by KM Shea
“You usually run these types of conversations with an iron fist, though. You become a bulldog over anything that has to do with my rule,” Britt said.
“A bull-dog? What a hideous image. And no, I intend to leave the knights be for several reasons. The foremost being that it will keep them occupied.”
“Oh? Aren’t you worried about getting the peasants to like me?” Britt asked.
“No, not at all,” Merlin shook his head.
“Why not?”
“We have no reason to court them because, as I have previously mentioned, they’re already in love with you. Now, the moment is here. Come. It’s your chance to pull the sword from the stone,” Merlin said, stepping into the cemetery.
“But shouldn’t we—?” Britt trailed off and pointed over her shoulder where all the knights (excluding Sir Kay) were still arguing.
“Nay. They’ll merely get in our way. Come along, Arthur,” Merlin said, pushing his way through the crowded cemetery.
Britt reluctantly followed, lingering at Merlin’s elbow when he reached the sword in the stone, cutting in line. “Archbishop,” Merlin boomed. “Today marks the fourth trial, the fourth day men have come from near and far to pull the sword from the stone. For the three trials before this, Arthur has been the only one to pull and sheathe the sword in the stone. Do we let him try again today?”
The peasants who were swarming in the streets, barely able to see the trial taking place in the cemetery but waiting nonetheless, clamored over each other.
“Yes, let Arthur try!”
“Give him a chance!”
“Arthur!”
“Let Arthur pull the sword!”
The Archbishop stood up—his chair had wisely been brought out of St. Paul’s Cathedral for the day—and held up his hands, quieting the commoners. “Please, Arthur, do try,” the Archbishop kindly said.
Britt exhaled as Merlin edged aside, clearing her way to the sword. The feeling of power and magic still oozed off the sword, but it no longer impressed Britt as it once had. She had been forced to watch too many trials and act like a performing monkey to be intimidated anymore.
Britt unceremoniously reached out and wrapped her hand around the sword’s hilt before pulling it. The familiar sound of the sword sliding free was thunderous in the sudden quiet of the cemetery. Britt swung the sword once and held it above her head.
The people in the streets roared. They sounded angry, and their faces twisted as they shouted at the top of their lungs. Their words were indecipherable, and for a few moments, Britt was afraid they would storm the cemetery to rip her to pieces. Then those near the front of the crowd were finally heard.
“Hail, King Arthur!”
“The true son of Uther Pendragon!”
“Long live King Arthur!”
“The rightful King of Britain!”
Britt took a step back, her eyes wide as she stared at the crowd that stomped and roared for her.
Knights and barons began to join the vocal display of loyalty, some more easily than others. Surprisingly, even a number of the kings began to kneel. King Leodegrance was among the first of men to bow, sweeping his long tunic to the side so he could kneel before Britt.
King Lot and his buddies, however, glowered at Britt from the back of the cemetery.
Britt smirked at him and flexed her shoulders.
“What are you planning?” Merlin said—barely audible even though he spoke directly into her ear.
“Not much. I think it’s high time I indulge myself a bit,” Britt said.
“What? What are you—” Merlin broke off and lurched backwards when Britt again heaved the sword into the air, holding it above her head.
She completed a fancy twirl before stabbing the sword at the stone. It was a gutsy move—if the sword didn’t slide easily in, Britt would very likely ruin the sword and break something in her hand. But the sword slid cleanly in. Britt released the hit with her right hand and placed her left hand beneath the guard. She pushed up, popping the sword out of the stone, and balanced it for a second before fixing her grip on the hilt and performing a forward and then backwards twirl.
The little performance made the peasants cheer even louder—Britt could feel the ground beneath her feet hum—and Merlin turned white.
“What?” Britt asked, observing with great pleasure as King Lot turned red with fury.
“Good God, I never thought to ask if you could handle a sword,” Merlin uttered.
“I can,” Britt assured him. Obviously he didn’t speak with Sir Kay and Sir Ector much.
