by K. M. Shea
“It won’t,” Sir Ywain said. He hesitated and asked with a voice painfully raw with hope. “Then I am forgiven?”
“Of course. You’re one of my closest knights, Ywain. I trust you,” Britt said, offering him a smile.
Ywain inhaled deeply and nodded, the light of his eyes softening.
“We had best decide who else is to be included in this company of yours. We cannot leave Camelot undefended, and all will clamor to go,” Merlin said.
Britt stared at the roughly 120 chairs gathered around the Round Table, remembering the men who sat there. “Sure. Merlin, that empty spot near mine,” Britt said, pointing to a chair.
It had opened up some months ago when the knights first started questing. Many of the knights the incompetent King Leodegrance had sent had slowly returned to Camelgrance over the past year. The men were “honorably” released as they claimed their own lands and dominions needed them, but in reality it was that these knights—used to an inactive king and an equally inactive life—were not happy with the questing and rigorous practicing Britt and the Round Table encouraged. As such, chairs and spots had opened up, and some of the knights rearranged themselves.
“Ah, yes. The seedy Sir Vaince used to sit there—he was one of King Leodegrance’s closest knights. Probably left after spying on you long enough to learn you weren’t going to marry Guinevere. What of it?”
“Are you saving it for Sir Mordred?”
Merlin rubbed his chin. “Not particularly.”
“I don’t know what to do about him,” Britt said.
Merlin scowled. “Why? I thought the two of you would become instant companions of the heart.”
“Why?” Sir Ector asked.
“When I inquired after his parentage so I would know what degree of care I should afford him, he refused to answer.”
“Why?” Sir Ector repeated, baffled.
“Said he wanted to be respected for his own merits and conduct, not his lineage,” Merlin said, sounding disgusted. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say he is a spy who has studied you closely, lass.”
Britt tried to laugh, but it fell flat. She was conflicted over Mordred. She vaguely remembered his name from the tirades that Lyssa, one of her lost modern-day friends, used to go off on. Mordred was no friend to King Arthur, but she couldn’t recall much beyond that. She had always saved her hatred for the scumbag Sir Lancelot and the adulterous Guinevere.
Even more thought-provoking, Merlin was right. Mordred was Britt’s perfect vision of a Knight of Camelot. Still, Britt wasn’t certain how close she wanted to bring him, and Merlin agreed that until he joined the Round Table, he was to remain ignorant of her gender.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Yes?” Britt shouted.
Sir Ulfius—her chamberlain and one of Merlin’s companions—stepped inside. “My Lord, there are a few decisions that must be made for tomorrow’s tournament—like the champion’s boon, the distance for the archery targets, and so forth.”
“Right.” She sighed. “Come in, Sir Ulfius, and take a seat. But Merlin, don’t think I’ve forgotten. After the tournament, I want to organize a company to go to that marble block.”
“It was a fountain, lass,” Merlin said.
“I refuse to call it that,” she said.
“Of course you would,” Merlin grunted. “I shall begin drawing up the plans. Good evening, Britt.”
“‘Night, Merlin.”
CHAPTER 2
The Tournament
King Arthur is a legendary British king and hero. His historical existence and role is widely debated, but he is said to have been crowned at age 15 on the day of Pentecost. The day of his crowning ceremony, he selected Merlin as his counselor, Sir Ulfius as his chamberlain, Sir Bodwain as his constable, his foster brother Sir Kay as seneschal, and Sir Bedivere as marshal.
“I know! But what about Mordred?” Britt murmured as she poured over her Britain Travel Guide—one of the very few mementos she had left from her twenty-first century life.
…The only story as famous, or perhaps even more famous, than Arthur is the romantic relationship between Guinevere and Sir Lancelot—Arthur’s best knight. It is said that Guinevere’s affair with Lancelot destroyed Camelot and King Arthur’s Court.
“Somewhere in this book, Mordred’s historical significance must be referenced.” She grumbled as she flipped to the back to peruse the index, again. She missed Google. And smart phones. She glanced up from the book and shifted in her seat—a cushioned chair positioned under a red tent. The comfy chair and the tent were thoughtful gestures, but they were positioned not for her comfort, but to keep her out of the way as the grounds swarmed with people making last-minute adjustments for the tournament.
