Enlighten

by K. M. Shea

  No one had a response.

  “You cannot believe that Merlin didn’t know who she was,” Gawain continued. “As that is the case, that must mean he saw something of worth in her. Something that made him believe that she could rule.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t account for the lies and falsehoods her rule is built on!”

  “If King Arthur couldn’t tell us the truth, how can we expect her to be just and true?”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “It is good if we wait to hear from Merlin before any brash actions are committed,” King Pellinore finally said, his voice breaking through the anger that was starting to stir up again. “It does not sit well with me that I have been lied to, but I have seen King Arthur’s heart in his actions, and it is good.”

  Gawain looked at Pellinore with an expression of thankfulness. The King barely shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll see,” he rumbled to Gawain. “I’m not yet convinced. But I know Arthur well enough that I would like to hear the entire story.”

  “It’s enough if we give her a chance,” Gawain said, although his heart sank as he looked out over the Round Table. Although the men let Gawain speak, it was obvious he hadn’t gotten through to any of them.

  The knights sported clenched fists, angry expressions, and hearts filled with pain.

  Where are you, My Lord? Gawain wondered when a knight shouted for more wine and mead. Why won’t you return to us? No one else can lead them.

  Chapter 7

  Back to Camelot

  Early the following morning, Britt was up to say farewell to Caerl and Isel—who were off to take the sheep to another grazing area.

  “Come back and visit again, Sir Galahad!” Caerl shouted as he hurried after the livestock.

  “Tell a minstrel about how you saved us!” Isel said, waving franticly.

  “Isel, come on!” Caerl called. Shortly after, the two disappeared into the woods, the baas of the sheep meandering away with them.

  Britt inhaled and looked to the sky—which was still dark with night. The sun wasn’t even a sliver over the horizon yet, and it was extra cool and chilly. “Might as well get an early start for London,” she murmured, turning to the stable her horse shared with two donkeys, several chickens, and a number of goats.

  “Sir Galahad, come break your fast with us,” Arth shouted, spying her in the yard.

  “Your village has already given me plenty of hospitality, Master Arth. I cannot ask for more,” Britt said.

  Edla—Arth’s outspoken and extremely pregnant wife—snorted. “You stayed with Caerl and Isel’s family last night. T’was hardly great hospitality.”

  “That may be so, but I saved their children. I have done nothing to aid either of you.”

  “Nay, that isn’t so,” Arth said. “Most of those sheep Caerl and little Isel watch are ours. With Edla due any day, I try to stay closer to home, so I watch their goats in exchange,” Arth said, smiling at his wife.

  “You had better let them out,” Edla said, nodding her head at the stable. “I’ll have food ready by the time you return.”

  “Yes, my heart,” Arth said with a wide smile. He kissed Edla’s cheek and was rewarded with a gentle smack before he left the cottage.

  “I’ll come. I would like to see how my horse is,” Britt said, following the shepherd. They entered the stable and were greeted by a wave of animal noises. Britt slid into her horse’s stall as Arth waded through the chickens to the small pen in which the goats were kept at the back of the stable.

  “What takes you to London, Sir Galahad?” Arth asked, scratching the forehead of a caramel-colored goat.

  “I’m seeking out a few friends there,” Britt vaguely answered, running her hands up and down her mount’s legs.

  “I see. London is a great city,” Arth said. “The jousting fields there are a sight of beauty.”

  “You’ve been to London?” Britt asked, surprised. It was unusual for commoners to travel great distances.

  “Aye, my family traveled there a number of times. T’was dangerous then, but I imagine with King Arthur’s knights out questing, your travels will be filled with less peril,” Arth said.

  “Do they really make such a big difference?” Britt asked.

  “Aren’t you a knight of Camelot? Don’t you know?” Arth asked.

  Britt picked up a brush and started briskly brushing the horse. “I mostly stayed in the city limits. I wasn’t often given a chance to quest.”

