by K. M. Shea
“It’s not that, and my deer’s name is Rudolph,” Britt said, referring to the white buck Sir Gawain had brought back to Camelot as a gift for Britt after completing his first quest.
Merlin’s frown deepened to a scowl. “Must you name every animal you come across? It’s not very kingly.”
“Don’t care. So, can we go to your study? I—”
“My Lord, My Lord! Are there any towns crying out for a savior or damsels in need of aid?” Sir Griflet, a young, exuberant knight asked, nearly crashing into Britt’s chair as he skidded up to her.
“I’m sorry, what?” Britt said.
“Surely someone or someplace has signaled to you a need for a champion,” Sir Griflet said.
Sir Ywain—Griflet’s friend and supposedly Britt’s nephew—rolled his eyes behind his friend’s back. “He wants to go out on a quest, My Lord.”
Britt’s lips eased into a slight smile. “You’re that eager to leave my courts, Griflet?”
“Not at all, My Lord. I am merely desirous of spreading news of your greatness!” Griflet said.
“Lady Blancheflor still doesn’t know he exists,” Sir Ywain said, naming the pretty girl Griflet had been calf-eyed over for nearly a year. “He wants to do great deeds to build up his reputation so she’ll acknowledge him.”
“Vagrant!” Griflet huffed.
“So, she still is a dedicated admirer of Lancelot, is she? That’s tough,” Britt said.
“The Lady Blancheflor knows my name,” Sir Griflet insisted.
“Only because you’ve written her so much poetry she couldn’t possibly make such a mistake,” Sir Ywain said, earning a scowl from his friend.
“You recreant—”
“It is unfortunate, Griflet, but I have not received any requests for help or aid,” Britt said, interrupting the friends before they could start insulting each other’s honor. “You could always follow Sir Gawain’s example and leave with the intent of finding wrongs and righting them.”
Griflet frowned and looked at the ground.
“Nay, My Lord. He can’t do that. Sir Lancelot du Lac has said that any knight that aimlessly wanders without a quest in his mind is foolish and without purpose,” Sir Ywain supplied for his friend.
Britt gave the pair a flat look. “Sir Lancelot is an idiot who—before he came to my courts—wandered aimlessly without a quest in his mind.”
“Arthur,” Merlin hissed.
Britt half-expected Merlin to jab his elbow in her side, but he didn’t. He hadn’t elbowed her since awkwardness entered their relationship the previous summer when Britt admitted her feelings for the wizard, and the wizard rebuffed her. They had fought and ignored each other for a few days after, until they had The Talk—as Britt had come to call it—which cleared the air between them. Still, ever since The Talk, she felt the strain on their friendship. There was an extra barrier between her and Merlin that hadn’t previously existed.
She ignored Merlin’s hissed warning and smiled at her young knights. “If you are so eager to impress your lady, Griflet, I suggest you think it over. Why, I would go off on a quest myself if I didn’t think Kay would make me drag twenty guards with me, and Merlin would follow behind with half of my court.”
“Arthur!” Merlin repeated, this time his voice was a snarl.
“Think on it.” Britt patted Griflet’s shoulder in a clear dismissal before she turned to face Merlin with a bright smile. “Yes, Merlin?”
Merlin eyed her. “You need to work on holding your tongue in matters pertaining to Lancelot.”
“Why bother?”
“Because he is a knight and a foreign prince who happens to be a member of your Round Table!” Merlin said.
“Whatever,” Britt grumbled. “So, as I was saying, could we talk?”
“Certainly. Shall we—”
“My Lord?”
Britt turned to find herself face to face with Sir Bedivere—her marshal and one of the few knights in Merlin’s close circle who had no knowledge of her gender or true identity. Even so, Britt considered him one of her most staunch supporters—he was the first knight besides Kay to truly believe in her.
“Sir Bedivere, how can I help you?” Britt asked.
“I am aware you already received the new knights who arrived in Camelot this morning, but I was hoping you would take a few additional minutes to speak to them,” Sir Bedivere said, indicating to a group of young knights waiting several paces away.