Ill at ease, Britt stared out at the knights in shining armor accented with their colors. They led their prancing chargers, and their squires trailed behind them. Commoners were already claiming patches of grass to sit on, and court ladies filed into rows of chairs.
“Is everything well, My Lord?”
Surprised by the voice, Britt set her guidebook aside and smiled. “Sir Bedivere, what a pleasant surprise. Yes, I’m fine. I was merely thinking.”
Sir Bedivere nodded, though his expression was not convinced. “Is there anything I can do to aid you?”
Britt stood and adjusted her gold-leafed curiass—which covered her chest. “Maybe…tell me, what do you think of Sir Mordred?”
“Mordred?” Sir Bedivere’s eyebrows went up in surprise.
Britt nodded.
Sir Bedivere turned to look out of the tent, his eyes settling on the young knight.
Mordred was a comely young man with coffee-colored hair that was closely cropped to his head—an oddity in Britt’s courts. He had deep dimples that made him absolutely charming when he smiled, and his facial structure was almost fine enough to rival Lancelot. His eyes, just like Lancelot’s, were even green. However, while Lancelot’s had a dreamy look to them, Mordred’s were dark, and glittered with chips the color of obsidian.
“He’s not quite like anyone in Camelot,” Sir Bedivere said.
“He is not passionate and brash—like Griflet and Ywain—nor does he sport a perpetual good mood—like Sir Tor. He hasn’t Sir Bodwain’s wisdom, Kay’s seriousness, Gawain’s quiet thoughtfulness, or your loyalty,” Britt said, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her marshal.
“Your words are too kind, My Lord,” Sir Bedivere said.
“I am no flatterer, Sir Bedivere. I call it as I see it. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to call Mordred.”
“You will,” Sir Bedivere said. “No one can hide from you very long.”
Her lips curved into a small smile, and she retreated deeper into her tent. “I’m not so sure about that, but I apologize. Did you need me?”
Sir Bedivere trailed after her. “Yes, I wish to inform you of something.”
“Oh?”
“One of your knights left in the middle of the night.”
“Was it Lancelot—please let it be Lancelot.” Britt twisted to look out at the tournament grounds again.
“Nay, Sir Lancelot is still present. He is preparing for the tournament as we speak.”
Britt sighed and poured herself a tankard of water. “Just my luck.”
“Don’t you care who it is?”
She threw herself in her cushioned chair. “If it’s not Lancelot, then not particularly. Almost all my other favorite knights are gone questing, or they are tied to their jobs here in Camelot, so it can’t be them.”
“I do not think you are recalling all of your closest knights.”
Britt ran her free hand through her blonde hair—the top half of which was pulled back in a “manly” half-pony tail and tied off with a leather chord. “Really? Who am I forgetting?”
“Sir Ywain.”
“Ywain—I should have known he would run off after that knight and fake fountain.” Britt sighed.
“Are you angry?”
&
nbsp; “No, but I am disappointed.”
“In his conduct?”
“Not at all. It’s just that without him, I don’t have a buffer for Lancelot,” Britt wryly said.
Sir Bedivere coughed to cover a snort.
Britt sipped her water. “It’s selfish of me, I know.”
“No, I believe I can understand your feelings. The past few weeks, Sir Lancelot has been especially…vocal.”
“He’s been a royal pain, braying all sorts of stupid declarations at the top of his lungs. I’m surprised Merlin hasn’t lectured him yet.”
“He has.”
“And I missed it?”
“I believe Merlin conducted the chastisements in secret for that very purpose.”
“Blast. Well, no harm is done by Ywain leaving. With luck, I’ll still be able to talk Merlin into taking a company to the fake-fountain. Although I’m truly sorry he’s going to miss entering the tournament. I thought he would stand a chance at winning the jousting portion.”
“There will be more tournaments in the future.”
“I guess.”
“If you’ll excuse me, My Lord.” Sir Bedivere bowed and left the tent.