  “Ahh. Then I can testify to the difference. Arthur’s knights quest through the Forest of Arroy and beyond. Usually they are seeking out adventures—damsels in distress, mythical beasts and the like. As they ride, though, they come across us common people. If we’re plagued by recreant knights, they’ll rid us of the problem. Some will take on bandits. I even heard a story from a village not far from here that Sir Tor rode through and met a farmer whose horse had thrown a shoe and couldn’t pull a wagon load. Sir Tor hooked his own mount up and drove the farmer home,” Arth said.

  Britt leaned against her horse, longing stabbing her heart like a dagger. “So they really do perform good deeds,” she said, her voice soft with affection.

  “Aye, Sir Galahad. They’re changing the country,” Arth said, checking on a baby goat.

  Britt was glad he was distracted, for her eyes stung with unshed tears. She hid behind her horse’s neck and tried to brush her traitorous heart aside. There’s no use regretting it. I’ve lost them; I’ve lost my title. I can’t change that. They’ll never accept me as King Arthur again.

  “What has you seeking out your friends in London, if you don’t mind my asking?” Arth asked.

  Britt had ceased to be shocked by the villager’s informality the previous night. She cleared her throat and petted her horse before she returned to brushing it. “I’m fighting with a number of my friends and acquaintances, truth be told.”

  “Has King Arthur exiled you?”

  Britt couldn’t hold back her snort of laughter. “No,” she finally said. “King Arthur and I are on excellent terms. It’s the rest of the Round Table that are…uneasy with me.”

  “What happened?”

  “I lied to them. I made them believe things about me that weren’t true,” Britt said. Merlin would likely rip her tongue out for even referring to the events of the Round Table, but he wasn’t here, and it was comforting to tell an outside party of her problems. For too long Britt had carried the weight of her lie and everything it encompassed. It was freeing to cast it off like an old sweater—even if Britt’s heart twisted as she remembered Griflet’s denial or Sir Bedivere’s look of betrayal.

  “I find it difficult to think that King Arthur’s knights would hold such a grudge,” Arth said. “Why, Our Lord’s closest knights are the offspring of his enemies. Misleading is hardly the stuff of traitors.”

  “No, I don’t blame them for their anger. My lies hurt them more deeply than I imagined,” Britt dully said, recalling Ywain’s passionate anger.

  “And they won’t forgive you?”

  “I’m sure they won’t.”

  “You mean you haven’t asked?” Arth said.

  “If I did, there is a chance they might become…violent,” Britt said.

  “King Arthur’s knights? The knights of the Round Table, of Camelot?” Arth shook his head. “I think you’ve misjudged them, Sir Galahad. Besides, if you still have favor with the King, can’t he pardon you?”

  Britt gurgled with laughter. “No, I’m afraid not. Not even Arthur could save me now.”

  Arth was silent, and the barn was filled with soft animal noises and the rustling of straw. When Britt looked up, she found the young man’s eyes thoughtfully glued to her.

  “You seem to know the knights well,” Britt said, casting the brush aside.

  “I hear many stories about them, and King Arthur,” Arth vaguely said as he hopped over the goat pen and leaned up against a stall door. “You know, Sir Galahad, you are at a crossroad.”

 
“A what?”

  “A meeting point of roads. I went through one myself a short while ago,” Arth said.

  Britt cocked her head in curiosity. Arth looked barely seventeen or eighteen-years-old. What could he have possibly faced to be considered a crossroad? “What happened?”

  “I met Edla. I loved her greatly, but if I married her, I would ruin my family’s plans for me,” Arth said. “I thought about what they wanted me to do, the person they wanted me to become, and I realized it wasn’t for me. So Edla and I eloped and ran off.”

  “You must have been quite young,” Britt said.

  Arth laughed. “I was just a boy, but I’ve never regretted it. Edla and I belong here, in the village. We’re happy. This is who I really am. But who are you, Sir Galahad?”

  Britt shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” she asked. He couldn’t possibly have known that Galahad was a made-up name!

  “I mean, who are you? Are you the person you led your friends to think you are, or was that entirely false?”

  “Not all of it was,” Britt was quick to say. Sure, she wasn’t a teenage boy, but the things she said to her knights, her pursuit of honor and peace, all of those were true.

