Enchanted Guardian

by Sharon Ashwood

  Nimueh’s beautiful mouth pressed into a thin line. “But your injury gives you pain.”

  “I’ve fought with far worse. This is mere play. It’s nothing like a real fight.” He was glad of that. Lancelot was a warrior of renown, but he didn’t take bloodshed lightly. However, the twice-daily tournaments at Medievaland were a game he was fond of winning. As headliners, Gawain and Lancelot usually took the heavily attended evening shift with the best crowds.

  “You want to do this!” she said with disbelief. “That is hardly logical. You could injure yourself further.”

  “It would not serve us to cancel a sold-out performance. The police will be curious about the fire. The fae will eventually notice a fringe group of their own are missing. It is best that everything appears normal.”

  “Very well.” Her words were still clipped, but he could see from her expression that she understood. “There is a modern saying that the show must go on.”

  He kissed her forehead, grateful that she was being protective. It was a good sign. “I’ll be careful.”

  She pushed him away, but her touch was light. “Go. You’ll be late. I can find my own way to the stands. It’s crowded enough that I’ll be safe.”

  “I’ll come find you as soon as I’m done.” He kissed her lips this time, letting the moment draw out like sweet honey.

  Nimueh pulled back with a gasp, her eyes intent. “If your lance is as practiced as your seduction, no one will be left standing tonight.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Then if you must fight, you will wear my token.” Suddenly brisk, she pulled a gold ring from her thumb and pressed it into his palm. “A gift from the fae once guaranteed good luck.”

  Wearing a lady’s token into battle was an old tradition. Whether she was a lover or a patroness or merely someone a knight admired, accepting it was akin to an act of fealty. If he wore Nimueh’s ring, he pledged himself to her service.

  “I will wear it with honor, my lady.” He brought the ring to his lips, then slid it onto the smallest finger of his right hand. The ring was an intricate, twisting design that reminded him of ivy—clearly fae workmanship.

  “Then, sir knight, I will cheer you to victory.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Go, then, and amaze us all.”

  So dismissed, Dulac set off at a jog. Unfortunately, the summer crowds of tourists made quick passage through the park next to impossible. He dodged around the lineup for jalapeño dragon fries and down a row of artisans displaying their wares in rustic-looking booths. There were knife-makers, bakers, leatherworkers and dozens of others, all dressed in medieval costume. Every merchant was thronged with enthusiastic shoppers.

  Dulac doubted most of the fairgoers understood how little Medievaland represented accurate history, but he didn’t care. Fantasy had its purpose. As long as people left their cares at the gates and were happy for a while, that was all that mattered.

  Once free of the market stalls, Dulac sprinted across the field toward the tourney area. The basic structure was an oval amphitheater with raised seating on all sides. The central field could be converted for any number of purposes, from archery contests to plays to concerts. Today, its full length would be used for jousting. Dulac heard the roar of the crowd and put on an extra burst of speed.

  He bolted past the stand selling tourney souvenirs—wincing at the Lance-a-lot cartoon T-shirts—and skidded to a halt in the secure area where the knights and horses armored up. Gawain was there, his shaggy dark head bent as he checked his horse’s hoof. The animal was caparisoned in scarlet and gold, and from the excited swish of its tail, it knew it was about to perform. The big destriers, with their feathered fetlocks and proudly arched necks, were almost as popular with the crowds as the knights.

  Gawain looked up, his eyes bright with mischief. “You and I are riding against each other. Ready to take a seat in the dust?”

  Dulac patted the horse’s neck as he returned Gawain’s grin. “Unlikely, old friend. Lady Luck is turning her smiles my way.”

  With that, he left his friend and found Sir Gareth Beaumains, who was Gawain’s youngest brother. Beaumains had once been Lancelot’s squire and had taken on that role again for the evening. Chatting cheerfully in the locker room, the younger knight helped him into his gear with the efficiency of long practice, then left to ready his horse. As Dulac waited near the tourney ground, one of the Medievaland employees wearing a page uniform bustled up carrying an armful of roses, each tied with silver ribbon. He passed one to Gawain and then to Lancelot. The petals were a red so dark they appeared almost black.

