by Mari Mancusi
“Give it up, man!” cried one.
“Let someone else have a go!” cried another.
Finally, defeated, Sir Sagramore released the sword, an angry scowl on his face. He kicked the stone bitterly before disappearing back into the crowd.
Sir Kay—the guy Sophie pointed out as Arthur’s foster brother—tried next and was equally unsuccessful. He was followed by Sir Percival, Sir Agravaine, and Sir Galahad. Knight after knight, lord after lord. Big, strong, muscular men—yet none of them able to budge the sword even a single inch. The crowd was going crazy at this point.
“How am I supposed to do this?” Stu whispered to Sophie from the sidelines. “I mean, look at these guys. I may have Arthur’s muscles, but they’re nothing compared to the power of these trained knights.”
“But you have something they don’t,” Sophie whispered back. “Merlin’s secret.”
“Yeah.” Stu kicked a small stone by his feet. “I suppose.” The knowledge didn’t make him feel a whole lot better. After all, it was one thing to try and maybe fail. Quite another to make a fool of yourself in front of an entire kingdom, not to mention Sophie herself. Especially when you had the whole future of the known world at stake and all.
“Is there anyone else?” Merlin called to the crowd after the last knight stormed off the field, defeated. “Would anyone else attempt to pull the sword from the stone this day?” He made a big show of scanning the crowd, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
This was it. His cue. Stu willed himself to step forward. Unfortunately, his feet suddenly seemed glued to the ground and wouldn’t budge.
“Anyone?” Merlin repeated, now staring directly at Stu. “Would anyone here like to give it a go?”
Sophie shoved him forward. “You’re up!” she hissed.
Unfortunately, what was meant to be an encouraging push caused Stu—still unsteady in his new body—to completely lose balance and stumble forward—headfirst into the circle. Pain reverberated up his arms as his palms smacked the ground first, immediately followed by a face full of mud that reeked suspiciously of horse manure. The crowd roared with laughter as Stu looked up in time to see Merlin shaking his head in disappointment. Probably not the grand entrance he’d been imagining for his once and future king.
Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, now could they?
Face blazing, Stu managed to pull himself upright, brushing off the dirt from his tunic. He angrily swiped the mud/manure from his face and glanced back at Sophie, who mouthed, “Sorry!”
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” jeered one of the knights—Sir Agravaine, if Stu remembered right. The knight strutted merrily into the circle, giving Stu a comical once-over. “Ah yes, the peasant boy with delusions of grandeur.” He burst out laughing. “Shall we bow down to you, lad? Lay down our lives to serve you?” He then proceeded to mockingly bow, so low his nose almost touched the ground. Stu had half a mind to kick him—send him flying into the mud. But he knew from experience what provoking a bully would do. He had a mission and he couldn’t be distracted. If Merlin was right, Sir Agravaine—and the rest—would be bowing for real soon enough.
“Hey Kay, I think we’ve found your errant squire!” called another knight, Sir Percival. “You should keep a tighter leash on your property.”
The red-headed knight—Arthur’s foster brother—pushed his way through the crowd, a scowl clear on his red, zit-filled face. “Where the devil have you been, Arthur?” he demanded, grabbing Stu by ear and yanking him hard. Stu couldn’t help a small squeal of pain as the knight’s ragged fingernails dug into his skin. “I've been looking for you all afternoon.” He shoved Stu, sending him this-close to ending up in a mud pile again. “Now get lost, and let the real men here compete for the prize.” He stepped up to the sword and stone, evidently ready for a second go himself.
“Halt!” a young knight dressed in green cried in a loud voice as he stepped into the circle. Sir Gawain, Stu remembered. According to legends, the guy became one of the best knights of the round table, second only to Lancelot himself. “Let the boy have a turn if he wishes one.”
“Why should we, brother?” Agravaine growled. “Look at him and his scrawny arms. If one of us cannot free the sword from the stone, forsooth he has no chance to do so.”
