by K. M. Shea
“Oof” Britt said when the king knocked into her. She stepped back several paces to steady herself, and a knight caught Ban before he face planted.
“Stay back!” Ywain repeated, holding King Ban’s sword in front of himself in a stance that was not so horrible that it made Britt grimace, but was not so good as to make Britt nod in approval.
Several knights unsheathed their swords before Britt shouted, “I said not to move!”
Again, everyone fell still—Ywain included—and Britt exhaled in satisfaction before she drew Excalibur from her scabbard. She twirled it once through the air in a fancy gesture she could not refuse herself before sinking into a low position, an emotionless expression fixed on her face.
Ywain slightly shifted his stance, sweat beading on his forehead as he still shook with fear.
Britt, following her training, struck like a snake. She lunged forward, landing blows on Ywain with the ferocity of a wild animal. Excalibur sang like crystal when its edge clashed against King Ban’s sword.
Britt moved forward, pressing Ywain back on his heels as her cloak billowed behind her like wings. She struck so fast she didn’t give Ywain time to counter strike or attempt to attack. She completely overwhelmed him.
She pushed her advantage, keeping up a seamless string of attacks to force an opening. She wrenched Excalibur, using it like a lever, and popped King Ban’s sword from Ywain’s hands. With the sword gone Britt brought the fight closer to Ywain and grabbed him by the tunic. She flipped him over her knee, and he land on the ground with a painful thud.
The entire battle lasted mere seconds.
Ywain gasped, trying to get air again, and Britt stood over him, Excalibur pointed at his throat.
“W-who are you?” Ywain wheezed when he had enough air.
Britt gave him a business-like smile that did not reach her eyes. “Arthur, King of Britain,” she said before looking up when she heard a strangled cry.
“My Lord!”
“Ah, Sir Bodwain. Perfect timing, could you take charge of our young prisoner? I need to find water for Roen.”
“My Lord, you just. He!” Sir Bodwain gaped.
Sir Bedivere, who was with him, looked curiously at Sir Bodwain. The knight still did not know the truth of Britt’s gender and identity, so he was not surprised and dazed like Sir Bodwain, but instead was approving. “I’ll do it,” he volunteered when Sir Bodwain did nothing but gawk at Britt.
“Escort him nowhere. I say we cut off his head right now and send it to his father. He attacked King Ban and King Arthur. He deserves death,” a knight Britt recognized from the Pentecost feast darkly said.
“No,” Britt said, glancing down at Ywain who was now ashen. “Killing him would only further enrage Urien. He lives.”
“For now,” Sir Bedivere muttered, kneeling next to Ywain. “One move, boy, and you will find yourself singing with angels,” he said as Britt took several steps back, allowing the knight to haul Ywain to his feet. Sir Bedivere held a dagger to the boy’s back. “Will someone show me where we’ve been holding him?”
“This way,” a knight said as the crowd began to disperse.
“King Arthur?”
Britt turned when she heard herself addressed, and came face to face with King Ban. “King Ban?” she said.
He nodded. “It is an honor to meet you. I must thank you for your interference,” he said, gesturing behind him to the location of the scene.
“No, it is I who must thank you,” Britt said—speaking carefully. Merlin had warned her to curb her twenty first century language around the kings, who were more likely to judge her than her knights. “Your willingness to be my ally has brought me great hope.”
“You are skilled with the sword,” King Ban said, shaking his head. “I have never seen a warrior strike quite like that. You completely overwhelmed your opponent.”
Britt shrugged and slid Excalibur into its scabbard. “Not really. I am taller than Ywain, giving me a longer reach. Plus he is little more than a boy, green and inexperienced.”
“I was told you are 15?” King Ban asked.
Britt hesitatingly nodded. (The age thing was still a sore spot.) “I am.”
“That boy is 17, two years older than you. You call him inexperienced?” King Ban asked with a raised brow.
Britt froze, caught in the trap for a moment before she shrugged. “I was born with a sword in my hand, I suppose. I’m not afraid to admit that while I excel at the sword, the remaining knightly arts elude me,” she smiled.
