by K. M. Shea
“So two strangers are fighting each other for the sake of two brothers. Somehow this doesn’t make sense,” Britt muttered.
“Silence,” Sir Damas snapped.
Britt rolled her eyes and adjusted her stance—her borrowed sword unsheathed and held at her side.
“If that is what you wish,” Sir Damas said, directing his gaze to his brother. “As the challenged party, it is within my rights to declare the test.”
Sir Outzlake frowned. “You mean our champions will not joust?”
“No,” Sir Damas said. “I prefer a contest by swords.”
Sir Outzlake turned in his saddle to face his followers.
At the far end of the meadow, an entourage of four knights was gathered. Britt squinted—trying to make out their coat of arms—but she couldn’t see at such a great distance. They did appear to be arguing, though. One of the knights threw his hands in the air, and another emphatically pointed into the forest. The third knight launched for the fourth knight’s reins but missed, and the forth knight cued his horse into a trot, drawing towards Sir Outzlake.
Sir Outzlake spoke to the knight in an undertone before he shouted, “I agree. Let our champions settle the score through blades.”
Britt rolled her shoulders—attempting to loosen them up—as she studied her opponent. He was tall—taller than Britt—and his shoulders were wider as well.
I’ll have to compensate for his additional strength—and he very likely is a quick mover judging by the cut of his armor, Britt thought as she sashayed up to the open space between Damas and Outzlake.
Outzlake’s champion met her there, an unreadable statue of armor and weapons. Britt wondered at the stance he took—she had seen it before.
“Champions! You may begin,” Sir Damas shouted.
The words were barely out of his mouth when Britt struck—attempting a sweeping blow that would make a slash starting at her opponent’s hip and ending at his opposite shoulder. He blocked—as she hoped he would—and Britt struck out with her left leg. The knight took the hit like a brick wall, but Britt slithered closer, attempting to use her sword like a lever to pop her opponent’s sword out of his hands.
He unfortunately guessed her movements and sprang away. Britt followed at him with a gut thrust—crouching low before pushing forward.
The opposing champion blocked that, as well. Britt meant to rush him and carry through with the thrust, but the knight—using brute strength—pushed his blade up during the block, taking Britt’s sword with his.
This left both of them wide open. The knight tried to hit her in the neck with the pommel of his sword.
Too flashy, Britt thought. She dodged by sinking to her knees and slamming her borrowed sword into her opponent’s right knee with as much force as she could muster.
Finally, she had thrown the knight off guard. He muttered an oath inside his helm and took a step backwards. Britt pushed her advantage, leaping from the ground and throwing all of her weight into her opponent. He staggered again, and with a fancy twirl, Britt tangled her sword in the hilt of his, turning at unnatural angle so the knight was forced to break his wrist or let it go.
When the knight released his sword, it almost hit Britt in the face with the force he used to throw it, but Britt used her sword to direct it away.
The fight should have stopped there with the knight being unarmed an all, but the knight roared in rage and almost nailed Britt in the neck.
I was too careless, Britt grimly thought, dodging the worst of the blow—although her gorget dug into the skin of her neck from what pressure he managed to hit her with. I have to end this, or my stamina is going to give out.
Britt finished the knight off with a brutal chop to his helm, rattling his head and sending him to his knees. She kneed his shoulder, spilling him backwards so he landed on his back. Britt, brisk and business-like, kicked his arm away so she could wedge her blade in his unprotected armpit.
“Well done, champion,” Sir Damas boomed, clapping his hands. “I believe this means you will give up all claims, brother?”
“Wait just a moment. I never agreed that I would stop fighting this injustice,” Sir Outzlake said, puffing up again.
Britt sneezed again. “Ugh, I need a tissue,” she muttered to the spitty inside of her helm. She removed her sword from her opponent’s armpit and rested it on her shoulder as she strolled back to Sir Damas’ party, aiming for the chestnut gelding she had ridden to the meadow—lent to her by Damas.
Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake had stalked towards each other and were busy arguing in the middle of the meadow.