  “Who is this from?” Dulac asked.

  “From a fan. There’s one for each of the knights,” the page said in a harried tone. “She was most specific that you got them personally.”

  Dulac set his on the table holding bottles of water and snacks for the competitors. He was wearing his lady’s token and would not accept that of another. For his part, Gawain held his bloom between thumb and forefinger, casting it a suspicious look. “Where I come from, one does not accept gifts from mysterious ladies without checking for witchcraft.”

  A young woman with a long, fair braid plucked the flower from Gawain’s hand. “Then it’s a good thing your intended is a witch.”

  Gawain moved to snatch it back. “Be careful, Tamsin!”

  Laughing, she danced back a step, not taking him seriously at all. “I’m not sure I approve of fans giving roses to my man!”

  “Don’t you think I deserve adoration?” asked the dark-haired knight. “Am I not the very picture of chivalry?”

  “I think you’re arrogant enough without slavering females falling at your feet.”

  Gawain cocked an eyebrow at that. “Fie, woman, would you have me grovel?”

  “Keeping you humble is a monumental job, but someone has to do it.”

  Gawain kissed her cheek with a long-suffering air.

  Dulac watched the lively exchange with a smile. Tamsin was the historian at Medievaland, but she was also a powerful witch and healer who had discovered how to bring knights out of the stone sleep, Dulac included. But more important, she was a good mate for Gawain. Not every woman would be strong enough to match his stubborn will, and even fewer could make him laugh that way.

  One of the other knights arrived to help Gawain don his armor. Temporarily abandoned, Tamsin turned to Dulac. “Gawain’s glad to have you back, you know.”

  Dulac nodded. “He shows it by the brotherly blows he gives me on the practice field every day.”

  “That’s my sensitive, new age man.” Tamsin gave a cheeky smile. “They say emotional memory is stored in the body through trauma. Gawain just wants to be in your thoughts.”

  With that, she left. Dulac frowned, pondering her words. Tamsin had meant them as a joke, but the modern study of the mind intrigued him. Dulac’s body had endured much, both bad and good. Were his father’s beatings stored in his flesh? Were Nimueh’s caresses? The idea made his mind race, considering possibilities he hadn’t known existed before that moment. Was the memory of his love somewhere inside her, too? Could he use that to call her back to him?

  Dulac was still turning that over in his mind when, a few minutes later, he mounted his big bay and moved into the starting position. The area that had been set up was about 160 yards long and thirty yards wide. Down the center was the tilt, a fence about five feet high meant to prevent a headlong collision between the two riders. This modern setup was, in his opinion, almost ridiculously safe. In fact, the first few bouts would be no more than passes with a lance. Hand-to-hand combat between opponents would come later, and the free-for-all melee was saved for the grand finale of the show.

  Dulac studied the noisy crowd through the raised visor of his helmet. They’d taken to holding up banners with phrases like Go Gawain and Arthur is King. Today someone had Love Me Lots Lancelot. He was tempted to roll his eyes, but he owed respect to anyone who sat in the hot, dusty stands just to see him ride. He looked for Nimueh a
nd found her sitting near the very top.

  The emcee’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “To the north in the red armor we have the Scottish Scourge, Mighty Sir Gawain riding Gringolet and hungering for revenge. His opponent to the south and in the blue armor is the undefeatable Sir Lancelot du Lac on his steed Bucephalus. Hold on to your hats, folks, this is the grudge match you’ve all been waiting for!”

  The crowd cheered. There was no grudge, but this was a show and the two knights did their best to look appropriately fierce. Dulac never underestimated Gawain as an opponent. Dulac had greater skill with a lance, but Gawain had a way of getting creative that landed the unwary in the dirt. The Scottish knight took a theatrical bow from horseback, ostentatiously thrusting the rose into the crest of his helmet.

  “Are you ready?” cried the emcee. The audience packed into the outdoor auditorium roared their approval.