King Ban chuckled. “I have son who is a number of years older than you. I hope one day you meet. I am sure you would get along splendidly.”
“He remained in your lands across the sea?”
“No. I believe he is somewhere here in Britain. He is something of a knight errant,” King Ban smiled.
“I see. Perhaps I will indeed make his acquaintance if that is the case. Tell me, King Ban, do you know where I could procure some water for my mount and I? We traveled hard today and I’m dead th—and I am rather parched,” Britt corrected herself.
“Of course, of course. This way, I would be honored to be your guide,” Kin Ban smiled.
Ywain’s fate was not resolved until Merlin arrived at the camp a week later—gleeful and joyous that he had been able to smuggle 10,000 mounted soldiers through Britain without alerting King Lot.
Britt spent most of the week with King Ban and his brother-in-law, King Bors. (Once again a set of kings related by their wives. Britt had to wonder if all royal consorts traditionally came from one or two big families, or if coincidences were commonplace in the time of fairies and magical swords.)
King Bors was a big, gruff man with enough hair to make a monkey green with envy. He laughed easily, was generally good tempered, and he swung his sword with purpose and great experience.
Britt, Ban, and Bors frittered away most of the day inspecting troops—a tireless, endless process in Britt’s estimation. Usually one of Britt’s regular babysitters accompanied them, most often it was Sir Bedivere, but Sir Bodwain and Sir Ector took a turn as well.
When Merlin finally did arrive Ywain was not discussed at length until the follow day.
“We should have him executed,” King Ban stiffly said. (He still hadn’t forgiven the boy for the hostage thing.)
“It would certainly send a message to our opponents, but I’m not sure if it is the kind of message we truly want to present,” Sir Ector frowned.
“Ransom him. He is his father’s heir. Urien would pay handsomely to see him returned to his care,” Sir Ulfius suggested.
“Better yet, cripple ‘im first and then ransom him. A cripple king won’t cause many skirmishes further down the road,” King Bors said, his great mass perched on a stool as he poked a stick in the cooking fire.
Britt, sitting in an arm chair Merlin had summoned from goodness knows where, rested her left cheek on her left hand.
“King Urien is King Lot’s strongest ally. It is doubtful that his son’s death would cow him,” Merlin said, his eyes fastened on Britt.
“I wasn’t suggesting he be executed for Urien. It should be a natural result for attacking a king, much less two kings,” Ban sniffed.
“You could banish him after you cripple him,” King Bors said after a few moments of silence.
Sir Bodwain exhaled loudly. “King Arthur banishing Ywain will be of no consequence to Urien, who does not see Arthur as the King of Britain which is why he is our enemy. If he does not see Arthur as King he will not recognize his decrees.”
“Let’s hear your idea then,” King Bors snorted, stirring coals with his stick.
“Arthur,” Merlin interrupted. “What do you think?”
Britt hesitated before she withdrew from her chair, restlessly pacing. “I think the greatest coup would be if we could convince Ywain to join our ranks.”
“What?” King Bors said, dropping his flaming stick.
“Impossible,” Sir Ulfius said.
“It’s a grand id
ea, but it would never work,” King Ban said with a magnanimous smile.
“I want to hear his reasoning. Why would that be the best outcome, Arthur?” Merlin asked, leaning forward in interest.
“What would horrify Urien more than his own son following the upstart king?” Britt asked.
“True, true,” King Bors boomed.
“If one could do it, it would be the best path,” Sir Kay said, finally speaking.
“It would take a kind of charm mortal men don’t have,” King Ban said, shaking his head.
Britt turned to face King Ban and smiled—not her politician/Arthur smile, but her usual smile. “Exactly,” she said.
King Ban blushed and looked away and King Bors whistled. “You’re going to try and charm him with your faerie blood then? Good luck, if you can manage won’t Urien be a sight to see,” he laughed.
“Do you think you can do it?”Merlin asked, his expression of interest hadn’t changed.
“I would like to try,” Britt said.