“Maybe not,” Gawain agreed. “But what harm may come from his attempt?” He turned to Stu and beckoned him to come forward. His eyes were sympathetic. “Come, lad,” he said. “And try your luck. The gods know you have as much chance as the rest of us.”
Sir Kay reluctantly stepped back, giving Stu room to approach. The crowd fell silent, all eyes on the new challenger. All waiting for him to fail. Stu swallowed hard. Why had he agreed to do this again? He glanced over at Sophie, who gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. Oh yeah, because he was a lovesick idiot.
Okay, here goes nothing. Stu took a careful step forward, this time remembering to mind his large feet. The sword and stone looked bigger this close up, the blade shining brilliantly in the afternoon sun. Not just any blade, he reminded himself. Excalibur itself.
Sucking a shaky breath, trying to ignore his audience, Stu circled the stone slowly, refusing to be rushed as he checked it out from all angles. Reaching up, he dared touch the ornate hilt, then carefully wrapped his fingers around the base. The metal had been warmed by the sun. Or maybe it was magic that heated its steel. In either case, the pain in Stu’s hand vanished, which was a good thing in his book.
Closing his eyes, he went over Merlin’s instructions in his head. The secret to pulling the sword from the stone. He twisted the blade slightly to the left, then to the right, then forward and back. He squeezed the hilt and yanked the sword as hard as he could.
It didn’t budge.
He tried again, carefully working his way through the intricate puzzle before giving it a second hard pull. Still nothing. He opened his eyes and stared down at the sword in frustration. Why wasn’t this working?
The crowd was getting restless and lobbing insults in his direction. Insults and a filthy leather boot that smacked him upside the head.
Stu forced himself to ignore them all as he focused on his task. He had to figure out a way to do this before they dragged him off and he lost his chance forever.
Worried, he searched for Sophie, needing a familiar face to calm his nerves. She was over to the side, her intense eyes glued on him. She was concentrating so hard he could almost hear her thoughts echoing through his brain.
You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.
Suddenly, as her words trilled through him, a strange, cold wind whipped through the courtyard, pebbling his skin with a thousand goosebumps.
You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.
Electricity crackled through him, as if a storm were fast approaching, his arm and leg hair rising on end. He looked around to see if anyone else had been affected by the sudden change of weather. But no. Whatever this magic was, it was happening to him alone.
You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.
He squinted at Sophie. Her lips still weren’t moving, but he could hear her thoughts as clear as if she were shouting them across the courtyard. And suddenly he could see himself from her perspective, sliding the sword from the stone as if it were no challenge at all.
You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.
And then, without explanation, Stu knew he could. He reached down and grabbed the sword—not bothering with Merlin’s intricate puzzle this time—and pulled as hard as he could. The blade slipped from the stone like a knife through softened butter and Stu tumbled backwards from the excess force he’d used to yank it free. He could hear the crowd gasp as he attempted to scramble to his feet, Excalibur now firmly in hand.
He looked down at the sword, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. He’d done it. He, Stuart Mallory, twenty-first-century gamer geek, had succeeded where all other knights had failed. He’d pulled the sword from the stone.
Epic win.
He flashed an excited grin at Sophie, then raised the weapon triumphantly in the air. The sun caught the blade’s metal, scattering rainbows of light around the courtyard.
Excalibur. The sword of legend was in his grasp. And she was beautiful.
She was also really heavy. His muscles buckled and he quickly lowered the weapon before he accidentally dropped it on the ground.
Luckily, Merlin took that as his cue. “Behold, people of England,” he cried in his grand voice. “The miracle you have witnessed today. The prophecy has been fulfilled at last. This lad—the long, lost only son of High King Uther Pendragon—has pulled the mighty sword from the stone. He shall, henceforth, be known to all as king of Britain.”
The cheers that followed were almost deafening and the crowd rushed the circle, surrounding him in excitement. Lords and ladies got down on their knees, pledging their eternal allegiance. Stu couldn’t believe it. Even the knights who had jeered at him moments before gave him respectful nods. Well, all except Agravaine. He still looked a little mad.