  “It is who you are that matters—the way you act, the things you believe in, and the words you speak. If those are true, then who cares of your parentage? Who cares about your past or history? The knights of the Round Table don’t follow King Arthur because he’s good with the sword or as beautiful as a faerie. They follow him because they believe in his cause, and they believe in his heart. Do they believe in your heart, Sir Galahad?”

  Britt was more than a little disconcerted that this young commoner was able to talk to her about the matter as if he knew what was wrong. But he was right.

  Britt had lied about her gender and her origins, but that didn’t change the heart of King Arthur. That didn’t change her desire to see Britain changed or to see her knights righting wrongs and fighting for the weak and oppressed. She didn’t have to be ashamed of being a woman. Although she lived in a time where female rulers weren’t the usual thing, she also lived in a time where it was unheard of to have knights help those in need—and hadn’t she changed that? Hadn’t her knights changed that?

  I have to go back, Britt grimly realized. I have to apologize, and I have to remind them their oaths are worthwhile. They might not have me as their king again, but I can’t let them throw away everything we’ve fought for.

  “Thank you for your wise words, Arth,” Britt said as she threw a blanket on her horse’s back. “You have helped me more than you know. Please give my apologies to Edla, but I won’t be…um…breaking my fast with you,” Britt said, placing the saddle on her gelding.

  Arth watched Britt with a soft, pleased smile. “Aye, My Lord. I’ll see if I can get you a few food items to take with on your return to Camelot.”

  “Thank you,” Britt called over her shoulder as she slipped the girth around her horse’s belly and tightened it—hearing but not necessarily taking in the shepherd’s words.

  When Britt finished readying her mount, the sun was over the horizon, casting streaks of warm, golden light into the sky.

  “Thank you for…everything,” Britt said, unable to put into words what the young couple had done.

  “It was our pleasure, Sir Galahad. Thank you for saving Caerl, Isel, and our sheep,” Edla said, leaning against Arth’s chest with a smile.

  “I wish you well, Sir Galahad. May the knights of Camelot hear you out,” Arth said.

  Britt swung up into the saddle. “Thank you. I hope they will. Even if they won’t, I have to try.”

  “Godspeed,” Edla said, waving to Britt.

  “Thank you,” Britt said before she nudged her horse into a trot, heading back to the Forest of Arroy.

  Edla and Arth watched her go until Edla yelped, “The soup!” and scurried back inside their cottage.

  Arth stayed outside, watching the woman-King ride off. Sir Ector was right—she was beautiful with a spirit that was just as pure. Arth—Arthur—had toyed with the idea of telling her who he was, but he was glad he hadn’t. A person like her would think it to be her responsibility to give up the throne for him, and he was happy with Edla, the village, and his sheep. “God bless you, King Arthur. No matter your gender, you’re the rightful King of Britain.”

  “YOU WHAT?” Sir Kay thundered. His voice was raised in one of his very rare shouts—Merlin had known him for ages and could count on one hand how many times the taciturn knight had yelled.

  “She’s not who she said she is,” Sir Ywain said, his eyes red and his hair greasy. Finding out who Britt really was had taken an obvious toll on the knight.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Sir Kay hissed. “What does matter is that our king was wounded—by one of her own knights—and you set her off without seeing to her injury? You FOOL!”

  “She’s nothing but a liar,” Sir Ywain spat.

  “She is your KING to whom you owe your life—and you abandoned her in a time of need,” Sir Kay snarled. “You’re not a knight. You’re nothing but a child playing pretend.”

  “You—! I will challenge you if you do not take back your words,” Sir Ywain said.

  “Please, do challenge me. I will gladly break your bones on the jousting field,” Sir Kay said, looming over the younger knight.

  Griflet rubbed his eyes. “Will this nightmare never end? Can’t we put this behind us?” he asked.

