by Jasmine Walt
I'd been called a lot of things in my life. Beautiful. Thief. Fashionable. Liar. All true. But I'd never been called a Lady, like, as a title of honor. Because for a long time, I didn't have any honor.
I was a woman with all the requisite parts including long legs that could rock a six-inch pair of heels. A trim waist that looked best in a halter dress or wrap skirt. My long blonde hair was all my own, no weave or extensions, which meant it was perfect for a man to gather in his fist and tug if the mood was right. And man, oh man, was I in the right mood for this shining knight. No armor necessary.
"You nearly had me," said Gawain as he stood and offered me his forearm to give me a lift up. "If only you'd stepped off your center line, you could've evaded my blade."
I hadn't done anything wrong. I had the knight right where I wanted him. I reached for his forearm and gave a tug before he could brace himself to hoist me up. Gawain lost his footing and came down on top of me again.
"Oops," I said as two-hundred twenty pounds of virile man came crashing down on my welcome body. This time, his nose met with the valley of my breasts. Like I said, I hadn't done anything wrong.
Gawain braced himself so that his forearms took the brunt of his weight and not my boobs. Pity.
A grin lit his wicked lips as his brown eyes twinkled. "Why do I get the feeling I'm the one who's fallen into the trap?"
"'Cause you've got brain and brawn." I slid one leg up, bending at the knee to trap him further. "Wanna show me again how to properly thrust a sword? I'm sure I'll get it this time if I concentrate real hard."
Gawain chuckled and made no move to escape, until a voice sounded over us.
"I told you this was a waste of time."
I'd completely forgotten that we had an audience. Looking to the side, I took a moment to admire the eye candy all around me. From my position down low, I panned and tilted my gaze around the long feet, thick thighs, and bulging chests of the men assembled. Yum-oh.
For a century, photographic, motion film, and television cameras had been capturing images. For most of that time, men had been training the lenses on women's body parts; the Male Gaze it was called. Cameramen zoomed unapologetically onto our boobs and asses. They panned up our legs and tilted up our skirts to display our wares on the big screen. So, I had no trouble turning the tables on them from my low vantage point.
Gawain ended my screening early. He rose to his feet, pulling me up alongside him with strong arms. His action brought me face to face with my complainer.
"She'll never take her place amongst us as a knight," said Sir Geraint.
Geraint's eyebrows were set in a perpetual arch, like the symbol used to accent letters. It made every statement he said in his droll voice seem incredibly dramatic. Even though I had yet to see him smile or laugh or speak in anything other than a tone brimming with disdain.
Like the other five knights present, Geraint had long, lush locks, and a face covered by a thick beard. Beneath his dark hair, the mocha skin of his Moorish ancestry shone through. Another thing the story books got wrong. The knights of Camelot were a diverse bunch. From Gawain and his Asian heritage, to Percival and his Middle Eastern birthright, all the way to Lance with his Highland ginger looks, and back around to the youngest knight, Tristan, with his angelic face and blond, Icelandic legacy.
And then there was the man himself, Arthur.
Although I'd learned that that wasn't really his name. All of these men were descendants of the original Knights of the Roundtable. When they succeeded their fathers, they took on the title. That meant each knight was The Arthur and The Lancelot.
I was the granddaughter of Sir Galahad, the second of his name. But granddad had left no sons. His two daughters, my mother and my aunt, each had girls. The seat of Galahad had been empty for over three hundred years. But the sword of Galahad had found its way to me outside of this magical place.
I hadn't known about this side of my family. My mother had run away from this place to be with my dad—an archaeologist. After I was born, we'd traveled the world with him. Every night as a child, my mother read me stories about Arthur and his knights, about Camelot and quests, and wizards and witches. But she never told me that any of the tales were real. She never told me I was a part of these books that I loved.
But like I said, I'd found my way here. And now I was ready to claim my rightful place: a seat at the freaking Round Table. If I could just get past all this chivalry and chauvinism crap.