“Is it a common trait in your time period?” Merlin asked, his eyes narrowed. Mostly he avoided asking Britt questions about the future—he was more concerned with the present than the future he claimed—so the inquiry surprised Britt.
“No. It’s a lost art,” Britt said.
Merlin started muttering under his breath, a strange mixture of prayers and curses based on the snatches Britt heard. Her attention was reclaimed by the masses, however, when the Archbishop approached Arthur.
“It appears, young Arthur, that the people have chosen,” the Archbishop said. He opened his mouth to say more, but Merlin’s knights had finally gotten themselves organized.
They—with the several dozen barons, kings, knights, and princes that had decided to join Britt—shouted in one voice. “Long live King Arthur! We will have no more delay, nor any other king, for so it is God’s will; and we will slay whoso resists Him and Arthur!”
Merlin nodded in satisfaction, and the Archbishop smiled. “Come,” he said, gesturing to St. Paul’s Cathedral. “A graveyard is no place for a crowning.”
Britt trooped inside with the kings, barons, and knights. The cathedral was not big enough to house the peasants as well, but the doors were left open, and those standing in the doorways shouted out details to the crowds in the streets.
“Put your sword on the altar, dedicating it to God,” Merlin whispered to Britt as everyone settled into place.
“What? All this work for a sword I don’t even get to keep?” Britt hissed.
“We will get you a better one. An enchanted one. Just do it.”
Britt heaved her eyes to the ceiling and marched to the altar. She hesitated as the crowds grew quiet and dropped to her knee, holding the sword above her head. She stood, unnerved by the silence as she placed the sword on the altar.
She bounded back to Merlin, relieved as the crowd of men looked at the altar with great reverence. “Now I know how Frodo felt about the Ring,” Britt sighed.
Merlin frowned. “What are you babbling about?”
“Nothing.”
“Come, Arthur. It is time,” the archbishop said as he swept past Britt, carrying a crown.
Britt glanced to Merlin, who nodded, before she followed the bishop. She shifted uncomfortably when they stopped in front of the altar.
“Arthur,” the Archbishop started—for the first time since Britt met him, he did not wear a smile. His gaze was piercing, and his mouth was set as he spoke. “Do you vow to be a true king to all people, lords and commons alike, and to deal only in justice until your life ends?”
Britt hesitated, but she heard Merlin’s soft whisper.
“Say you do, Arthur.”
“I do,” Britt said, forcing her voice to be strong and unwavering.
The Archbishop’s face was transformed into its usual smile. “Then by the will of God and the ready agreement of man, I crown you King Arthur, King over all of Britain. Behold, your King!”
The outdoor crowds’ roaring and celebrating made the indoor enthusiasm tame, but many of the knights and lords seemed resigned, if not content, with Britt as their King.
Britt idly wondered how different the ceremony would have gone if they knew she was a woman.
“My King.”
Britt fixed her gaze on the speaker, a knight who was perhaps Britt’s age—in his early twenties or so—who had pushed his way to the front of the cathedral to kneel.
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br /> “Too long have we delayed you from your crown. I beg for your grace and pardon on all of us, that you would forgive us for our transgression.”
“What is your name, knight?” Britt asked.
“Sir Bedivere, my King.”
Britt glanced to Merlin. The young sorcerer narrowed his eyes as he inspected the knight. When he met Britt’s gaze he nodded almost imperceptibly.
Britt rolled her shoulders back and stood tall. “Rise, Sir Bedivere,” she ordered.
The knight rocked to his feet, his posture straight as he faced her with unwavering courage.
Britt stared at him for a moment before she smiled. “Of course I will pardon you,” she said as she looked across the cathedral, still smiling. “I offer my pardon to all who would join me in my new reign. Let the past remain behind us. Our future is bright, and I wish for all of you to stand with me, not only as subjects but as brothers in justice,” Britt said. When she finished her speech, her smile widened—all of the speech lessons with Merlin were finally paying off.
Her smile faltered, though, in the stark silence that clouded the cathedral. Men stared at her with wide eyes. Britt saw more than one jaw drop open, and near the back of the room someone dropped a helm or a piece of armor judging by the magnificent clang.
