by K. M. Shea
Britt discreetly attempted to adjust the heavy fabric of her skirts as she lingered near the gatehouse of Camelot, standing just outside the walls.
For the first time since arriving in medieval England, she was dressed as a girl. Sir Ulfius had procured a warm, blue dress for her, and Guinevere had lent her a winter cloak lined with fur—though the back had Leodegrance’s coat of arms embroidered into it.
The cloak was too short given that Britt fairly loomed over Guinevere, but it was warmer than the wool cape she had originally planned to use, so she was grateful for it.
Britt adjusted the hood of her borrowed cloak, her blue eyes fastened on the Forest of Arroy—the large, expansive woods that surrounded Camelot in a horseshoe shape.
She had been waiting for her guards to give the “all-clear” signal for several minutes now. Perhaps they really did find someone? Britt brushed off the concern. Kay had the woods searched thoroughly, and he wouldn’t have let her wander outside—without an escort, horse, or her armor—if he thought there was even a remote threat.
Britt rubbed her nose and turned slightly when she heard horse hooves clopping through the gatehouse.
An armored knight mounted on his destrier bowed his head to her as he and his animal began to pass her. “My Lady,” he murmured.
Britt smiled at him, though her eyes strayed to the lioness embroidered on his horse’s barding. Before she could place the symbol, the knight snapped the visor of his helm up and hissed. “My Lord?”
“Ah, Ywain!” Britt grinned at the young man. “Aren’t you on point today?”
Ywain’s eyes bulged in his shock. “Why are you dressed so…so…so!” His deep voice was almost squeaky as he gestured to her dress.
“I’m running an experiment.”
“A what?”
“Guinevere said she’s seen men spying on her and her friends whenever they leave Camelot for a walk,” Britt said. She shivered when a breeze rustled the hem of her gown and pulled her cloak closer. “Kay promises the woods have been cleared, but I want to be able to fully reassure Guinevere, so I thought I should test the area out.”
“Dressed as a woman?”
“Well, Guinevere and her ladies are the only ones reporting any suspicious activity. An appropriate disguise seemed necessary,” Britt said. After enduring her drafty skirts for this short amount of time, she wasn’t exactly enthused either, but she wanted to show Guinevere she had taken her comment seriously.
Ywain removed his helm so he could scratch his jaw line. “Couldn’t you have gotten one of the other knights to play the role? For you to do it seems like courting unnecessary trouble. What if you are found out?”
“No one will find out as long as I’m careful,” Britt said. “Those who know me best and stand the greatest chance of recognizing me already know my, er, secret. As you showed,” Britt said.
Ywain smiled broadly. “’Tis true.”
“And anyway,” she continued. “I didn’t much fancy the idea of laying eyes on Kay or Gawain as a female impersonator.”
“They would make poor women,” Ywain admitted.
“Lancelot would be the most convincing in a big enough cloak, but only if he kept his mouth shut while prancing around Camelot—something I think impossible,” Britt said. “But enough about my mission. What brings you outside of Camelot? You’re not running home without saying farewell, are you?”
Ywain leaned back, making his saddle creak. “No, I won’t return home for a while. I’m just exercising my horse.”
Britt squinted up at him. “You’re certain you don’t have to return home yet? It would pain me to see you leave, but you are married.”
“Oh, yes. I don’t have to return home until early spring,” Ywain said brightly. “My plan is to spend my winters with you, and my summers with dear Laudine, guarding the magic fountain!”
“…I don’t think that’s how marriage is supposed to work.”
Ywain tilted his head. “But King Pellinore is rarely home, and his wife is just fine without him.”
“Allow me to clarify, I don’t think that’s how marriage to Laudine works. I’m glad to have you in Camelot as long as you can stay, but I doubt that will make your wife happy,” Britt said. Truth be told, Laudine was a bit of a sore spot for Britt. She didn’t much care for her as the lady had made it clear she wanted Britt out of Ywain’s life to free him from distractions outside their lands. (And she didn’t even know Britt was female!)