“I am so sorry, m’lord,” Sir Kay cried, bowing low in front of Stu. “I feel like a fool for how I've treated you. Please see it in your heart to forgive me.”
“It’s all right,” Stu assured him, deciding at that moment he would become one of those benevolent kings. “You can make it up to me.” Well, sort of benevolent, anyway.
He located Sophie, stuck in the middle of the mob, and gave her a little wave. She raised her hand in victory, her unguarded delight like warm sunshine radiating in his direction. He couldn’t help the big grin spreading across his face.
You did good, her eyes seemed to say. I’m so proud of you.
And in the end, really, that was all that mattered.
Chapter 18
“Arthur, Arthur!” Guinevere shoved through the crowd, her heart feeling as if it would burst from her chest. She couldn’t believe it. She’d just seen it with her own eyes, but she still couldn’t believe it. Arthur—her best friend, Arthur—had done the impossible. What all the knights in all the land had tried and failed to do. Arthur—the orphan kitchen boy—had pulled the sword from the stone and was now to become king of all England. It was unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.
“Stand back!”
A burly guard shoved her backwards, almost knocking her into the mud. She struggled to regain her balance, then shot him her most haughty look. “Stand aside, sir. I need to see Arthur—I mean, King Arthur.” She stood on her tiptoes, trying to peer over the throng to catch a glimpse of her friend.
“As does half the kingdom,” growled the guard. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”
Guinevere let out a frustrated breath then left, circling the outer edges of the mob, looking for a place to slip through, all the while still scanning for Arthur. At last she caught his eye from across the courtyard. Leaping up, she waved both arms frantically. “Arthur!” she cried. “I'm over here! I can't get through.”
She waited for him to wave back—to demand the guards retrieve her and bring her to him or even push through the crowd himself to reach her. But to her surprise, Arthur instead just turned and looked away. As if he hadn't even recognized her. Her heart plummeted. Had he not seen her? No, she was sure he had. Was he angry about her dropping the scabbard into the well? Now that he knew the scabbard was supposed to belong to him?
“Come now, Guinevere, don’t traipse through the mud like a common serf!”
Guin whirled around to see her father coming up behind her, a scowl written on his battle-scarred face. “You are a princess of the Summer Country. It's high time you start acting like one.”
“But Arthur . . . ” she tried, not holding out much hope. Her father had never approved of their friendship.
“You'll see the king soon enough. I've petitioned Merlin to consider you a royal suitor.” Her father rubbed his hands together with glee. “Imagine what a match this will be! My daughter. The high queen of Britain. Why, you'll be the most powerful woman in all the land.”
Guinevere stared at him in disbelief, her heart suddenly pounding. Sure, she and Arthur had joked about getting married a thousand times, but they'd both known it would never come to pass. But now everything had been turned upside down and she didn't know quite what to think. Only that she needed to get Arthur alone and fast.
She glanced back at where her friend had stood, but he was long gone, dragged away by the excited mob. Drawing in a resigned breath, she allowed her father to escort her back to the castle apartments they were staying in.
“Your maid will draw a bath and we’ll have a new dress ordered immediately,” he was saying as they climbed the stone steps toward her chamber. “You must look perfect for an audience with the king.”
She laughed. “Father. It’s just Arthur,” she reminded him. “I hardly think he cares what I’m wearing.” After all, her friend had seen her in mud-stained, ripped gowns on at least a dozen occasions. Including earlier today.
Her father looked at her sharply. “No longer is he 'just Arthur,’” he admonished. “He is the high king of England and you will address him with the appropriate respect.”
She hung her head. “Yes, father.”
But he's still Arthur, she thought sullenly as they entered her chambers and her father bid her goodnight. Still the boy I made mud pies with as a child. Right?
But as her lady's maid ushered her into the steaming bath, scented with rose petals, she remembered her friend's face and the blank look in his eyes as he turned away from her down in the courtyard. And suddenly, she was no longer sure.
