by K. M. Shea
“Sir Lancelot!”
“Knight of the Lac!”
“Peerless among knights!”
As Lancelot’s win was not unexpected, Britt had spent hours preparing herself so she could smile at the knight she detested. Watching him, she was glad she had.
When he finally finished bathing in the praise of the crowds, Lancelot approached Britt’s dais and bowed on the back of his horse. “My Lord, King Arthur!”
“Well done, Sir Lancelot du Lac,” Britt said in a voice falsely filled with wonder. “You have proven yourself today, out of those present, to be the best knight of Camelot. In honor of your feat, I bequeath you that title.”
“Thank you, My Lord.” Lancelot’s green eyes shone with exuberance.
“He certainly lives for the crowds,” Britt muttered. She cast her eyes to the side and smiled with a little more realness when Mordred, leading his horse, limped up to the podium. “Sir Mordred, well done. You also fought valiantly today. Though you cannot share the title, I must say I am proud and awed by your performance.” Merlin cleared his throat and Britt quickly amended, “Both of your performances.”
Mordred bowed. “Thank you, My Lord. It was my honor.”
“I was especially impressed with your swordsmanship, Mordred,” Britt continued, warming up to the subject she was most passionate about. “Your matches were splendid to watch.”
“I thank you for the compliment, My Lord, but I fear I am yet unskilled.” Sir Mordred stroked his horse’s muscled neck.
Merlin shifted closer to Britt—probably so he could be within elbowing range—and frowned. “The boon,” he whispered.
“I’m getting to it,” she hissed. She cleared her throat before continuing, “As Lancelot is the winner of today’s contest of arms, I will—as I promised—grant him a boon. What is it you wish for, Sir Lancelot?”
Lancelot studied Britt for a moment before he smiled—his slick smile that was dangerously close to being a smirk. “I request permission to be the Queen’s Champion.”
Spectators gasped and cheered at the “kindness” of Lancelot’s request. As King Arthur, Britt couldn’t serve as the Queen’s Champion—she didn’t have the time, and it would have opened up political battles. If Lancelot did not know of Britt’s real gender, the action would have only been pompous and politically motivated as there was no queen. But, as he knew Britt was a girl, there was only one way she could interpret his actions.
He was openly asking to be declared HER champion, as she was secretly a queen.
“Accept his request, lass,” Merlin whispered.
“You cannot be serious,” Britt hissed.
“You cannot easily deny his request. Accept it, and I will speak with him. In private.”
“Why not publically? He deserves to be humiliated,” Britt snarled.
“My Lord?” Lancelot said, his eyes falsely innocent and artless. “Is my request inappropriate?”
“Accept it,” Merlin said.
Britt squared her shoulders and stood. “No, it is only unusual as I don’t even have a queen, yet. Trying to get ahead of the competition, Sir Lancelot?” she asked, making a show of smiling at the man—as if she was teasing him.
Lancelot laughed back. “Perhaps, My Lord.”
“Very well. If that is the boon you wish for, you shall have it—though I warn you it will be a long wait before your services are ever needed,” Britt said. She hopped off the platform and unsheathed Excalibur as Lancelot slid off his horse. He knelt before her, and she touched Excalibur to his shoulders. “I call you, Sir Lancelot du Lac, the Queen’s Champion!”
As she hoped, the spectators went wild and crazy, so as Britt leaned in—Excalibur weighing heavily on Lancelot’s shoulders—no one heard her whisper, “Step carefully, or the Queen will eat you alive.”
Britt made a show of pulling Lancelot into a standing position. “Camelot, I give you your victor!” she said before “playfully” pushing the knight at the roaring crowd.
Ladies squealed and fanned themselves, and children strained on their tip-toes to see the famed knight.
“They do love him,” Sir Mordred said, his words mirroring Britt’s earlier utterances.
“Yeah. You fought well, though, Sir Mordred. I thought you almost had him,” Britt said, turning to the dark-armored knight.
Sir Mordred chuckled. “It was never that close. He hits like a dragon.”
