[King Arthur and Her Knights 01.0 - 03.0] Enthroned, Enchanted, Embittered

by KM Shea

  “C-come no closer!” the teenager warned, his voice cracking.

  She held up her hands. “Easy there,” she said, mimicking the voice her sister adopted when soothing a frightened horse. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Ywain’s eyes were huge, and Britt could see that his hand holding the dagger to Ban’s throat shook with fear. “Stay b-back!” he warned.

  King Ban rolled his eyes like a nervous cow. “Someone kill the boy,” he said.

  A man holding a bow stirred, and Britt barked. “Don’t move, any of you,” she said. Everyone crowding around the altercation stilled.

  Ywain licked his lips, his eyes darting from side to side as he looked for an exit.

  “Let him go, Ywain,” Britt said, her voice smooth and cool like iced coffee on a sweltering day. “I know you don’t want to hurt him.” She slowly approached the pair.

  “Take me out of this camp, and I’ll let him go!” Ywain shouted.

  Britt shook her head. “No.”

  “What are you doing? Do what he says,” King Ban hissed before gurgling when Ywain applied pressure to his neck.

  “Silence!” Ywain said, his voice cracking again.

  “You don’t want to kill him, Ywain,” Britt said, holding the boy’s eyes as she drew closer. “You know you wouldn’t leave this place alive if something happened to him,” she said, within an arm’s length of King Ban.

  Ywain hesitated, and Britt struck. With her ungloved hand, she chopped at the muscles above his elbow, making his forearm pop up—removing the dagger from Ban’s throat. She plucked the dagger from Ywain and tossed it away, but the boy reacted as well. He kneed King Ban in the back (making the man stumble into Britt) and grappled with the king’s sword until he pulled it from its sheath.

  “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 her nod in approval.

  Several knights unsheathed their swords before Britt shouted, “I said not to move!”

  Again, everyone fell still—Ywain included—and she 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.

  She moved forward, pressing Ywain back on his heels as her cloak billowed behind her like wings. She struck so fast, she didn’t give him 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 her 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 gestured 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 fifteen?” King Ban asked.

  Britt hesitatingly nodded. (The age thing was still a sore spot.) “I am.”

  “That boy is seventeen, 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 a 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. If that is the case, perhaps I will indeed make his acquaintance. Tell me, King Ban, do you know where I could procure some water for my mount and myself? We traveled hard today, and I’m dead th—and I am rather parched,” Britt corrected herself.

  The king smiled. “Of course, of course. This way. I would be honored to be your guide.”

  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 the opposite of the refined King Ban. He 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. He was the better fighter of the brother-in-law kings, but Britt swiftly learned that King Ban was usually the tactician as he had a streak of intelligence that he hid behind his careful manners and clothes.

  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 following day.

  “We should have him executed,” King Ban stiffly said. (He still hadn’t forgiven the kid for the hostage thing.)

  Sir Ector frowned. “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.”

  “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 recognize King Arthur’s right to rule. 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.”

  King Bors dropped his flaming stick. “What?”

  “Impossible,” Sir Ulfius said.

  “It’s a grand idea, 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 polished 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? Without exposing certain matters of State?” 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 to which the boy was tied.

  “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 I am, 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, with knights who aren’t at war 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.

  “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—not to mention they do all the hunting. No one values the beauty of a female animal enough. Everyone always says the male is more beautiful,” Britt complained. “Instead of worshipping animals like the peacock, 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. Anyway, the male seahorse is the picture of fatherhood—none of this abandoning stuff that is all the rage in American culture. 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 again.

  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 to understand. Test him today, and I think you’ll be surprised with the results,” Merlin said.