Chapter 19
The brave and noble Knights lined the field, preparing for battle, as the dreaded Celts from the North scurried to get into position to stop them. The afternoon sun had long abandoned the fight and now only small globes of light helped to illuminate the raging battlefield below. Peasants from both sides had gathered nearby, shouting their support, but in the end, the knights knew they were on their own.
As their valiant leader, Sir Garrett, barked out commands, the battlefield suddenly erupted in activity—both sides exploding out over the grass. The Knights fought hard, determined to press forward and gain ground while the Celts remained equally determined to knock them back.
Sir Garrett remained behind his men, securely in a pocket as he searched for an opening in the midst of the chaos before him. Finally, his eyes alighted on his number two in command, Sir Lucas, who had made it some distance down the field. He raised his arm in the air and readied his throw, waiting for the perfect moment to—
“What's he doing?” cried the coach “Lucas! Get out there!”
But before Lucas could get into position, one of the Celts tackled Garrett to the ground, hard. The referee blew his whistle. The cheerleaders stopped waving their pom-poms and the coach slumped his shoulders in defeat. The audience started to boo.
“Great,” the coach muttered as the offense ran off the football field, replaced by the defensive team. “We needed that touchdown. Now the clock's almost out and we'll only get one more possession if we're lucky. Maybe I can get a penalty or something.” He stormed off in the direction of the ref.
Arthur watched him go, his heart still beating wildly in his chest from that last play. He had to admit, this “football” game they played here in the twenty-first century was more thrilling than any jousting match he'd ever seen. Sure, the rules were confusing, at first, but the other players had been patiently explaining everything to him, play by play (assuming that, since Arthur was from England, he was more familiar with something called “soccer”). By the fourth quarter, Arthur felt that he was really starting to get it.
Arthur headed over to Lucas, who was now sitting on the bench, rubbing his knee. “What happened?” he asked worriedly. His new friend did not look good.
Lucas made an unhappy face. “I think I messed up my knee real bad that second to last play,” he said in a dejected voice. “It's killing me.” He grabbed a fistful of ice from
an orange barrel labeled “Gatorade” and held it against his knee, which, Arthur noticed, had already started to swell.
“Dude, you can't go out on that,” Garrett cried, walking over and checking out his teammate's injury. “No way.”
Lucas looked pained. “I have to, man,” he protested. “The scout is watching. If I have a chance to get out there one more time, I'm not going to blow it.”
“Blow the play or blow your entire college career,” Garrett replied, reaching down to touch Lucas's knee. The receiver winced. “You think they’ll draft you for the team if you're still recovering from surgery?”
Now Lucas looked like he was about to cry. “I know,” he said. “But what are we going to do? John's already out with his own injury. You want to put Morty in there for the last play of the game?”
Everyone turned and looked down to the very last spot on the bench where a black-haired, blotchy-faced kid sat, nose in some sort of paper-bound book. He looked up, his face brightening with surprised hope.
“You need me?” he asked. “You want me to go in?”
Garrett rolled his eyes and Lucas shook his head. They turned back to their huddle. “We might as well forfeit the game now if we do that,” Garrett admitted. “The guy can't run or catch or anything.”
Out on the field, a linebacker tackled the tight end, sparking a burst of applause from the home team fans. The players on the sidelines looked at one another worriedly. “We'll be up in a few minutes,” remarked Tristan, one of the offensive linemen. “We have to make a decision. Now.”
Connor, the running back, glanced at the score clock. “We don't have enough time to run the ball. So either Lucas or Mortimer goes in and tries to make the catch.”
“Wait! Guys, I have an idea!” Lucas cried suddenly.
Everyone turned to look at the wide receiver
Lucas waved for Arthur to join the huddle. “You all met Arthur, right? He just transferred here from England.” He slapped Arthur on the back. “Guy's fast as lightning and can dodge like you wouldn't believe. You should have seen him last night at Medieval Manor.” He paused, then added dramatically, “What if we sent him out there in my place?”