“Try, then,” Merlin nodded. “I too am interested in the results—if there are any. Go on, what are you waiting for?”
“You mean start now?”
“Of course. We march on Lot in three days. You have that long to change young Ywain’s mind. Good luck.”
Britt was almost booted from the circle and was bodily escorted to Ywain—who was currently in Sir Bedivere’s keeping.
“Ywain,” Britt said, drawing near to the stake the boy was tied to.
“Beardless upstart,” Ywain spat.
Britt tipped her head and narrowed her eyes at Ywain—who sported not even a hint of a beard. “I’m not certain you should mock me based on my lack of facial hair or physical features. That might come back to bite you,” she said. “After all I could point out how you are also lacking in that department, or that in spite of you being older than me I am still a great deal taller than you.”
“You aren’t a great deal taller, just a little bit,” Ywain grumbled.
Britt shook her head in amusement.
“What do you want?” Ywain sullenly asked, sinking his neck into his body.
Britt turned to look out at her camp and thought. What could she say to this stubborn boy to change his mind? What was it about King Arthur –the legend, the real one—that made knights rally behind him? “Tell me, Ywain. What is your greatest dream?”
“I will never share. That enchanter of yours will use it against me!” Ywain said.
“My greatest dream and hope is impossible. It can never be achieved,” Britt said, hopelessness sinking into her voice. “That is why I have another dream.”
“To rule over all of Britain?” Ywain snorted. “That is fair impossible.”
“No,” Britt said, turning on her heels. “I wish to make a court of knights that fight for what is right. I don’t want to rule over a kingdom that is concerned with surviving, I want to forge one that flourishes and is peaceful. Knights aren’t out in wars all the time, but traveling and doing good deeds. Protecting the innocent.”
Ywain was quiet for a few moments. “That’s foolish talk,” he said, but his words had no bite to them.
“Perhaps, but it is still my goal,” Britt said, turning to face him as she warmed up to the subject as she thought of Arthurian lore. “I want a place where all of my knights can come and be equals. A place where they can share the good they have done and be honored for it. I want people near and far to talk of Camelot, not because of its great military strength but because its courts are justly ruled.”
Ywain shook his head. “It can’t be done. No one can hold peace like that in the land. Not even Uther Pendragon.”
“It has been my experience that no one can achieve a task unless they try first,” Britt smiled. “Have many others tried?”
Ywain looked away briefly. “If that’s your possible dream, what’s your impossible one?” he asked eventually.
Britt lost her smile and looked down at Excalibur. “It’s not worth dwelling on.”
“What are you going to do with me? Try to get me to talk about my father’s plans? I won’t say a word. Not ever!” Ywain angrily said after a few moments of silence.
“I agree,” Britt said. “And I don’t really know what we’re going to do with you, but we won’t kill you.”
“Not yet,” Ywain bitterly said.
“Not at all,” Britt corrected.
Ywain looked unconvinced and shuffled around the stake he was tied to until his back was to Britt.
Britt conversed frequently with Ywain over her three day deadline. She gradually pulled and nudged a few details out of the young man, like the fact that his sister had a wonderful singing voice, and he had a beautiful hunting hawk. Britt learned to bring water and basic provisions as Ywain was given undesirable food, if any. Suspicious that her men might be mistreating the young prisoner, Britt even visited Ywain during her nightly pacing.
“Have you come to kill me in my sleep?” Ywain said, spotting Britt’s shape among the tents.
“Hardly,” Britt chuckled as she slipped out of her hiding spot and approached the prisoner. “I thought you would be asleep.”
Ywain looked sharply away from Britt, but not so fast Britt didn’t see the fear in his eyes. He was afraid to fall asleep.
Britt sighed and sat on the ground. “At Camelot my dog as well as my guards shadow me when I cannot sleep,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder where the armor of three knights’ gleamed in the moonlight. “Tonight you’ll have to pinch hit for Cavall.”
“I’ll what?” Ywain suspiciously asked.
“Ahh, you will be a substitute for my dog,” Britt said, pulling a wooden carving of Cavall that Sir Bodwain had given her. “He is a wonderful listener.”