Britt looked to Merlin, who was smiling like a devious cat that had eaten not just one bird, but a flock of them. Sir Kay stood next to him, and he appeared to be glaring at the crowd of men while his father wiped tears from his eyes.
A knight near the front of the crowd mutter, “Saints behold us, he is for certain of faerie blood.”
There was a great feast held in Britt’s honor that night. When Britt first ate in her coma-induced dreams, she was prepared to eat stew for every meal. She was pleasantly shocked at the great variety and amazing taste of the delicious food she had a chance to consume, but the feast overshadowed all of it.
There was pheasant, venison, geese, chicken, and (Britt was none too thrilled over) rabbit. It wasn’t all meat, thankfully. There were also tarts and friend oranges, spiced wine that was served with toast, and fruits and nuts.
Britt sipped the wines and ales slowly. Her tolerance level of alcohol had gone up considerably since the start of her dream, but she was certain Merlin would not tolerate a toasted King.
Speaking of the wizard, Merlin had been Britt’s shadow since the crowning ceremony. But, to make her look the king part rather than outright boss her around (as he had for the past few months), he was relatively closed mouthed and kept his advice to muttered statements.
Britt suspected the feast was trying for the bossy man, and she wasn’t surprised when he shoved a piece of thick parchment at her from underneath the table. Britt took a discreet glance at the paper and recognized her own handwriting—if she wanted to be able to read anything, she had to write it; the writing style of Merlin and the knights was nearly unrecognizable as English.
It was a list Merlin had beaten into her brain: the names of his selected knights and the titles and positions he wanted her to give them.
Britt nodded to Merlin, who stood up and approached the minstrel that was wandering about, plucking an ancient version of a harp and singing about hard-to-pronounce places and people.
The minstrel stopped singing after Merlin spoke to him. The wizard nodded in thanks before cracking his “walking stick” on the ground. “We have feasted and celebrated the crowning of our new king. The time has come for King Arthur to bestow great boons, fiefs, titles, and positions on those whom he would.”
Most of the banquet attendees murmured to each other in excitement as they turned their attention to Britt, but from her advantageous position at the head of the room, Britt saw King Lot and his three crony kings stand.
“We,” King Lot said, his eyes cold and piercing, “will refuse any gifts this beardless boy offers us.”
“What did you say?” Sir Ector roared, leaping to his feet.
“Is there a reason why he is so obsessed with my lack of a beard?” Britt sighed.
“This boy king you’ve found comes from low or unknown birth,” King Urien, one of Lot’s lackeys, sneered.
Sir Kay also stood and narrowed his dark eyes at the mocking kings.
“He’s barely older than a babe. He can’t rule yet,” King Pellinore said. The ferret-y King Ryence nodded vigorously behind him.
“Indeed,” King Lot agreed. “Instead, we shall give him gifts of good, hard blows on his back.”
All of Britt’s supporters/Merlin’s Minions leaped to their feet, roaring in anger and fury.
“And that pretty much ends the party,” Britt supposed as she sipped her goblet of sweet wine. She leaned back in her chair, adjusting for maximum comfort as she watched the shouting match.
“You seem relaxed for one whose right to rule is being questioned,” Merlin said, popping up at Britt’s shoulder.
Britt glanced at the wizard and shrugged. “Why should I be upset when I have dozens of men to be upset for me?” Britt asked, gesturing to the crowd. She frowned when she spotted Sir Ector barreling towards King Lot with an alarming amount of agility. Britt looked for Sir Kay, hoping he would stop his father, but the knight seemed to be making a beeline for King Urien.
“Perhaps it is just as well that you have become King, and not the real Arthur,” Merlin supposed as he plopped down into a chair next to Britt. “He had a horrible temper and took offense to the least of things. A king of solid spirits is not a bad thing, so long as you don’t appear to be a coward.”
Britt half smiled as she took another sip of her wine and watched Sir Ector’s progress across the banquet hall.