Britt watched him go, feeling a little lightened. Sir Bedivere had been quite stiff for days after Britt’s reveal. As one of her most loyal—and emotionally invested—knights, he felt particularly betrayed by Britt’s secret. His slight emotional thaw encouraged her.
“My Lord—you-hoo! King Arthur!” Guinevere called, cupping her hands around her mouth. When she caught Britt’s attention, she waved and motioned for her to join her at the royal stand.
“The tournament is ready to begin—are you really certain I can sit with you?” she anxiously asked when Britt joined her on the platform—which also had a canopy pitched over it to shade Britt’s makeshift throne, as well as Guinevere’s and Merlin’s chairs.
“Yes, of course,” Britt smiled at the younger girl. Guinevere was the daughter of King Leodegrance and was a semi-permanent guest at Camelot. When Britt visited Camelgrance—her father’s castle—Guinevere had begged Britt to allow her to go to Camelot with her in order to escape her father—who was not unkind, but planned to use Guinevere’s marriage as a bargaining tool and would not hesitate to tie her to a less-than-savory character.
Her presence was beneficial for both of them. As long as Guinevere was rumored to be Britt’s—Arthur’s—favorite, her father wouldn’t dream of bringing her home; and as long as Guinevere—who knew Britt’s real gender—sat at Britt’s sides for events like today’s tournament, women were much less pushy and flirtatious with Britt.
“Any knights in particular you are cheering for?” Britt asked.
“Sir Lancelot—of course—and Sir Percival. Sir Agravain got back early this morning, and he intends to fight as well. He won’t be as impressive as his brother, of course, but few can beat Sir Gawain,” the young lady rattled off.
“He’s been a knight for two weeks; I should think Gawain wouldn’t be trounced by such a green knight,” Britt said.
“I suppose so,” Guinevere shrugged. “There’s also Sir Lionel—he is such fun…”
Guinevere chattered on until the knights gathered for the tournament opening. “I would cheer the most for you if you were fighting,” she finished. Although loyalty was not a trait Guinevere often possessed, Britt had been surprised on more than one occasion with her faithfulness.
“Thank you,” Britt said, thinking—with some guilt—of all the times she complained to Merlin about hosting the bird-brained (but kind) girl.
Merlin climbed onto the dais. “Arthur, it’s time.”
Guinevere bobbed a curtsy and scampered to her chair.
“Any idea what I should say?” Britt asked as she and Merlin walked to the edge of the platform.
“Good luck, and don’t kill each other,” Merlin said, squinting out at the crowds. “Bloody-minded ruffians.”
“You were the one who suggested a tournament.”
“It is a good way to judge the skills of your men yourself, so you are not forced to rely on their assurances. That doesn’t mean it is at all refined,” Merlin said. “Besides, they have long desired this, and you need to boost their opinion of you as much as possible right now.”
Britt shook her head at her advisor and turned to her knights, her courts, and her people. “Thank you for attending this joyous occasion. It is a day worth remembering, for these courageous, honorable knights who stand before us shall do battle to find the man who is the most skilled and the most capable—the best knight in all of Camelot!”
The spectators cheered and clapped, drowning Britt out.
She waited until the noise subsided before directly addressing her knights. “You have worked hard for today, and I am eager to see how the sweat and blood you have shed have shaped and prepared you. No matter the outcome of today’s tournament, I am proud to call you my knights and to have you stand at my side! Good luck—may the best knight win!”
The crowds roared again, and the knights bowed to Britt from horseback. Britt smiled, but it was a shallow, fragile gesture. Usually her knights would be overflowing with mirth and joy, but there was still that strained air…
It’s been only a few weeks. I need to give them more time. Things will get better, I hope.
Britt held her fist above her head and moved to take her seat.
“You still have it, even after all your trials,” Merlin said.
“What?” Britt twitched her chair a smidge before sitting down.
Merlin smirked. “The charisma and pretty words charming enough to make a lion eat from your hand.”
“Of course. What, with all the practice I’ve been getting, did you actually think I would get worse?”
