you react to it. Did you happen to stab Sir Esclados in the shoulder when he had his back to you?”

  “Sir Lancelot has apologized for that—numerous times,” Merlin reminded Britt.

  “Did you?” Britt repeated, ignoring the wizard.

  “No, My Lord.”

  “Then you did well, and you can be proud. If you learn from your fights—the ones you win and lose—I can ask for nothing more. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Sir Lanval said.

  Britt smiled in delight and reached out to clasp Sir Lanval on his (good) shoulder—a move she had performed a thousand times before while under the guise of King Arthur. It was the only manly expression of affection she could come up with. “You are a good knight, Sir Lanval.”

  Sir Lanval swallowed and gave Britt a shaky smile. He paled a little when he looked past Britt and saw Sir Kay staring at him.

  Moments later, two manservants and a woman who carried a basket of herbs bustled into the room.

  “Ah, here is your help, I believe, Sir Lanval.” Merlin gestured to the servants. “I imagine you wish for them to attend to you in your chamber?”

  “Yes,” Sir Lanval said, standing with some assistance from Sir Ector. “Thank you, My Lord.” He bowed once (as best he could) to Britt, nodded to the rest of the knights, and followed the servants out of the room. One of the servants closed the door behind them, breaking the silence.

  “My Lord!” Ywain said, his voice echoing loudly in the large chamber. “I ask your permission to avenge Sir Lanval and seek out this magical fountain.”

  Britt shifted in her chair and thought for a moment. “No.”

  Ywain looked crestfallen. “But Sir Esclados must be corrected!”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “Then why shouldn’t I go? You don’t trust me, is that it?”

  “I trust you a great deal, Ywain,” she said.

  “It is because you think I’m not skilled enough.”

  Britt patted Cavall. “You have trained hard these past two years. You are qu
ite skilled.”

  “Then why? You cannot keep me tied—you might be a woman, but you are not my mother!” the moment Ywain shouted these words his eyes bulged, and he almost strangled himself when he clasped his hands around his own throat.

  The room was silent. Not even Merlin moved as they awaited Britt’s reaction like the silence before a storm.

  Britt took a moment to close her eyes and settle her emotions. As hurtful as her knights’ outbursts—that, like this one, threw her gender in her face and their assumption that it made her weaker—were…she needed to bear it. For now. She was still winning her knights back after betraying their trust with her lies. She probably deserved the occasional comment.

  “A thousand apologies, My Lord.” Ywain’s voice was tight as he bowed low. “That was reprehensible of me. I am shamed, and I have no excuse.”

  “My reason for you to not go, Sir Ywain, which you did not give me the chance to explain, is that a company of knights shall go to this Sir Esclados,” Britt said. “I suspected you would want to go, and I planned to include you in their ranks.”

  Ywain did not move from his deep bow.

  Merlin narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “Why a company of knights?”

  “For several reasons. First of all, because of your point. If the marble block can be moved, we should bring it back—a task that is impossible for a lone knight,” she said.

  “Well thought. But a dozen knights could easily accomplish this. Why a company?”

  “Because I will not send my knights and subjects to war. If you so badly want them to see action, then I will handle their activities myself.”

  “Taking your knights out on this excursion will only delay the inevitable,” Merlin warned her.

  “Perhaps, but it will give me more time to think. Ywain—please, stand up straight. I’m not angry.”

  “Yes, you are,” Ywain said, his face red from all the blood rushing to it.

  “Maybe a little, but I’m not that angry,” Britt assured the young knight. “We’re still settling in. There’re going to be some tense moments. Although, if this becomes a habit—”