“I must admire Lot’s perseverance,” Merlin said, watching the furious king.
“He acts like a juvenile delinquent,” Britt snorted as she watched her “adopted father” and the foreign king enter a shouting match.
“A what?”
“Oh, sorry. Umm, a naughty, spoiled child,” Britt supplied.
Merlin shook his head. “You have such an odd way of speaking.”
“Just wait until I bust out slang. I’ve been pretty nice to you so far,” Britt said, watching King Urien move to slug Kay. The grave knight dodged the blow before knocking the king on his butt.
“So you know whom to appoint to what positions?” Merlin asked.
“YES,” Britt said, watching the knight from her crowning ceremony, Sir Bedivere, shake a scrawny-looking baron who was siding with Lot.
“Excellent. In a few days, we shall set out to get you a new sword. It would be wisest to wait until Lot and his ilk leave London. The lake from which we will obtain your new sword is not far from the place I mean to fortify as your castle.”
“Oh?” Britt asked, leaning forward as she watched Lot push Sir Ector, making the older man stumble backwards a few paces.
“Indeed. It is partially why I chose that particular location. The construction is almost finished, I believe. There is just a small length of the outer wall that has yet to be built. I thi—,”
“Merlin, how do we shut everyone up?” Britt asked, her throat tightening as she watched Sir Ector attempt to ram Lot. The king and knight collided.
“What?”
“I want to silence them, stop this,” Britt said, stabbing her finger at Sir Ector, who was puffing as King Lot pulled a dagger.
“No harm will come out of this. There might be a brawl, but even if daggers are used, there will be no serious injuries,” Merlin said, waving off Britt’s concern.
“Merlin,” Britt repeated.
“Very well,” Merlin sighed. He got out of his chair and meandered over to a fireplace. Britt could see his mouth moving, but the hall was too loud to hear anything. When he gestured, the fireplace, the torches, and all flames in the hall burst to at least twice their original height, roaring in fathomless hunger.
Men shouted and cowered before the sight, covering their heads with their arms and forgetting their quarrels for the moment.
“SILENCE,” Britt yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth.
The room obeyed—mostly, Britt suspected, because they were already half hoarse.
Britt studied King Lot for a moment before she once again took up a relaxed posture, planting her elbow on the armrest of her chair and leaning her head against her hand. She slightly narrowed her eyes and did her best to look unaffected and cold.
“King Lot, you are nothing but an old windbag. If you so dearly desire to face me in combat, it can be arranged,” Britt said, her voice chilly as she stared down the king.
King Lot scowled and shrugged his shoulders to fix his cloak. “I will meet you on the fields of war,” he vowed before he banged out of the room, the three other kings and their supporters on his heels.
The rest of the feast attendees spoke to one other as they reseated themselves and set the table right. Sir Ector and Sir Kay approached Britt’s table.
“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Sir Ector said.
“What for?” Britt asked, stretching her legs out in front of her.
“I didn’t knock down that doghearted clotpole,” Sir Ector declared.
“It’s fine,” Britt smiled. “There’s always next time.”
“The boons, Arthur,” Merlin said as he reclaimed his chair.
“Of course,” Britt said, pitching to her feet. “To start the festivities, I wish to announce those whom I would have directly serve me. First of all, I bequeath on my foster brother, Sir Kay, the title of seneschal of the realm. Of Sir Ulfius—a steadfast knight belonging to my deceased father—I ask that he serve as my chamberlain. The great and wise Merlin, I do request to be my counselor, and Sir Bodwain of Britain I name as constable,” Britt finished. She glanced at Merlin before she added in a rush. “Finally, I ask Sir Bedivere to serve as marshal.”
Britt sat down in her chair as the people murmured and gossiped among each other. Merlin had never instructed Britt about assigning a marshal. She only knew it was a necessary job because she overheard Merlin quarreling with Sir Ulfius over who should be assigned to the position.
Merlin growled under his breath about pert lasses, but he did not seem to be as furious as Britt thought he would be.