“You get worse? Never. So, Lady Guinevere, King Arthur. Who do you hope will win?”
CHAPTER 3
The Queen’s Champion
The tournament lasted for hours. There were jousting matches, archery competitions, sword battles, and more.
Colors, coat of arms, and personal symbols paraded past Britt and her dais as the matches progressed. Predictably, Lancelot was at the front of the pack, although Sir Mordred—in a surprise move—trailed closely behind him.
“‘Tis a pity Sir Lanval is too injured to fight,” Guinevere sighed in longing. “He is ever so handsome.”
“Yes, although I am more regretful that Sir Kay nor Sir Bodwain were allowed to enter,” Britt said.
“For the last time: you, nor any of your men—like Sir Ulfius and Sir Bedivere—can enter. The point of the tournament is to find the best knight, not the best vassal,” Merlin said.
“Sir Kay is an excellent knight.”
“Sir Kay is your seneschal and does not go questing and adventuring as your knights do. And you cannot fool me; the only reason you wanted Kay or Bodwain to enter is because they would be guaranteed to beat Lancelot in jousting.”
Britt grew misty-eyed. “It would have been a glorious thing, to watch one of them tossing Lancelot from his horse like a ragdoll.”
“You are just as savage as the rest of your subjects,” Merlin muttered.
“I think they are about to begin the last match. Only the brave Sir Lancelot and Sir Mordred remain.” Guinevere leaned forward in glee. “Look how Sir Lancelot’s clear brow gleams in the sun.”
“Because he’s sweating,” Britt said.
Guinevere heaved a sappy sigh. “It’s so heroic.”
Britt was admittedly out of touch with girl-talk—her closest female friends in this time period was the mouthy Lady of the Lake, Nymue, and the war-like enchantress, Morgan. Neither of them took the time to notice Britt’s knights, much less admire them, but Britt couldn’t help but think how bizarre medieval girl-talk was. “Unless, was it always this silly, and I just never noticed?” she muttered as Lancelot—in silver and blue—and Mordred—in black and red—directed their horses to opposite ends of the jousting field.
A herald blew a hor
n, and the men spurred their horses, driving them forward in a flood of blue and a storm of black. There was a massive crack when they met, but both men stayed in the saddle.
Britt winced in sympathy for Mordred. Lancelot had once unhorsed her with a bone-crunching blow. Mordred had to have a significant amount of strength to ride out the blow and return for a second pass.
The crowd murmured with excitement as the knights lined up at opposite ends of the jousting field, again. The herald sounded his horn a second time, and the horses burst forward. When they met this time, there was a tremendous crack as Lancelot’s lance shattered.
The men returned to their posts, and a squire ran out to deliver a new weapon to Lancelot. The young, charismatic knight flipped up his the visor of his helm to smile at the squire. He took a moment to wave to his supporters—drawing cheers—then flipped his visor back down. In the split second before his face disappeared, Britt could have sworn she saw him frown.
“He’s actually taking this seriously,” Britt said.
“Who, Lancelot? Of course he is. He wouldn’t miss the chance to be titled the best knight of Camelot for all the riches in your courts,” Merlin said.
Guinevere twisted the end of her braid. “Sir Lancelot du Lac is serious in all of his ventures.”
Britt was unconvinced. She had never before seen the knight wear a look of such grim determination. “What is he up to?”
She didn’t wonder long, for the knights spurred their horses forward into another run. There was the familiar crack of the lances hitting shields, and Mordred was thrown from his black steed.
The crowd roared.
“Brave Sir Lancelot!”
“The Greatest Knight of Camelot!”
“Hurrah for Sir Lancelot!”
The field monitors ran to Mordred to see if he was still alive, but he was already peeling himself off the ground. He pulled his helm off and smiled, wincing a bit when a young page helped him stand.
“Well fought, Sir Lancelot. It was an honor to cross lances with you. You, indeed, are the best,” he said, bowing.
Lancelot wrenched his helm off. “You have such valiance, Sir Mordred. The honor was all mine,” he said before undoing the humbleness of his words by riding up and down the field with his right arm raised, gathering cheers and squeals.