“I was impressed you lasted three rounds. He unhorsed me at two—and he was gentle for the first pass,” Britt said.
“You’ve jousted Sir Lancelot?”
“Yes. He moved to jousting after learning not to test my sword.” She twirled Excalibur then slid it back in its magical scabbard. “It’s a shame King Pellinore couldn’t make it—although I appreciate Percival’s presence. I think Pellinore would have beaten him. Sir Kay and Sir Bodwain, though, could have thrashed him while blindfolded.”
“I have heard of their great prowess on the jousting field. Perhaps I should ask them for pointers.” Sir Mordred’s dimples flashed when he smiled.
Britt—who took great pride in her foster-brother’s abilities, felt highly gratified. “If you can catch Kay when he’s not buried in work, he’s an excellent teacher. He made me into a passable jouster, which I thought was beyond my grasp.”
“Never, My Lord,” Sir Mordred protested. “You are too hard on yourself!”
“You didn’t see what I was like when I first started. I think he would enjoy helping you, particularly as you are already quite skilled.” Britt noticed Merlin staring at her—and Mordred—and gave the wizard a questioning look. He averted his eyes and turned his back to her. She mentally frowned at his odd behavior, but kept her expression pleasant.
“Perhaps, then, I might win next time,” Sir Mordred said. “That is, of course, assuming there will be a next time?”
“Count on it,” she emphatically said, wrinkling her nose as she watched Lancelot smile at a court lady, making her swoon. “In fact, if you can take the title of Best Knight at the next tournament, I will forever hold you in high esteem.” As far as Britt was concerned, the sooner Lancelot was pushed from his throne of “Best Knight,” the better.
“Let the mead run think and the wine spill over—the Knights of the Round Table have proved their valor!” Lancelot shouted.
“Hear, Hear!” Sir Percival, King Pellinore’s oldest son, said.
“Drink up!” Lionel—Lancelot’s boisterous cousin—yelled.
Two tables down, a knight tipsily stood on top of a table and recited terrible poetry about Guinevere. Just past Bors, the injured Sir Lanval was already passed out and lay snoozing on the ground.
“I always thought the King made brief appearances at our celebration before leaving because he was too busy.” Bors contemplated his goblet of wine. “Now I know better.”
“This drunken display is enough to make anyone hiding a secret as she did nervous,” Lancelot said. “There’s no telling what drunkards would do.”
In spite of his words, it had not escaped Lancelot’s notice that barely a word was uttered over their King, and whenever someone mentioned her, they were careful to use her title only—never her name or gender.
“It seems I am not the only one with their eye on our little King,” Lancelot said.
“Little?” Lionel snorted. “Our King may be slight, but she’s as little as Kay is talkative. Speaking of which, what was this afternoon about? The Queen’s Champion? You? You’re as faithful as stallion!”
Lancelot frowned. “I am loyal to those I choose to serve.”
Lionel swatted the air. “Of course—until you change your mind.”
Lancelot smiled so hard his teeth ached. “Naturally. Here, have some more wine, cousin.”
“Thank you.” Lionel chugged the drink after Lancelot topped off his goblet.
Lancelot glanced at his younger cousin, surprised by his narrowed eyes. “What is it?” he asked, fixing a look of good will upon his features.
“Nothing. Just thinking,” Bors said.
“That’s no good. We’re not supposed to think tonight. Instead, we drink!” Lancelot shouted, emptying a pitcher of wine into Bors’ goblet.
The rest of the knights roared their approval.
An hour later, all of the men—even stuffy Bors—were completely drunk. “My Lord is going to kill us,” Bors said, barely able to keep his head upright.
“Let ‘er try. I ain’t afraid of no woman,” Lionel slurred.
“Then you don’t know our Dragon King,” Sir Safir—who showed a surprisingly high tolerance level for a man who commonly played the harp—snorted.
“Killing us would be a kindness. My head already aches,” another knight bemoaned.
“Here’s an idea,” Lancelot said, standing. He made a show of tottering for a few steps. “Why don’t we make an order, the Order of Queen’s Knights?”