Arthur stepped forward. He looked the spitting image of Liam Hemsworth with his dirty blond hair and light gray eyes. His huge biceps were crossed over his massive chest as he pinned me with his assessing gaze like a headmaster. I should mention, I got kicked out of boarding school when I was a teen in a blaze of glory.
"Geraint's right," Arthur said.
My head snapped up, way up, and I suddenly felt three feet tall. I couldn't be sure, but I think my bottom lip may have trembled as I asked, "What?"
"This was a mistake."
"Oh, come on, Artie."
The Arthur glared down, shaving off another foot of my bravado.
I'd been in life or death situations. I'd even died once—another story. But Arthur was the only man who made me squirm and not in the good way. He didn't know me very well. So, he didn't know that I used humor and sass when I felt intimidated.
"My liege." I executed a bow I'd seen on one of the BBC historical programs. "I'm just getting started with my training. At least give me a chance to actually screw up."
"That's my point," said Arthur. "You're just getting started. Every knight trains from birth to take his seat. We all start out as a page, learning our duties. Then after a few decades, we advance to a squire."
Geraint came up beside Arthur, rubbing his hairy chin. The arches of his brows rose as the hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Making her a squire isn't a bad idea."
"Okay," I said. "What's a squire have to do?"
From the corner of my eye, I saw Gawain wince. Percival's lips quirked up and his eyes twinkled as though he were expecting rousing entertainment. Tristan shut his eyes and bit his lip as though he were anticipating his parents starting an argument.
"A squire is... let's see if I can find a human term..." Geraint continued to toy with his whiskers.
I let the human crack slide, but not too far. I'd spent a good deal of my life defending my human father and his reputation. But that had been against other humans who'd disdained his research methods. Now I'd have to take it from magical kind? Because knights were magical. They had a special sauce running through their blood that enhanced their strength and allowed them to live long lives.
"Humans might call a squire an apprentice," Geraint continued. "They tend to a knight's weapons and his horse. They care for our personal effects. And do odd jobs around the castle."
I cocked my head to the side as I glared at his pointy brows. "You want me to be an errand boy?"
Geraint grinned for the first time since I'd met him. "I believe the politically correct term is personal assistant."
I rolled my head around, hearing the tendons in my neck crack along the way. Oh. No. He. Didn't. "You want me to be a secretary?"
He shrugged. "If the armor doesn't fit."
I dropped the practice sword and picked up my grandfather's sword, the magical sword of Galahad. I pointed to the sword holstered at Geraint's side. "Draw your sword."
"What?" Geraint held up his hands. "I don't fight girls."
"I'm not a girl."
I charged. Geraint gripped his weapon with both hands a split second before I brought the wrath down upon him.
"I am a grown ass woman who was trained by the best swordsmen over the world since I was nine."
I had been holding back with Gawain, toying with him because I wanted to dance with him in more ways than one. Facing Geraint, I wasn't playing footsie anymore.
"I have gold medals in swordplay," I said. "Not a single one that's silver or bronze or for
participation."
Geraint jabbed at me with quick, jerky thrusts. I wasn't the least bit surprised at his sloppy swordplay. I unloaded on him. Swiveling my sword, I made figure eights around my body as I advanced on him.
I double fisted my sword, aiming for his throat. He dodged and took a deep lunge into me, thrusting with his sword arm. I parried his single-handed blow, hard enough to disarm him. Then I thrust the hilt of my sword backward and into his chest. He went down with an oomph. I came over top of him with my blade pointed at that arch in his brows. My hands were on fire as I advanced on him.
"And if you ever call me a secretary again, I'll cut off your eyebrows."
The hilt of my sword was in flames. Literally. Fire licked at the leather bindings and then down to the wooden part of the cane. I dropped the burning sword and shook my flaming hands, trying to douse the flare of magic.