“So what if your champion beat mine? All that means is that you were able to pay a better man to fill your shoes—coward,” Sir Outzlake said.
“I am a scholar—fighting was never my business. You are the warrior of the family, and yet you chose not to fight either!” Sir Damas said.
Britt tried unhooking her helm to get the spit out of her face but wasn’t having much luck with it since she could only use one hand. When she finally got it so she could ease it off, something roared behind her—sounding like an enraged dragon.
Britt spun around—thinking Sir Outzlake had lost it and was going to kill his brother.
To her shock, she found the other champion lunging at her—his sword extended.
Britt didn’t have enough time to react. She was stabbed—the tip of the champion’s sword wedging through the armor pieces delicately arranged on her shoulder.
Britt fell to her knees with the force of the blow—her helm toppling from her head. Pain exploded in her shoulder, and her legs twitched as she tried to make them work—what if this maniac tried to finish her off?! Excalibur’s scabbard would keep her from bleeding, but it couldn’t keep her heart pumping!
There was the thundering of hooves as horses galloped across the field.
“Lancelot you dishonorable, blackguard. What are you doing?!”
“There! Your champion just laid an illegal blow upon my champion. Clearly I am in the right,” Sir Damas shouted.
“Sir Ywain!” Lady Vivenne shouted.
“…What?”
There was a scuffle, and a knight appeared in Britt’s line of vision.
“Lancelot, what have you done,” the knight uttered. He tossed his helmet aside, revealing a face Britt knew well: Bedivere.
“Sir Bedivere,” Britt said, licking her lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I could say the same, My Lord,” Bedivere said, his expression tight as he started to remove pieces of Britt’s armor.
“My what?…LANCELOT!”
“That sounds like Ywain. The real one,” Britt said as Lady Vivenne knelt next to her, carrying a supply pack.
“It is Ywain—and Griflet,” Sir Bedivere said fumbling with the buckles of Britt’s borrowed breastplate.
“Then whom did I fight?” Britt asked.
There was a roar and a clang as Ywain tackled someone.
“None other than Sir Lancelot,” Sir Bedivere said. “Though I’m not sure he’ll live to see the end of the day.”
Britt laughed and winced in pain.
“I have bandages and some herbs to staunch the blood flow,” Lady Vivenne said, digging through her pack.
“Oh, where are my manners? Lady Vivenne, this is Sir Bedivere. Bedivere, this is Lady Vivenne. She’s the little sister of the arguing idiots,” Britt said, carefully exhaling in an attempt to master her pain.
“A pleasure,” Sir Bedivere said, not paying attention.
“You know, you don’t have to hurry. I’m not going to bleed out. Although my shoulder does feel odd. Did Lancelot dislocate it?” Britt frowned.
“How was I to know my opponent was Arthur? He was wearing a full suit of armor!”
“You shouldn’t have been as dishonorable as to attack a man from behind after you clearly lost!” Sir Griflet shouted.
There was another clang as someone else—Griflet probably—tackled Lancelot again.
Brit
t gasped in pain when Sir Bedivere jostled her as he tried to slide her plackart off.
Lady Vivenne swore most colorfully. “I’ve forgotten my vial of ground ivy. I’ll ride back to the castle—it’s only a few minutes away. I shan’t be long,” the girl said before scrambling away, leaving a cloud of dust.
“Bon Voyage,” Britt said, raising her good arm to swat the air away from her face. “I knew I was right to hate Lancelot. He’s such a slug.”
“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your tongue, My Lord,” Sir Bedivere said, his face gray with anxiety.
“I’m not on my death bed, Sir Bedivere. This hurts about as badly as when I broke my arm as a kid. Ugh, stab wounds. Not fun,” Britt grimaced. “Although it might be worth it. Kay is going to murder Lancelot.
Miles away, Sir Kay and Merlin rode together through the Forest of Arroy. Sir Kay abruptly straightened in the saddle and squinted, looking ahead.
“What’s wrong?” Merlin asked, glancing at his taciturn companion.
