First Knight

by Ines Johnson

  First Knight

  The Knights of Caerleon

  Ines Johnson

  Copyright © 2018, Ines Johnson. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the author.

  Edited by Alyssa Breck

  Cover design by Desiree DeOrto Designs

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition June 2018

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Also by Ines Johnson

  Two if By Sea Sneak Peek

  1

  The sun rose in a pastoral sky; powdery blue in some spots, a bruised blueberry in others. Winter was setting and spring preparing to dawn in the village of Camelot. Arthur’s boots crunched snow covered planks as he crossed the drawbridge of Tintagel Castle and made his way through the slumbering town.

  The morning was warm even though the late season snow had fallen the night before. The dusting of snow covering the cobblestones would be gone by the first meal as more warm bodies than usual made their way into the Great Hall to breakfast. But for now, most of the village slept.

  Arthur spied Father Bertram winding the tower stair to announce the new day. The doors of the cathedral were thrown open. The nave was empty. The church bells held still in the early hour.

  Tendrils of white smoke whirled up from the apothecary’s chimney. The tang of citrus mingled with the spice of cloves. Arthur saw sparks from the window as Dr. Blacwin used his magic to stir up the brew.

  Arthur picked up his steps, eager for the day’s events to begin. He shifted the load on his back as he did so. He’d left his ancestral sword behind in the weapons room in favor of his longbow for this day’s quest. As he made his way into the wood, delicate birdsong ruffled branches, forcing budding leaves to break off and fall to the ground. Heavy blooms punched up through the dirt, breaking past the thin layer of snow as though staking a rightful claim to the soil.

  There was no need for the perennials to fight. The winter would give over in due time. It was a new day. All was in order in the reign of Arthur, the third of his name.

  War, turmoil, and adversity against his people were all a thing of the past. His grandfather, Arthur the first of his name, had waged the first crusades against the Templar Knights when the once-noble order fell into corruption.

  During Arthur’s own father’s time, the witch trials of Britain had put the town on lockdown. Arthur, the second of his name, that same Arthur who’d pulled Excalibur from the stone, fought to protect his people against the religious human zealots and the cultish Banduri witch hunters.

  In the past year, Arthur himself had chopped off the head of the leader of the Knights Templar, diminishing the ranks and sending what was left of the order underground. He and his men had also drawn up a treaty with the new age of Banduri priestesses and the white flag still waved between those ancient foes.

  His forefathers would be proud of the work he’d done in his lifetime. There was peace in Camelot. Safety, serenity, and silence.

  So much silence.

  Arthur kept himself from crunching over a cluster of fallen branches in the wood. Safety, serenity, silence, and snow were the perfect conditions for hunting, and he had a very special prey in his crosshairs.

  Most prey ventured out of hiding spaces when they felt safe. Serenity loosened fear in the gut of the hunted and made way for hunger. Silence gave a false sense of security that would pull a predator out into the open and turn him into prey.

  From his perch, Arthur spied his quarry. The doe-white hair that covered the beast’s body was unmistakable. The majesty of its silver antlers crowned its head like a spiral stair. As the creature dipped its head for a taste of foliage, gold dust shimmered off its rack like magical snowflakes.

  Arthur lined up the hart in his crosshairs. He squeezed the bow, feeling the welcome tension of the weapon in his grasp. He took a second to luxuriate in the feel of the twine at his fingertips, his heart pounding at the first bit of action he’d had in this short time of peace.

  The world narrowed down to just him and the stag. He pulled the string taut until it was ready to snap. All was silent, serene. He need only to loose his grip, release the twine from the safety of his forefinger, and—

  The high-pitched, percussive bars of a marimba tore apart the silence. Lancelot, who had propped himself up against a tree while Arthur took aim, dug into his back jean pocket and pulled out his iPhone. The ginger-haired knight tapped the screen to silence the sounds. His face was glued to his screen so he didn’t see Arthur’s glare.

  “Oy,” Arthur growled.

  Lance looked up, confusion lighting his blue eyes. He looked between Arthur, and where Arthur motioned at the empty clearing where the hart had taken off. “It’s Percival. He wants to know how to win the naval battle between the Spanish ships and the fort in Assassin’s Creed.”