“You don’t usually have me directly address new recruits after my initial welcome,” Britt carefully said.
“Indeed, because usually it is a waste of your time. But I agree with Sir Bedivere. You should speak with these knights,” Merlin said.
Britt narrowed her eyes. “Who are they related to?”
Through unfortunate experience, Britt had learned just about every knight that came to her court had a cousin or sibling already in her service—which meant Britt had to treat them like glass, lest their cousin/sibling/powerful relative would be offended.
“Related to, My Lord?” Sir Bedivere asked, his forehead wrinkling.
Merlin impatiently waved a hand through the air, attempting to swat Britt’s suspicions away. “They are renown knights who have already done a great deal of good.”
“Who are they related to?” Britt demanded.
“Sir Percival, the oldest son of King Pellinore, is in their ranks,” Sir Bedivere said.
Britt sighed. “I would complain about nepotism, but I actually like Pellinore. Fine, but can it wait? I need to speak to Merlin for a few minutes.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Sir Bedivere said in a reluctant way which made it clear that no, it couldn’t really wait.
The clatter of children running across the stone floor caught Britt’s attention, and she looked up to see Gareth and Gaheris—the youngest of the four Orkney princes—screech to a halt a stone’s throw away from her. They looked like they wanted to throw themselves at her but were keeping themselves in check, having finally—after much tutoring from Gawain—grasped the fact that Britt was an important figure and was not only their beloved “uncle.”
Since Gawain and Agravain’s absence, the pair had become more affectionate with Britt. They were still little—perhaps ten or eleven-years-old—and they had yet to lose their adorable, baby possum looks with their big eyes and sweet expressions.
Britt groaned in the back of her throat.
Merlin moved, as if to pat Britt on her shoulder before he thought better of it and smiled at her. “I can talk to you later today, Arthur. Good luck.”
“Right, thanks,” Britt said. She offered Gareth and Gaheris a smile, motioning for them to draw closer. “Hello, nephews. How did your training go this morning?” Britt asked.
“My archery teacher says I have a natural eye,” Gareth said.
“I rode a charger and hit the dummy in jousting practice,” Gaheris said, almost jumping in place as Britt placed an affectionate hand on top of his head.
“Well done! I’m about to speak with a few new knights. Would you two like to accompany me?” Britt asked.
“Yes, please, My Lord,” the boys chorused.
“Alright. Lead on, Sir Bedivere,” Britt said, offering her marshal a smile.
Merlin watched the knight lead Britt and the boys away. When she greeted the knights, she flashed them her stunning smile—not the one she kept tucked on her face as King Arthur, but the smile she wore when she was genuinely pleased. The knight who caused the smile— Pellinore’s son—gawked and lost his composure for a moment when faced with her radiant looks.
The wizard shook his head as he watched Britt lead the Orkney princes and the new arrivals from the room. They trailed around her with open expressions. Merlin knew that by the end of the walk, all of the knights would be completely, utterly loyal to her.
Britt won over men to her cause with pretty words and speeches like no ruler Merlin had ever heard of. In his heart of hearts, Merlin wondered if it was because
she was a girl, but he also suspected that Britt knew how to appeal to the young knights’ natures. They weren’t that difficult to figure out—all they longed for was for someone to see something of worth in them.
I’m not one of her knights she can lead like a lamb, Merlin reminded himself. Over the previous summer, Merlin made the unfortunate discovery that he was fond of Britt. Far more fond than he had any right to be, and far more fond of her than he ever wished to be. “I like her no more than I like Sir Ector, or Sir Kay—well, more than Sir Kay,” Merlin muttered.
He shook his head, smoothed his open, black robe, and made his exit from the hall. Whatever Britt wanted to discuss would wait, and dwelling on her would only borrow trouble.
Chapter 2
Boons and Fools
Britt fiddled with a buckle that stabbed her in the armpit. She was—for once—dressed in a full set of armor instead of wearing her typical few pieces—the cuirass to cover her chest, a plackart to reinforce it, faulds to cover her thighs, and a gorget to shield her throat.