“I have a bad feeling in my gut,” Sir Kay said.
“About?”
“I feel as if Britt has been hurt.”
Merlin uneasily shifted in his saddle, although he said, “That’s not the worst that could happen. As long as she has Excalibur’s scabbard, I expect she’ll be fine. Besides, who is to say your gut is right?”
Sir Kay blinked. “I will track down whoever hurts her,” he said.
“I wouldn’t expect any less of you,” Merlin said, urging his horse forward.
When Ywain’s face popped into view, Britt could still hear Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake arguing.
“This is clearly my win, so trundle back to your little manor and cry off!” Sir Damas demanded.
“Never! You should have fought for your own honor!” Sir Outzlake said.
“YOU should have fought for your own honor as well!”
“Hello, Ywain,” Britt said with a smile that showed more of her teeth than usual due to the pain.
“My Lord,” Ywain said, his expression tight. “Are you, are you…will you make it?”
“Ywain! He stabbed me in the shoulder, and I’m fairly certain it didn’t go in very deep. Yes, I’m going to make it!” Britt barked.
Ywain looked relieved.
“Help me remove the rest of his armor. We’ll have to rip open the under-padding,” Sir Bedivere said.
This brought Britt out of the ocean of pain with stark clarity. “Wait, what?” she said.
“We need to remove your armor and garments so your chest can be inspected,” Sir Bedivere said, removing several pieces of armor on her arm.
Britt laughed. “That is a very nice thought, but no. No, that is unnecessary.”
“My Lord, the wound must be cared for,” Sir Bedivere said.
“Can’t Merlin do it?” Britt asked.
“Merlin did not ride with our search party,” Ywain said.
“Oh. In that case, how far away are we from Camelot?” Britt asked.
“We are not riding back to Camelot with you in this condition, My Lord,” Sir Bedivere said.
“How is he?” Sir Griflet asked, skidding out and almost falling flat on his face when he joined his fellow knights in crowding around Britt.
“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten all of his blasted armor off. My Lord, please stop fighting us,” Sir Bedivere said.
“You’re all overreacting. I’m f-fine,” Britt said, stammering when someone jarred her injured shoulder and pain hit her like a truck.
Ywain scowled. “This is all your fault. If you had just ignored Sir Outzlake’s outrageous request to serve as his champion and not wasted our time, none of this would have happened!” he said as Lancelot knelt by Britt’s head.
“If I had not served as Outzlake’s champion, we wouldn’t have found My Lord and would still be searching for him,” Lancelot said.
“Maybe so, but if you weren’t such a poor loser, he wouldn’t be in this condition!” Griflet snapped.
Lancelot ignored the jab and rested his dreamy eyes on Britt’s face. “I am sorry, My Lord. I don’t know what came over me. If I had known it was you—”
“Your anger at being beaten got the best of you, eh, Lancelot? Temper, temper, temper. But you’re lucky. I’m feeling magnanimous. I’ll let you survive if you stop your cohorts from undressing me!” Britt said, real panic starting to build. “Where is Merlin?”
“We already told you, My Lord, he didn’t ride with us,” Ywain said.
“See—he is quite injured. His memory is slipping,” Griflet hissed to Lancelot.
“It is not—I just didn’t think you were serious. How can Merlin not be here?” Britt demanded.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, My Lord,” Sir Lancelot said.
“I expect you wouldn’t. Everyone, just stop touching me. I’m serious—in fact I order it!” Britt said, struggling to sit up.
One of the knights firmly pushed her down.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, My Lord. Finally, we can remove the cuirass,” Sir Bedivere said.
“Don’t—STOP!” Britt shouted, panic making her heart thunder in her ears.
The knights wouldn’t need to strip her down to see she wasn’t what she claimed to be. All they would need to do is take off her jerkin. Her body would betray the rest, and all would be lost.
How is Merlin not here? He’s always here when I’m in trouble! Britt thought, panic making her breathe faster.
“Lift him up on three, Lancelot, so we can remove the cuirass. It’s the least you can do,” Sir Bedivere said.