Ywain swatted his hand through the air. “Laudine understands. I told her when we were first married just how much you mean to me.”
“I see.” Britt glanced out over the meadow and spotted a mounted guard exit the surrounding woods. He waved once, signaling the all-clear. “That’s my cue, so I had best move on. I’ll see you at dinner?”
“I look forward to it, My Lord!” Ywain nudged his horse forward. The animal snorted and charged ahead, moving to loop around the castle and ride through the farmland that splayed out behind Camelot.
Britt watched him go, then began meandering around the meadow, zigzagging across it like a dog following a scent. She succeeded only in getting the hem of her dress soaked—the ground was wet and slick due to the winter precipitation.
After aimlessly wandering for an hour, she stood near the edge of the woods and peered around the meadow, which was a smear of green and brown. “Guinevere must have been mistaken. There’s no sign of any sort of creepers or stalkers.” She grimaced when her wet skirts sloshed against her ankle—an unpleasant jolt of cold. “Too bad there’s no pepper spray in this century. Maybe Kay could lend her an attack dog?”
Britt heard a branch crack in the woods behind her. Thinking it was probably an overly fat squirrel or chipmunk, she lazily turned to peer behind her.
She was shocked to see a bushy bearded man dressed in shades of brown and green lunging for her. “Guards!” she shouted. She snatched up her only weapon—a small dagger fastened to her gold belt—and backed up. “Guards—attack!”
The man leaped for her. Britt dodged, but he managed to grab the edge of her fur-lined cloak. He yanked on it, dragging her towards him by her neck.
Britt fumbled to unclasp the throat latch. I should have brought Cavall! Cursing her disbelief in the potential threat, she threw the cloak off when she was finally free of it, throwing it in her attacker’s face. “Guards!”
She tried to run and tripped on her wet skirts. Hissing in anger, she spun around, barely avoiding the man when he tried to grab her by the braid of her hair. She fixed her grip on her dagger and swallowed uneasily. If she couldn’t run, she’d have to hold him off and hope her guards arrived soon. She could hear shouts echo from Camelot, so they were aware of her plight, but some of her guards were still posted in the forest. Why hadn’t they come for her yet?
“Guards!” She struck out with her dagger, aiming for the attacker’s shoulder. He fended off the blow with a metal arm gauntlet, though Britt had the satisfaction of making him grunt with the force of her strike.
She shifted her weight to one leg, intending to lunge forward and smash the pommel of her dagger into his neck.
Unfortunately, her dainty slippers had no grip to them, and she slipped on the wet grass.
The man grabbed her wrist and plucked the dagger from her grasp, tossing it away. Britt grabbed his shoulder with her free hand and kneed him in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. He fell forward, into her, knocking them both to the ground.
Britt kicked off her useless slippers and scrambled towards Camelot, hope lighting in her heart when she saw mounted guards thunder from the gates.
The man grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her backwards, pulling her so roughly she smashed her jaw against the ground and bit her tongue.
Britt groaned in pain, and the man dragged her towards the woods.
When she regained her wits, Britt clawed at his eyes and bit an uncovered finger, but he successfully dragged her through the tree line.
; “I have her,” he said in a rough, gravelly voice.
“Excellent,” another man said. “Now I shall finally have my revenge against Arthur.”
Britt was unceremoniously spun around, giving her a glimpse of a knight dressed in black armor and mounted on a red roan horse.
The man who attacked her clubbed her in the head, and Britt’s last fleeting thought was that Kay was going to kill her for getting kidnapped on her own lands twice in the span of a year.
Merlin drummed his fingers on his worn workbench. He made certain he appeared calm—though in truth he wanted to start snapping out spells left and right.
“I should have taken more precautions.” Kay’s voice was dark with despair, and he clenched his hands into fists. “I never should have let her do it!”
Bodwain awkwardly patted the young knight’s shoulder. “It is not your fault. We were acting on the word of three young, silly girls. No one else had reported anything foreboding; you had no reason to suspect she would be in danger.”
“It does not matter,” Kay said fiercely. “She should not have been put in a position where she could have gotten kidnapped—or worse.”