  Dulac closed his visor and took his lance from Beaumains. His shoulder protested, but not enough to change his mind about fighting. The weapons they used at Medievaland were wooden, tapering to a hollow point over an eleven-foot length. The butt rested in a hook on Dulac’s breastplate called an arrêt, which held it steady while hurtling at his opponent at breakneck speed. Much of this was new innovation to Dulac, but the principles were the same as he had learned as a boy—ride very fast and hit your opponent with a long pointy stick.

  Dulac dipped the point of his lance in salute to Gawain, who returned the gesture with a jaunty air. The marshal gave the signal and they urged their horses into the charge. Speed was important, but so was the smoothness of the horse’s gait and the strength to hold and guide the unwieldy lance. It was all about hitting a very small point at just the right moment. In Dulac’s mind, it was mathematics in motion, a problem that he had to solve before the fluid properties of time and space eluded him. Emotion had no place in it. The trick was to be relaxed and willing to wait until the last moment when he raised the tip and knocked his opponent’s shield as neatly as a hawk striking its prey.

  This bout was no different, though it was all in fun. Through the slits in his visor, he was aware of Gawain barreling down on him, his horse’s scarlet caparison flying in the wind. The pounding of his own mount’s huge hooves was deafening, his breath heaving within the confines of his padded helmet. He was also acutely aware of Nimueh in the stands, watching him and deciding whether he was worthy of her trust as a protector and a man. But long practice had taught him that doubt and distraction were his enemies. The only thing that mattered was the geometry of distance and angle and the instinct to lift his weapon at the exact moment it was time.

  He did. The lance hit with jolting force and he braced himself, using the design of the jousting saddle to keep his seat. He heard the crack of splintering wood and Gawain flew from Gringolet’s back, landing in a cloud of dust. A jolt of exaltation soared through Dulac. Lady Luck was indeed smiling on him. It was all he could do to stop himself from twisting in the saddle to reassure himself that Nimueh had witnessed the blow.

  Dulac trotted Bucephalus around the tiltyard, lifting his visor to see the crowd waving their signs and cheering. Gawain picked himself up and shook his fist theatrically, swearing to get his own in the next round. It was all a good-natured fairy tale.

  Dulac reined in before the emcee, making a final salute before leaving the field to prepare for the next round. When he lifted his eyes, a flash of silver and red caught his attention. When he looked again, he involuntarily recoiled. His horse pranced, picking up on his dislike.

  A woman sat near the emcee’s booth, holding a bouquet of the roses with the silver bows. With a flick of her long, elegant hand, she threw one at Dulac’s feet. A page ran out, picking it up and raising it to Dulac, but he could barely convince his hand to take it. He had no choice. In front of an audience, he could not afford to be discourteous.

  But he could not stop his pulse from galloping with dismay. Another might have called the woman lovely. Her fine, pale face was framed with masses of loose black hair that hung to her waist. Though her mouth was a touch too wide, her eyes were large and gray, almost luminous in their clarity. Her tall figure could have graced any painting or any runway she cared to tread. She was, after all, the Queen of Faery.

  Morgan LaFaye smiled as if she’d just caught all of Camelot in a trap.

  Chapter 11

  Nim cheered the spectacle below, raising a triumphant fist as Lancelot knocked Gawain from the saddle.

  She yelled and pumped her fist to fit in with the crowd, but in truth there was something contagious about being one of a sea of voices all roaring enthusiasm—and she relished the secret knowledge that this unparalleled warrior wore her token and fought in her name. It had been a long, long time since she’d had a knight to cheer on.

  Now she clapped along with the rest as Gawain picked himself up for a bow. Lancelot was playing his part, too, making the destrier rear and prance. He looked her way just once, catching her gaze for a fleeting instant. Even over that impossible distance, she thought she read concern there.

  Centuries had passed since anyone had turned their heart and mind to her welfare, and it put Nim off balance. Did she even deserve such care? Nim hadn’t been forced to look within for years, hadn’t had to weigh and measure the worthiness of her thoughts and actions. By the mere fact of its existence, Lancelot’s regard challenged her to be the best version of herself.

  Nim craned her neck to see the scene on the field more clearly. Something had gone wrong—she could tell by the way Lancelot had suddenly stiffened. She leaned forward, following the angle of Lancelot’s gaze. A moment later, the popcorn she was eating turned to ash in her mouth.