She would have preferred to wear the lighter armor set, but today had been declared a day of contests in the practice arena, and Sir Bodwain had all but blackmailed her into trying her hand at a few jousting matches.
So far, she had good luck. She’d ridden against three knights—all of them as green as grass—and tossed all three off their horses. After the three wins, Britt made herself scarce from the jousting field lest Sir Kay or Sir Bodwain decided to go up against her. (Both were nightmares to joust.)
“Got it. Thank you, Gareth. I’ll take Roen back,” Britt said, finally pushing the buckle into a comfortable position before she took the reins of her destrier. The black gelding swished his tail and nuzzled her when she affectionately patted his neck. “Are you two going to try your hand at archery?” Britt asked.
Gaheris shook his head. “We’re not knights.”
“So? Lem—Sir Tor’s squire, that is—entered the archery competition,” Britt said.
“We’re not even squires, though,” Gareth said.
“It doesn’t matter. This isn’t an official tournament. Go try—it will be fun,” Britt said.
The Orkney princes exchanged looks before they nodded.
“As you wish, My Lord,” Gaheris said.
“We’ll make you proud, My Lord,” Gareth added, remembering to bow at the last second before he ran after his brother.
The brothers disappeared in the swirl of knights and ladies attending to the various games being held. Britt laughed in affection before she noticed Sir Bodwain purposefully scanning the crowd. Britt lost her laugh and hurried to put a tent between the knight and Roen—who stuck out like a sore thumb as he wore tack and equipment emblazoned with Britt’s personal symbol—a red dragon.
Britt peered around the tent, hoping to get a glimpse of the older knight to confirm he had moved on.
“Arthur, there you are. I was about to go look for you at the sword matches,” Merlin said directly behind her, making Britt jump.
“Merlin,” she said, holding a hand to her heart. “You haven’t seen Kay, have you?” she asked, looking suspiciously past him for her foster-brother.
“I left him at the jousting ring, looking for you,” Merlin wryly said. “I thought you would be hiding.”
“It doesn’t seem fair that he coddles me like a baby when it comes to my guards, but in jousting practice, he acts as if he wants to bash my head in,” Britt complained.
“I’m sure he has his reasons. He probably believes he’s making you tougher or some such nonsense. Raised by wolves, he was. What was it you wanted to talk to me about…two days ago, I think it was?”
“Right. I was wondering if we could fabricate some sort of quest for Lancelot,” Britt said.
“Arthur,” Merlin groaned, heaving his head back to look at the sky.
“It’s not what you think,” Britt was quick to say.
“I’m sure it’s exactly what I think: you’re still paranoid about Lancelot causing the downfall of Camelot. I thought my mentor’s talk with you banished your obsession with your modern-day legend,” Merlin said.
“It’s not about Lancelot and Guinevere—at least not completely,” Britt said.
“Then what is it?”
“I feel like he’s…I don’t want to say stalking me, but…” Britt trailed off as Merlin looked at her with disbelief written across his face. “I feel like I’m a deer that he’s hunting,” Britt said, finally finding a sufficient metaphor that Merlin would understand. “He’s always near me—well, not always but most of the time. Whenever I turn around, he’s there, asking for my opinion or boasting about one of his past quests. I would never be so deceived as to say he likes me; it’s more like he’s studying me so he can learn how to catch me.”
When Britt looked at Merlin again, the wizard had changed his expression to one that was more thoughtful.
“It makes me really uncomfortable and uneasy. I mean, if he looks close enough he might…notice something,” Britt said.
Merlin nodded and thoughtfully narrowed his eyes. “I see your point. I have not noticed his presence near you, but I will watch for it. If I see that he does roam around you, we will consider what sort of quest he could be sent on, but do not be deceived, Arthur. I will not dispatch King Ban’s son without good reason if he is not inclined to leave Camelot on his own.”
“Okay. Thanks, Merlin.”
“Of course, lass,” Merlin said, using the nickname he previously used frequently, but now hesitated to utter. Merlin opened his mouth to say something more, but his eyes focused on something behind Britt. “Sir Lancelot,” he greeted, courteously bowing his head to the young knight.