“Don’t you dare!” Britt said, starting to struggle in earnest. She thrashed, but Ywain and Griflet held her tight.
“One.”
“Stop it!” Britt shouted.
“Two.”
“I mean it! Merlin will kill you all!”
“Three.”
When Lancelot lifted Britt up, her shoulder was wrenched. She gasped with the new wave of pain and, recognizing the feeling of disconnect from her shoulder, suspected that it really was dislocated.
I’m going to kill Lancelot. I was right—he DOES bring about my downfall, Britt thought before her vision grew hazy and pain claimed her, stealing her conscious.
Still many miles away, it was Merlin’s turn to straighten in his saddle.
Sir Kay raised his eyebrows at the wizard but said nothing.
“Maybe your gut isn’t so far off,” Merlin said, rubbing the back of his neck with a worried frown.
“What is it?”
“Apprehension. Some kind of magical foresight. I feel as if…”
“As if?”
Doom breathed down Merlin’s neck like a murderous beast. “As if my life’s work is about to come crashing down around my ears.”
Chapter 5
Revealed
Britt groaned as she came to, consciousness easing into her like an ocean wave crawling up the beach. Her eyes fluttered open, and a moment passed before she remembered the precarious situation she was in. She snapped upright—her arm protesting with the sudden movement.
She still wore her jerkin, but there was no doubt in Britt’s mind that her knights knew. Their faces said it all.
Sir Griflet paced back and forth, shaking his head. “It can’t be,” he muttered.
Ywain couldn’t even look at Britt. His back was to her, and his hands were clenched in fists. Tension and anger lined his body, and although he was unmoving, Britt got the distinct feeling he was like volcano, ready to erupt.
Lancelot—the knight Britt cared the least about—seemed to have the most control over himself. He leaned against his dapple-gray horse, his eyes narrowed.
Sir Bedivere sat about ten feet away, plopped on the ground as if his legs didn’t have the strength to hold him upright. When he raised his head and met Britt’s gaze, the look of betrayal in his eyes put a knife through Britt’s heart.
They knew.
“Why?” Ywain said. His back was s
till to Britt, but he seemed to instinctively know she was awake.
Britt hesitated. “I had no choice,” she said.
“You lied to us!” Ywain said, spinning around as if his body were yanked by puppet strings. The young knight’s expression made Britt want to cry. He was angry, but his eyes looked lost and frightened. “Was any of it real? Any of the things you said—were they true?”
“Of course they are,” Britt said, grimacing and holding her wound. It seemed that in their shock, the knights had done nothing with her shoulder wound—not that she blamed them. Besides, Excalibur’s scabbard was keeping her blood in her. “I’m still the same person.”
“No, you’re not,” Sir Bedivere said, his voice quiet.
“This is a nightmare—that’s it! It has to be a nightmare,” Sir Griflet muttered. “Does anyone care to stab me or some such thing? I wish to wake up now.”
“You’re not dreaming, Griflet,” Ywain growled, his eyes narrowed in hatred as he stared at Britt. “This is real. Our King has done nothing but lie to us and laugh at our ignorance since the beginning.”
“I have never laughed at you,” Britt calmly stated.
“Impossible,” Ywain said with a bark of laughter that was far too harsh for such a young man to utter. “I imagine this whole time you’ve been barely able to keep from splitting your gut with laughter. You called me your shield! You lied!”
“I lied about myself, but that doesn’t mean the things I said to you were untrue,” Britt said.
Ywain laughed again and turned his back to Britt.
The knights were silent.
Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake still argued in the background, completely oblivious to the drama taking place no more than thirty feet away from them.
Britt tried to move, the pain in her shoulder made her feel the throbbing of her heart in strange places. “I’m sorry, but I had no choice.”
“Didn’t you, My Lord?” Sir Bedivere quietly asked. The marshal looked as if Britt had stolen his reason to live with the reveal of her gender. Ywain’s anger was easier to handle than Bedivere’s look of betrayal and hurt. “You couldn’t have told any of us?”