Oh, did I forget to mention that my mother was a witch, and I'd recently come into my powers? I'll come back to that. First, I needed to get my powers under control.
I clenched my fists tightly. After a couple of deep breaths, my hands cooled. But not my temper.
"Like I said," Geraint uttered from his place on the ground. "She's untrained and out of control, a liability if we take her into the field. And we don't even know if she can be trusted. Her mother stole that sword and her father is a notorious fraud in the human world. Someone like her can't take Sir Galahad's seat."
I felt my hands heating up again, but I balled my fists even tighter. Half my life I'd spent under the cloud of insults against my father and his work, when my father had been innocent of the crime he was accused of.
Well.
Kind of.
Mostly.
People just needed to know the whole story to understand. But no one ever listened. They all just labeled him a villain and moved on. I'd been cast under the same label back in the human world and it would appear I wouldn't escape it here in the magical town of Camelot.
The fire had gone out of my hands and my spirit. Looking down, I saw that the wood of the cane that had hidden the magical sword of my grandfather had burned away. The cane had been my father's.
All that was left was the blade. The steel winked at me under the sunlight. I leaned down to pick it up.
"Where did you learn that?" Arthur asked.
"Gwin's been trying to teach me to control the magic. It's just that it's so much—"
"Not the magic. The swordplay.”
"Oh." I blinked as I looked up at him. "I've been taking fencing lessons since I could walk." I'd learned from the world's greatest masters, including a certain Spartan King forever immortalized in a Hollywood film, King Leonidas. But that's yet another story. "I've been felling men twice my size since I was twelve."
Arthur studied me anew. I held still, realizing for the first time exactly how much I wanted his approval. That scared me more than the magic rushing through my blood. Waiting for his judgment felt like my skin was being sheared off my bones.
"I'm not gonna jump through your hoops," I said. "I'll just take my sword and go."
"You can't leave," said Arthur. "Not with a power you can't control coursing through your veins. You need protection more than you need training."
"I'm no man's damsel."
"The truth is, Loren, you're not giving us a chance. You need training—as a witch in addition to a knight. But even before that, you need to earn the respect of the men here if you want to be accepted into our ranks."
There was that word again. Acceptance. Did I want their acceptance?
"You're a part of this family," said Arthur. "You belong here with us."
My arms instinctively wrapped around my middle. Though my parents were both gone, I did have other family, my father's family. But they'd rejected me when I was a little kid. Right after I'd lost my mother. And then again after I lost my father. I'd never expected to hear those words again: you have family, you belong. And Arthur wasn't done.
"The sword chose you to wield it, but the knights choose who takes a seat at the Round Table."
"So you want me to be your little gopher?" I hadn't signed up to be in the shadows. I'd spent half my life cast as a femme fatale, a role which, admittedly, I'd cultivated and had the wardrobe and smoky voice to support. But I was done being the villain or the sidekick. I was ready to be the hero of the story.
"We all had to squire before we earned our seat," said Arthur. "If you want to be treated like an equal amongst the knights, if you want to earn your grandfather's seat, then you'll need to earn our respect."
I looked around at the bearded faces assessing me. My gaze stuck on Gawain and his sultry eyes. And then I realized, these knights were all men. I could have each of them wrapped around my finger before the week was out.
"Fine," I said. "Hit me with it. I can handle whatever you throw at me."
Yeah, right. Two cliché catch phrases in a row? I was clearly asking for trouble.
CHAPTER TWO
"These need to be cleaned and polished," said the young man before me.
My knees buckled as a literal ton of dull metal was piled into my arms. After much debate, where Geraint suggested I be a Chamber Squire and put on a housekeeping detail and it took Lance and Gawain to hold me back from cleaning his clock, it was decided I'd be put in the armory.
The weapons room inside the castle was a mix of medieval weaponry and modern technology. Steel blades, chains, and shields covered the wall of one corner, while guns of every shape and size were arrayed on another. In the farthest corner, computers and electronic gadgets buzzed and beeped. In a third corner were weights, punching bags, and sparring dummies. It looked like the knights had covered all the bases of medieval, modern, and high-tech warfare.