  Merlin barely heard the argument. His mind was spinning. This was worse than he imagined. Most of the order of the Round Table knew the truth about Britt—or at least about her gender. He thought this would happen eventually, but he didn’t think she would get ousted this soon. What should his first move be? Which part of his network should he notify first? How was Britt managing with her injury?

  “Excuse me, Merlin,” Sir Gawain said, his voice barely audible over Sir Kay’s roars and Sir Ywain’s shouts.

  “What?” Merlin said, his voice tight with tension.

  “If I might speak to you for a moment?”

  “Time is rather precious right now, Prince Gawain. What is it?”

  “It’s about King Arthur. My aunt Morgan saw him—her.”

  “Ywain, Griflet. Both of you; get out,” Merlin said.

  “No, I demand to know why you did this,” Sir Ywain said.

  “I did it because Britt Arthurs is the best monarch in all of history that we could hope for. Now get out,” Merlin said.

  “Come, Ywain,” Sir Griflet sighed.

  Sir Ywain glowered at Merlin and then Sir Kay before he strode from the room, the muscles of his shoulders tight with anger. Griflet followed him out, closing the door behind them.

  “Now, what did Morgan have to say about Arthur?” Merlin asked, turning every ounce of his attention to Sir Gawain.

  “She saw to her shoulder wound. She said it wasn’t too bad—as long as My Lord keeps it bandaged and doesn’t involve herself in any fights, it should heal fine. King Arthur charged my aunt with passing a message on to you,” Gawain said.

  Merlin eyed the younger knight. “And you are playing messenger boy?”

  “My aunt is traveling today to see the Lady of the Lake,” Gawain said.

  Some of Merlin’s tension eased. Morgan and Nymue were Britt’s staunch allies. If Morgan was seeking out Nymue, it was likely for help. “What is the message?”

  “King Arthur is traveling to London. She said she knew several knights who are allied with you. She plans to seek them out and wait for instructions there,” Gawain said.

  “That is all?” Merlin asked.

  Sir Gawain nodded.

  Merlin threw himself into a chair. “Thank you for the information, Sir Gawain.”

  Sensing the dismissal, Sir Gawain bowed and left Merlin’s study.

  “She’s been seen to,” Sir Kay said, leaning against one of Merlin’s workbenches in his relief.

  “It doesn’t mean she hasn’t come to additional ha
rm,” Merlin said, earning a dark look from Sir Kay. “But I think it is unlikely she will be attacked. If she is riding to London, she will be in the Forest of Arroy for a long time. Her knights have cleaned it up so well, I wonder if there are more than eight or nine recreant knights in the whole place.”

  Before Sir Kay could reply, the door swung open to admit Sir Bodwain and Sir Ector into Merlin’s study.

  “You’ve heard, I take it?” Sir Bodwain asked after looking from Merlin to Sir Kay.

  “We’ve heard that Britt was wounded and discovered—though Morgan le Fay later treated her wounds and set her on the path to London,” Merlin said.

  “That is the whole of it,” Sir Ector wearily sighed. “I’m worried about her, Merlin.”

  “She’s wise beyond her years. She will make it to London,” Merlin said.

  “What do we do about the knights? They’ve been in an uproar since Sir Lancelot, Sir Ywain, Sir Griflet, and Sir Bedivere returned. It’s a miracle they haven’t spread the news through the whole castle—although everyone knows they are unhappy with Arthur,” Sir Bodwain said.

  Merlin closed his eyes and thought. Or he tried to think. Instead, his mind was filled with images of Britt, scared and hurt by her knight’s anger.

  This is what affection for another person does, Merlin grimly thought. It ruins your ability to reason and think clearly. Merlin was not pleased with this realization, but he also recognized he was incapable of dealing with the consequence at this moment. He needed to concentrate. England needed him to concentrate.

  “We do nothing,” Merlin finally said.

  Sir Bodwain stared at him. “I beg your pardon, what did you just say?”

  “We do nothing,” Merlin repeated.

  “Nothing? But—can’t you use magic? Or talk to the knights? They still trust you—I am certain of it. King Pellinore got them to hold off judgment until you arrived. And you will do nothing?” Sir Bodwain gaped.