“You can’t keep her in a cage, Kay.” Merlin shuffled maps on his workbench to keep his hands busy. “She’s a dragon, not a dove.”
Kay shook his head. Even his mustache drooped.
Bodwain scratched his graying beard. “The good news is that this kidnapping does bear some resemblance to the last time our king was snatched.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Whoever has done this foul deed cannot possibly know who they have,” Bodwain said.
Kay tucked his chin, but Bodwain continued. “She’s the wrong gender to begin with. Whoever jumped her certainly had no plans to bag King Arthur.”
Merlin narrowed his eyes and stared at his bookshelves. “We must assume, then, that the target was a genteel lady—for it was only Guinevere’s group who saw anyone.” He blinked when he realized someone had placed a scarf on his stuffed owl—Britt, probably. She was likely spoiling for a fight. Since he spent most of his waking hours occupied with Vivien and stayed away from Britt for her own good, they hadn’t been able to exchange gibes lately.
“Could the target have been Guinevere herself?” Kay asked.
“Only a blind halfwit would mistake Britt for Guinevere,” Merlin said wryly. “Britt fairly looms over her.”
“Yes, but Guinevere lent Britt her cloak,” Kay said.
“So?” Merlin asked. Kay and Ulfius were the only beings in the castle who kept meticulous record of Britt’s clothes. A cloak was a cloak; who cared who owned it?
“No, Sir Kay is right.” Bodwain cocked his head. “Lady Guinevere’s cloak has King Leodegrance’s coat of arms embroidered on the back.”
Merlin paused. “Oh.”
Bodwain offered him a smile. “You couldn’t have known—you didn’t see our king in her disguise. Looked like a proper lady, she did. Though a bit tall.”
Merlin kept his mouth shut and his expression bland. He had seen Britt garbed up in the cloak and dress. Vivien had dragged him through lower Camelot for a brief stroll/shopping trip while Britt sat outside the gatehouse, waiting for the forests to be searched.
He only caught a brief glimpse of her, garbed in a cloak and a blue dress that made her eyes brilliant, as Vivien dragged him across the street.
It was shocking to see Britt dressed so. Even when she first arrived, Britt Arthurs was clothed in pants. He had always known she was female—by the heavens, he had kissed her, and that moment was forever branded in his brain. But seeing her, carefree and smiling…he had almost forgotten himself and called out to her.
Vivien thankfully hadn’t noticed Britt, or Merlin’s inattention, as they sailed past the gatehouse.
Bedivere barged into the room, throwing the door open with so much force its hinges shrieked in protest. “There is hope,” he said as Gawain, Mordred, and Lancelot filed in behind him. “Whoever snatched our king left a trail behind. We can track them and recover her.”
Bodwain brightened. “Excellent news! That already puts us far ahead of the last time she was taken!”
“Do we know for certain the trail follows the blackguard who has her?” Kay asked.
“Why of course!” Lancelot puffed up with pride. “I followed the tracks for some time myself! I can assure you it is the right one.”
Mordred held up a scrap of blue cloth. “The rogue is leaving a deliberate trail. It seems he wants us to find him.”
“If he does not know who he has,” Merlin started, “he probably means to call Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table out.”
“Then he has succeeded,” Kay growled.
Merlin returned to drumming his fingers on his workbench. “A small party should follow the trail with all haste and be prepared for a fight. The rest of the knights should make ready for battle and assemble the army.”
Bodwain squinted at him. “You would rally the army when we don’t know who is behind this event? It might be a small issue—just a blackguard knight seeking a fight.”
“There is logic to your argument, but it is a risk we cannot take,” Merlin said. “Rome is at large, and Scotland and Ireland have no allegiance to Britt. There are too many players in this game who would love to witness her demise.”
Bodwain slowly nodded in acceptance, and Merlin mentally congratulated himself for supplying a decent reason on such short notice.
The truth was Merlin would have rallied the army for Britt no matter how little the threat was. She had pushed and shoved her way past all his defenses into his affection. He would not take any chances in rescuing her.