Inside the armory with me were three other squires on weapons detail this morning. There was the curly headed Yuric who was so thin he looked like the wind would knock him over. And then there was Maurice who looked like a mountain. The pair reminded me of the nursery rhyme of non-fat eating Jack Sprat and his portly wife who ate no lean.
And then there was Baysle, the squire who'd handed me the pile of weaponry. Not basil, a favorite herb of mine and the best part of a true Italian Margherita pizza. The word basil was said with a soft-sounding 'A' that ended lightly on the final consonant. The way Baysle said his name when he introduced himself it sounded like he was vomiting out the Ba sound and then choking on the ending consonant; Bah-Zil.
The kid was handsome. But he was the kind who knew it. I pinched my nose at the airs he put on.
Baysle wore the seal of Sir Geraint, letting me know he was the knight's personal squire. Which by default made him a douche-in-training. He squinted his green eyes at me. Angling his body away, he took a second glance at the priceless bounty in my arms and then squinted back up at me.
"Best to stay inside the armory while you get those done," he said.
The kid was lucky my arms were full of swords so I couldn't reach out and wring his neck. But then again, my arms were full of swords. I could drop all but one and slice the pipsqueak in half.
I didn't miss the judgment in his assessing gaze. Nor his conclusion about my morals. Early in life, I'd been cast as a villain. The role had been thrust upon me by a number of circumstances. None of them I'd actually auditioned for, mind you.
It started before I was born. My mother had run away from home to be with my dad. When she did, she took something with her from her family. It was an heirloom passed down from father to son. But by the time she'd been born, there had been no more sons born along her family line. Only daughters.
Anyway, the item my mom had taken had been the sword of her grandfather, Sir Galahad, first of his name. I hadn't known I'd been wielding a magical sword in the skirmishes I'd been getting into all my life. I'd simply thought I was a bad ass. And I was.
The sword hadn't taught me my awesomeness. I'd learned those lessons on my own. The sword had enhanced what was already there.
&n
bsp; I'd brought the sword back a quarter century later, not knowing what it was until I'd dropped it in the moat in front of the castle. The Lady of the Lake had emerged and handed the sword back to me, proclaiming me as its rightful owner like another royal orphan. Prophetic, I know.
But still, I was watched as I walked through these halls. I knew the gazes upon me looked at me as someone who might steal. It didn't help that I'd come to these halls as the guest of someone who had stolen from these people in the past.
My bestie, Nia, had brought me here weeks ago. She was the Wonder Woman of history, rescuing ancient sites and artifacts from zealous developers and tomb raiders. I'd tagged along as her sidekick when she came to help the knights out on their last quest. Nia admittedly had grabby hands for ancient things and we'd both gotten antique boners when we'd been let inside the medieval castle.
Speaking of bones, that's how she and I met.
When I was still a girl, my dad had told a necessary lie based on an unbelievable truth. It had cost him his reputation, his livelihood, and perhaps even his life. Nia had helped me to unravel the mess that my dad had made and restore the Van Alst family name. But those in the antiquities world still looked at me with a squint in their eyes when they heard my last name.
For a time, when I'd been on my own, I'd worn that bad girl label like a badge of honor and I was good at it. Being the daughter of an archaeologist, my fingers were a bit sticky when it came to prized artifacts. I'd been known to raid a tomb or two in my past. I also had an eye for art and could easily copy just about any painting I saw and pass it off as the real deal.
But that was all backstory. That life was so six months ago. Wow. Had it been that long? I'd met my best friend, upgraded from villain to a heroine's sidekick, and learned I was a witch. Now, if I could just get past these stupid trials, I'd earn my stripes as a bona fide hero and take a seat as a knight at the Round Table.
So, I'd put up with Bah-zil, the twerp's, abuse. For now.