  “I’m a little busy at the moment,” said Arthur.

  Besides that, there was no way he was giving up his tactics to the video game. If Percy couldn’t beat that level of the rated T for Teen game, then Arthur might have to demote the knight down to the rank of squire.

  “Right,” Lance said to him, then he pressed his ear to the phone. “I’ll call you back, Percy. Duty calls.”

  Duty stalked away from the sociable knight and made his way down into the clearing, searching for the hart’s tracks. “The least you could do is change your ringtone. Who keeps the Apple default tone except the elderly?”

  “You’re one to talk,” said Lance as he caught up with Arthur. “You’ve only got about fifty years on me.”

  To the human eye, Arthur looked young. Even with his thick, dark beard, he looked to be in his early thirties at the most. But neither Arthur nor the people under his protection in Camelot were entirely human. Magic ran through their veins, which slowed down the aging process.

  “Why are you hunting with an archaic bow and flint arrows in this day and age?” asked Lance. “If not your sword, why not grab a sniper rifle and be done with this hunt before lunch?”

  “Tradition.”

  That was Arthur’s usual response when he didn’t want to explain himself. His whole way of life was based on tradition, from the ancient weapons he carried to the medieval tunic he wore in the twenty-first century, to the code of chivalry he lived his modern life by. And it was tradition that the current Arthur and other heads of family hunt the hart when it appeared once each century.

  “Is it the same hart?” Lance’s voice broke Arthur’s silent reverie. “It can’t be, can it? It’s the only one of its kind, and you eldest sons kill it before it had a chance to procreate.”

  Lance spat the words eldest sons. He was technically the eldest of the Lancelot line. Except that his father, Lancelot the third of his name, ha
d not been married to Lance’s mother at the time of procreation. It had been the scandal of the century in the 18th century when it had happened. Arthur wasn’t the oldest in his family either. His family tree was also complicated.

  “But,” continued Lance, “there’s no doe-hart for it to mate with. Do you even know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “Lancelot.”

  “Hmm? Oh, right. Hunting. Stealth. Quiet. Got it.” Lance made a show of turning his phone off, and then made the motion of zipping his lip and turning the key for added emphasis.

  Arthur slung his bow over his shoulder and resumed the hunt. The hart was easy to track. Where its feet fell there were spring blooms. Bright petals bursting from the snow-covered soil where there had been no seedlings before. Many believed that the animal was pure magic and that’s why beauty followed in its tread. But there were side effects.

  The centennial hart season was announced with the subtle change in the air of Camelot. Upon the stag’s arrival, a frenzy wove through the village amongst witches, wizards, and the knights. Many of the new arrivals in town came not only for the Hart Festival, they also hoped to find that special someone with the extra spark of magic floating in the air.

  It was Arthur’s duty to hunt the hart and bring the stag’s rack back to town as a prize. A gruesome practice, but it was tradition. One his father had done. And his father before him. All the way back to Uther Pendragon, the first leader of what would come to be known as Camelot.

  Though the hart left a trackable trail it was hard to catch. It was ever alert and knowledgeable about the hunt for its life. It obviously knew it was born to be hunted, but like all living creatures, it wanted time to enjoy life.

  Arthur wanted the beast gone so that order would reign again in his town. With the season less than two days old, Arthur had already grown tired of pulling witches and squires out of dark alcoves and clearing his throat as mature wizards and widows snuck off to corners.

  He had studied his foe now. He knew the hart took an odd number of steps even though he had four legs. The hart’s footprints looked as though it was dancing the one-two-three of a waltz. It would sound that way too if the stag were coming near.

  Holding his hand up to silence and halt Lance, Arthur held his entire being still and listened. And there it was.

  The hart’s one-two-three steps came closer this time. Its antlers looked more like a massive tree growing out of the crown of its head. In the sunlight, the silver rack shimmered golden.

  Once more, Arthur pulled his bow taut. The weapon had been lifted ever since he put himself in place. He wouldn’t dishonor the hart by being unprepared.