“Eh? What?”
“Why would we do a stupid thing like that?” another knight said, his voice unnaturally high from the abundance of alcohol. “Our King…Queen? Eh, that woman’s first act would be to slaughter us all and have us buried.”
“Only if she got to us afore Merlin found out,” another knight added. “If we make an order for a queen the public don’t know we have…it’ll raise a few questions. Merlin hates questions.”
Lancelot stepped in before the knights could out-logic themselves of the idea. “Even if we call her our King and serve her as we would serve a King, she is still a woman,” he said. “She delights our souls the way only a woman can. She knows the best and worst of us, and she still sees worth in us. No man could do that—least, I don’t for all of you,” Lancelot said, getting the desired laughter.
“She makes enormous demands,” Sir Agravain said, slumped on a bench. “But she is loyal and looks at a person like, like…”
“Like she believes in you, like she can see straight into your heart and knows that you’re strong and valiant.”
Lancelot froze for a moment—the voice sounded too terribly much like Sir Mordred’s, whom he had worked hard to lead out of the gathering so he could prod this conversation. Thankfully, it seemed Sir Percival was the one who said such a surprisingly astute observation.
“That’s what makes her great,” Sir Bedivere said—the only one of Britt’s officials present, thank goodness. Kay would kill him before the King would. “She’s not like other women, who lose faith in you the moment you lose a match or commit a sin. She trusts in your goodness and strength.”
Lancelot moved in for the kill. “And she would have us think—no—Merlin would have us think her strength is boundless. Yet, she is but one person, and times have changed. We ride out and leave her, for the good of the kingdom. But what about her? Can’t we be knights errant and our sovereign’s protectors?”
“Yeah!”
“Can’t we?”
“Hear, hear!”
“Then let those of us present take a vow to protect our King,” Lancelot declared.
“Hurrah!”
In minutes, the Queen’s Knights were formed, the oaths—predetermined by Lancelot—were taken, and the celebration was back in full swing. Not all the knights present took the oath, and there were a few that had taken the oath that he intended to expel. But there was no need to worry about it tonight. The order was just another way to try and move the King.
She is so untrusting! Lancelot thought. Ever since King Arthur revealed she was really Queen Britt, Lancelot had shifted goals. After all, how much fun would it be to have the High King of Britain calf-eyed over him! There were a few problems with this plan. Foremost, the disgustingly honorable girl appeared to like him the least out of all her knights, even though he was the greatest. Secondly, Lancelot was starting to suspect that King Britt was not the type of woman to get calf-eyed and stupid when she was in love. Which was quite unfortunate.
“I wonder what she would look like, if she were to fall in love,” Lancelot murmured.
Lionel dragged his attention from his cup. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Lancelot said. He leaned back in his chair, mulling over the idea. Though she looked at each of her knights as if he was a dragon-slayer, no one would be so stupid as to think she actually fancied any of them. She was warm to all of her men—exceedingly so to her pets like Gawain and Ywain—but she didn’t look like a woman in love, just as her knights did not look at her with any unholy thoughts.
What about Merlin? She does not look at him the way she looks at any of us. The thought wiggled in the back of Lancelot’s mind, and though his first impulse was to mercilessly crush it—who, after all, would pass him by in exchange for Merlin, the crackpot wizard?—he thought it over.
It was no secret Britt and Merlin had a big fight in the summer of the previous year. Although they were on good terms, things had been stilted between them for months. But. There was the way she looked at him. Her soul—vulnerable and fragile—glimmered in her eyes. She was hesitant to reach out and touch her advisor, and while their smiles were frequent, shared laughter was not often present.
Britt, our High King, is in love with Merlin.
Lancelot narrowed his eyes as he considered the idea, and decided it was the most realistic. He must have rejected her, for he knows it as well.
Neither observation afforded Lancelot pleasure. What the King saw in Merlin was a mystery to Lancelot, but the bigger mystery was Merlin’s rejection. One would think he would encourage her feelings—if only to make her more malleable. But looking past plots and politics, Britt had her knights and relationships. Merlin had…Britt. Although he had the loyalty of thousands, he had the heart of none. None except for Britt’s, that is.