“Good afternoon, Merlin, My Lord,” the coal-haired knight said with a handsome smile. “I am here to see if My Lord would grant my request of seeking a jousting match against him.”
“What—you don’t want to try your luck with the sword, again?” Britt wryly asked.
In spite of her nettling words, Lancelot laughed. “No, My Lord. I have humbled myself enough to accept that you are a far better swordsman than I. I have hopes that my skill in jousting might redeem me, though.”
Britt glanced at Merlin to look for his reaction, but the wizard wore nothing but a polite smile. “It seems unnecessary to me,” Britt finally said. “I am fair at jousting but certainly not skilled. If redemption is what you seek, I suggest you try to face Sir Kay or Sir Bodwain. They are our champion jousters.”
Lancelot laughed. “I don’t think I could ever beat them, My Lord. Come, let’s fight,” Lancelot said, placing a hand on Britt’s shoulder.
Britt shrugged Lancelot’s hand off but reluctantly followed Lancelot to the jousting area—towing Roen behind her. Jousting against Lancelot was on the top of her list of things not to do, but if Merlin wanted proof of Lancelot’s strange actions, Britt would provide it.
In a much shorter time than she wished, Britt found herself mounted and on one end of the jousting field.
Britt rested her lance on her saddle and shifted, aware that Roen was tense with excitement and power.
When a page stepped into place and lifted a flag, Britt reluctantly raised her lance, spurring Roen forward when the page dropped the flag.
Britt charged towards Lancelot—who was mounted on a beautiful horse with a gold body and white mane and tail. She tensed up as she narrowed in on Lancelot’s shield, carefully aiming. When her lance hit his shield, Britt threw her weight into it. She gasped when Lancelot’s lance hit her. It was a strong blow, but Britt’s was clearly stronger; she threw the handsome knight against the back of his saddle but didn’t manage to toss him from his horse.
“Good boy, Roen,” Britt panted as her horse adjusted his stride and turned around to head back to their end of the jousting lane.
Britt heard the page shouting that there was to be another run as more knights and ladies gathered to watch. Britt’s shield arm stung, but the pain was nothing compared to the numbi
ng blows Sir Kay rained on her whenever they practiced.
“Maybe I can unseat him,” Britt murmured. “That was not a good blow. He really is an idiot,” Britt said, rolling her shoulder. When the page signaled to start, she forced her lance up and heeled Roen forward like a shot.
Again, Britt concentrated on Lancelot’s shield. She felt Roen adjust his movements beneath her, his gait matching her balance.
Britt’s lance hit Lancelot’s shield, and she pushed into her lance and down in the stirrups. I have him!
And then Lancelot’s blow hit her.
His lance hit her with such power, he knocked her shield aside, the blow making her arm scream with hot pain.
He was holding back, Britt realized in the moment she had before the force knocked her like a ragdoll. She slid off Roen—though the black gelding crow-hopped and tried to keep her on.
There was ringing in her ears as the crowd applauded for Lancelot’s win, and several knights ran up to her.
“Arthur,” Sir Kay said, plucking Britt’s helm from her head.
“I’m fine, just a little stunned,” Britt said, wincing as she tried to move her shield arm and found that she couldn’t.
“Did you know Lancelot could hit like that?” Sir Bodwain asked Sir Kay.
“No,” Sir Kay grimly said.
“I didn’t know it either, or I wouldn’t have let the match take place,” Sir Bodwain said, his gaze fastened on Lancelot, who was circling his horse in their direction.
“Does anything feel broken?” Kay asked Britt.
“I don’t think so. I feel like I was trampled by a bull, though. Help me up,” Britt ordered, holding out her good arm.
Sir Kay grunted as he helped Britt stand, taking most of her weight. “One thing is for sure,” Britt said, her teeth clenched with pain as she forced herself to smile for the audience’s sake. “I’m not doing that again.” She raised her arm in the air—making a few cheers break out of the crowd. The celebrators were mostly females—Britt could see—although some ladies shook their heads and watched with worry instead of applauding the handsome knight.