Ywain grumbled under his breath, but he fell still when Britt started talking. “He is as big as a lion.”
“You’ve seen a lion?”
“I have. They’re beautiful cats, the size of a bear hunting dog or more. A male lion’s mane is beautiful. It flows around his head like, like a halo I suppose. Personally I think the females are prettier. No one values the beauty of a female animal enough. Everyone always says the male is more beautiful,” Britt complained. “Society should follow the example of the male seahorse—which carries its young in a pouch before they hatch. Or something like that. It’s been ages since I saw the Animal Planet special about them. What do you think?”
Britt waited for a response, but there was only silence.
“Ywain?” Britt asked, rolling into a standing position before tip toeing to the young man.
He was fast sleep.
Britt smiled and moved to leave the area, but Ywain snorted awake. “Arthur?”
Britt plopped down next to a fire some feet away from Ywain and returned to studying her carving of Cavall. “This society treats women like crap. That’s the first thing my knights will have to right. Under my rule a knight will have no right to hold a girl against her will.”
“I thought you were talking about lions.”
“We were, but then I was enraged by thinking about how no one admires the beauty of a female lion, which made me think about the girls of this age. How many of them are married against their will? I have no hope of forcing women’s rights—this time period doesn’t even have rights for the common man—but I will at least teach my men to treat women with respect!” Britt rattled as Ywain drifted off to sleep.
By the morning of the last day Britt had to convince Ywain she had no idea how she would persuade the prince to join her, and she told Merlin as much.
“What do you mean?” Merlin frowned. “You almost have him.”
“I don’t. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I feel more like his mother caring for him than I feel like a king winning a subject,” Britt sighed.
“Sometimes, Britt, the most difficult task in being a king is to know when your subject needs you to set the crown aside. He’s a young boy and he’s a dreamer. He’s not difficult t
o understand. Test him today, and I think you’ll be surprised with the results,” Merlin said.
“Test?” Britt asked, tilting her head as she thought.
“Yes. Test. Now go away, King Ban and King Bors are coming to discuss tactics and if they realize I’m not hiding you in the forest with them tomorrow they’re going to throw a fit.”
Britt thoughtfully left Merlin’s tent and approached Roen—who was tacked and waiting for her. Britt hefted herself onto his back, nodded to her babysitter of the day—Sir Bedivere—and headed off to Ywain.
“Stand up, Ywain.” Britt said, momentarily sliding off Roen. Ywain curiously did so, his eyes growing wide when Britt pulled a dagger. “Relax,” she chuckled, before cutting to the rope that connected him to the stake. “Come on,” she ordered, again mounting Roen—towing Ywain with by his rope.
They walked through the camp, garnering a couple dozen bows and murmured, “My Lord” s.
Ywain looked increasingly nervous as they left the camp altogether and rode into the forest. When they were perhaps a mile from camp, Britt finally stopped.
“Here we go. You’re free, Ywain,” Britt said, dismounting Roen before she cut the rope binding Ywain’s wrists.
“I’m what?” Ywain said, his jaw going slack.
“You’re free to go. You are no longer my prisoner.”
“W-what about King Ban?”
“He will be disappointed, but I’m sure he’ll make it somehow,” Britt wryly chuckled, glancing at Sir Bedivere.
The swarthy knight was watching the exchange, but he did not seem disbelieving or angered, which surprised Britt.
“You can’t just mean to let me go. I know where your camp is! I know strategic information,” Ywain insisted.
Britt remounted Roen to hide her grimace. She hadn’t thought of that. She figured if Ywain ran back to his daddy all she would lose out on was a prisoner. So much for that idea. “Perhaps,” Britt agreed before wheeling Roen in the direction of camp. “But I genuinely like you, Ywain. I have no wish to see you muddled in this war between your father and I. Take care, maybe we’ll meet again,” Britt said, glancing at Sir Bedivere.
Sir Bedivere moved his horse like Britt, he did not seem inclined to turn around and snatch up Ywain. (Which was somewhat unfortunate.)