“Why the gloomy face, Sir Lancelot?” Sir Percival—one of the milder drinkers—sat down next to him. “It is your night! You are the Best Knight of Camelot, the Queen’s Champion—sly move, by the by—and the founder of the Queen’s Knights. You have done well! I especially admired your match against Sir Mordred.”
“Yes, Sir Mordred is a jouster of high caliber,” Lancelot said, absent-mindedly rubbing his aching shoulder. The knight had hit him with the force of a rampaging boar. “I saw your match against Sir Agravain. Your stance was impeccable.”
“Thank you—though I must admit, Agravain was much better than I thought he would be, given he is a knight of but a few weeks,” Sir Percival said.
“I expect you have his teachers to thank. Before he served as Gawain’s squire, he spent hours on the jousting fields with King Arthur, watching her, Sir Kay, and Sir Bodwain. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Trains like a madman.”
“Agravain?”
“No, our King.” Sir Percival paused to take a drink and licked his lips. “Have you seen her—practicing with Excalibur on the walls of Camelot in the late night hours?”
“Yes,” Lancelot said, keeping his expression hooded.
“I’ve talked with Sir Gawain in between his quests and defense as the Ladies’ Knight. He said it’s when her demons plague her.”
“I see,” Lancelot said, employing all of his strength to keep a smile off his face. He often wondered what kept the King up at the late hours. Her emotional scars, was it? Perhaps I have been going about this all wrong…
CHAPTER 4
Reassurances & Arrivals
Early the next morning, Britt sat on her cushioned throne in the beautiful throne room of Camelot. The morning sunlight trickled in through the windows, making her armored—bowing—knights glitter. Birds sang outside, and the blue sky seemed especially brilliant and glorious.
Britt, however, was so enraged she couldn’t speak. She had a stranglehold on her tankard of juice, and dug the nails of her other hand into the arms of her wooden throne. She was so furious, she shook.
Cavall, sitting at her side, whined and leaned away.
“You did what?” Britt hissed.
Lancelot puffed his chest up with pride. “We founded the Order of
the Queen’s Knights.”
“We?” Britt inquired, her tone mild.
“Well, it was my idea,” he preened.
Someone banged on the shut doors. “Arthur—I know who you’ve got in there. Open these doors!” Merlin shouted.
The guards stationed at the door moved to let the wizard in.
“DON’T!” Britt thundered. She rocketed out of her chair, and jabbed her finger at the door while giving the one-word order.
The guards shifted back into place, their mouths grim lines.
Britt rested her hand on Excalibur’s pommel as she went down the few stairs of the dais on which her throne was perched. “Merlin’s attempts to rein you in obviously have not worked. It is now my turn,” she said. Her gold armor clanked, and her red cloak swirled behind her.
The knights swapped worried looks—Britt was surprised to see Sir Percival and Sir Agravain among them—but Britt made a beeline for the smug Lancelot.
“In case you have forgotten, Champion, my identity is still a secret. Only my valiant Knights of the Round Table and my hand-picked personal guards know that I am really a woman. No one else in Camelot knows, nor do the rest of my subjects, allies, vassals, or enemies. When I was placed back on the throne, you—along with every man in this room—took a vow to protect my secret with your life.” Britt glared into Lancelot’s green eyes.
“Arthur, stop this at once and open the door!” Merlin shouted again.
“As it stands, you have done a horrible job of standing true to your vow.” Britt spoke in a tone of frosted fire.
“Arthur! If you kill him, I will make your life a misery! Guards, open this blasted door!”
“I apologize if you find my conduct worrisome, My Lord. I only have your best interests in mind,” Lancelot said.
Britt opened her mouth to reply, but she was shocked when someone released a happy sigh. She twisted on her heels, her lips slightly downturned as she looked—with eyes as hard as granite—at Sir Bedivere. “What.”