  “Oh!” she gasped, breaking into a coughing fit as she inhaled a kernel.

  Morgan LaFaye was there! Nim automatically shrank back in her seat, her skin suddenly icy with alarm. She shoved her bag of popcorn aside and grabbed her purse to leave, but then forced herself to be calm. Morgan wouldn’t openly attack—not with so many witnesses—and neither could Arthur strike her. The queen’s appearance here and now was carefully chosen not to result in open hostility.

  Even so, Nim’s first instinct was to check Merlin’s binding spell, testing it with her mind. There were no cracks and no unraveling seams. As Merlin had promised, the protective shell around her magic was complete and she should be well off the radar. So then, if Nim wasn’t the immediate target, what was the queen doing here? Could she have found out about the Price House incident already?

  Nim watched with bated breath as Lancelot took his place to fight a second opponent. His movements seemed almost slow, as if every muscle was coiled with shock and anger. Oh, Morgan had played her game well, if she’d meant to torture the knights! The show had to go on. Medievaland could not close just because Morgan LaFaye had turned up.

  Nim watched Lancelot intently for any sign his shoulder was bothering him, but saw no weakness. His next bout was against Sir Palomedes, the Saracen knight of Camelot and a formidable master of the tiltyard. Palomedes seemed relaxed, and so could not have seen the Queen of Faery. The audience cheered as he hoisted the black-and-white checkerboard of his shield. In another moment, the horses were hurtling forward like graceful thunder.

  This time, things did not go so well for Lancelot. He looked her way again, and that destroyed his timing. He brought up his weapon an instant too late. The tip broke against his opponent’s shield with a sharp crack, but Palomedes kept his seat. Meanwhile, the Saracen delivered a perfect strike, which sent Lancelot reeling. Nim was on her feet with the rest of the crowd. Lancelot dropped the butt of his lance and grabbed his saddle for support, barely staying on his horse. The crowd made a sound of confusion—a roar of delight at such an expert blow, but also of dismay at seeing a favorite brought low.

  And then Palomedes fell from the saddle, arms wheeling. Nim gave a cry of surprise along with the rest of the crowd, but then berated herself for her lack of faith. Lancelot never failed to unseat his oppon
ent—although his distraction had nearly cost him the bout. Palomedes picked himself up and bowed. The crowd gave him a round of applause for his brave showing.

  “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” crowed the emcee. “Sir Palomedes has been defeated by Medievaland’s reigning champion, Sir Lancelot!”

  Lancelot righted himself in the saddle, but now she could see his shoulder had reached its limit of abuse. She made a soft noise of concern as he stiffly pushed up his visor. No doubt LaFaye’s presence had distracted him. She sucked in a breath, tension aching through her whole torso as her hatred for the faery queen found new dimensions.

  Lancelot wouldn’t ride again that day, and he was clearly too hurt to participate in the melee. He proudly straightened his spine as he left the field with a last farewell wave to the fans, but she knew he would die before admitting to pain. Nim took advantage of the standing ovation, shouldering her purse and edging her way along the bleachers to the stairs. She had to know just how badly he was hurt.

  When Nim reached the ground, she circled behind the stands and made her way toward the stables. Mobs of enthusiasts were crowding around the souvenir stands, and she had to wait for the right moment to slip past security and into the performers’ area. The locker rooms were past the stables and to Nim’s right. She stopped and listened for voices, but all she could hear was the echoing drip of water from the showers. She tread softly over the tile floor, rounding the corner of the battered lockers. Lancelot sat on the wooden bench, an ice pack abandoned on the bench beside him. Above the scarred and sculpted muscles of his back, the bruise she’d seen earlier was now a vibrant shade of plum. He gingerly tugged a clean T-shirt over his head, swearing softly under his breath.

  She sprang forward. “Let me help you with that.”

  Lancelot spun and stood in the same movement, one arm stuck halfway through the sleeve. He pulled it through with a grimace. “What are you doing in here?” His voice was low and tense, but he reached out with one hand and drew her close. “You’re trying to stay out of sight, and a beautiful woman stands out in a men’s locker room.”