“The scouting party—which, with God’s mercy—will also become the recovery party, will have to be small,” Gawain said, getting down to the logistics.
“I’m going,” Merlin said.
Gawain and Mordred nodded, but Bodwain murmured in a lowered voice. “Can you leave Vivien that long? Won’t she find it surprising?”
“I’m still Britt’s chief counselor. I would think she would be more surprised if I did not go,” Merlin said.
As Bodwain nodded, Percival—King Pellinore’s oldest son—knocked on the cracked door and shyly leaned into the room. “If you are taking volunteers, I would like to join,” he said.
Ywain, lacking Percival’s discreetness, threw the door open. “Naturally, I’m coming as well.”
Merlin pointedly stared at the door. “Has your new wife done away with the concept of private meetings, Sir Ywain?”
“Nah,” Ywain said. “I put my foot in the door when I saw Sir Bedivere, Sir Mordred, and Sir Lancelot enter, so it stayed cracked. So, who else will join us?”
“I will come! Our King needs rescuing, and I shall answer the call,” Lancelot declared.
Kay glared at the flashy knight. “Last time you came to her rescue, you stabbed her.”
Lancelot made a tisking noise. “You are just as bad as our king herself in endlessly bringing that accident up.”
“It was no accident,” Kay insisted.
“Yes, but it made her come clean before us knights, and now look how happy we all are,” Lancelot breezily said.
Merlin, judging that the conversation would take more time than it was worth, made his exit. “Sir Kay will be in charge of the search party,” he said.
“Where are you going?” Bodwain asked.
“To make preparations.” Merlin slipped out the door—taking care to close it securely behind him—then set out down the hallway, making a mental checklist of what he would need to bring. (Roen, Britt’s charger, and Excalibur, her magic sword, were at the top of the list. She would pitch a fit if they showed up without them.)
He made it all the way down to the main floor of the keep before Vivien found him.
“Merlin,” she said in a voice as sticky as honey. She smiled as she clasped his arm and joined him. “The castle is in an uproar. What has happened?�
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“Arthur has gone missing,” Merlin said, keeping his words deliberately vague. (If they were lucky, whoever kidnapped her would never realize who they had.)
Vivien gasped. “How terrible! Whatever shall you do?”
“I’m joining the search for him.” He forced himself to smile at her, as if this entire ordeal didn’t much bother him.
Vivien jutted her lower lip out in a pout. “You’re leaving me?”
Merlin stifled a shiver; he could feel her activating her black magic. It felt clammy and tarry, and slithered through his magical sense like something foul. It was designed to ensnare his mind, but Merlin carefully misdirected it and played the love-addled idiot. “It will be a trial,” he said with a sigh. “I shall miss you every moment—for your beauty…shines so. But I’m afraid the search party is no place for you.”
Vivien peered up at him, judging his expression.
Merlin patted her hand. “It should only be for a short time. I would get out of it if I could, but I am Arthur’s chief advisor.”
“Yes, you are terribly important,” Vivien said with great satisfaction. “I suppose I can spare you. But then you must talk with me, and tell me your clever plans for taking Scotland and Ireland.”
Merlin resisted the urge to roll his eyes, a gesture he had learned from Britt. Idiot girl. She could not betray her true goals any more clearly. Through his network of sneaks and spies, Merlin had confirmed that Vivien was an ally of Rome and had been sent to weaken Arthur. When Britt proved to be utterly unresponsive, she had decided it was Guinevere’s fault and had nearly killed the visiting princess.
Merlin thought it was best to step in then. It was not a bad arrangement. Though he was not Vivien’s original target, she was satisfied because she thought she had a major member of Arthur’s court under her control, and it gave Merlin the chance to feed bad information to Rome.
The only downside was that Vivien constantly inflicted herself upon Merlin—and he still didn’t relish the idea of a black magic user wandering about Camelot.
And it affected Britt.
He held in a sigh. “Yes, when I return we can speak of Ireland and Scotland. I will surely tell you everything,” he said.