  His bow was drawn, a dagger at his side in case he had to come close. It should not come to that. He’d make a clean kill. It would be dishonorable to do anything else.

  Arthur prepared to release the arrow. He hated to maim the animal’s perfect body with blood, but this was the way of things. Arthur was not one to buck tradition.

  A crunch of steps sounded behind him. Arthur turned to glare at Lance, but the knight knelt quietly at his back. The pattern of these new steps had a distinct four-feet pattern.

  Was it possible? Could there be another hart? A doe-hart as Lance put it?

  A high-pitched squee rang through the air. The violent sound racked over Arthur’s nerves. It vibrated the string in his hand and caused his fingers to twitch. He’d had occasion to hear women squeal with pleasure, scream from fear, and reach a sonic pitch in anger. But there was something about the sound of two or more women squeeing in shared delight that set him on edge.

  “Oh look, Alina. Lord Arthur has found the hart.”

  “How exciting, Marjorie. We’ll get to see him take the shot.”

  “Go on, Lord Arthur. We know you can do it.”

  Arthur had faced sea monsters in lochs. He’d been outnumbered on mine-littered battlefields. He’d once stood in defiance of God, herself. But put him before witches in heat and he could do little more than play possum. So, instead of releasing his bow and shooting an arrow into the hart, Arthur was caught in the ladies’ crosshairs.

  The hart raised its head and then his brow at Arthur. Was the beast mocking him? Arthur wouldn’t find out today. The stag took off into the wood, leaving a trail of fragrant blooms behind it.

  “Oh, no,” the ladies said in unison.

  In the brief silence that followed, the sun broke through the trees and lit the serene scene. Like the flick of a safety latch being released from a gun, the two ladies turned on Arthur. There was nowhere to run. He’d fallen straight into the trap.

  They cornered their quarry. Their doe eyes pulled wide, preparing to aim straight for Arthur’s heart.

  “Was that our fault?”

  “I’m usually very quiet.”

  “Except in social events.”

  “I’m an excellent hostess.”

  Arthur understood how the hart felt between his crosshairs. He would take an arrow to the heart now rather than deal with this mating frenzy. He’d spent his time on the battlefield, eradicating foes to keep his town safe. And now, for his troubles, he’d come home to a new battlefield; the marriage mart.

  It was his duty to fall on the ax of matrimony for his people. And he'd do it. He’d choose a bride and marry and have a fourth Arthur.

  Soon.

  One day.

  The ladies moved in as though they knew his time was up. Arthur glanced over his shoulder for aide from his most trusted knight, but Lance had taken a healthy step back from the huntresses. Now was the time that Lance had chosen to cease offering distractions on the hunt? There was no escape for Arthur.

  But then he saw it. In the distance. A Hail Mary mist. Smoke coming from the roof of Tintagel Castle.

  Not normal white smoke from the direction of the kitchens. This smoke was green. And coming from the front of the castle. It might’ve been magical. But it was likely something far worse.

  Today was not only the arrival of the hart. It was also the second annual Camelot Science Fair. Wizards and witches embracing the human notion of the study of the natural world through observation and experiment, rather than the God-given magic they were born with.

  It was a preposterous notion; science in a town of magic. But he’d allowed it. It was easier than arguing the point. And now it looked like the experiment had failed.

  There was only one witch who practiced science instead of magic on a regular. Morgan, the perpetual thorn in his side. What disaster had she wreaked upon his orderly town now?

  Arthur half turned around to bow an apology to the ladies. As he did so, again, they let out a high pitched squee that had Arthur backing away so fast he nearly tripped over underbrush. He slung his bow over his shoulder and took off on a new hunt.

  2

  Everything had been going fine, just fine. The second annual Camelot Science Fair had taken off with a great cheer of enthusiasm. Well, maybe not a cheer. But definitely a healthy round of applause. Which mostly came from the children participating, trickled in with a few polite claps from their parents, and mostly silence from those slipping out the front door to join the Hart Festival.

  Morgan considered that great progress. Especially when compared to the first annual Camelot Science Fair, which had only had five participants and no parents. With that fair, she hadn’t actually had permission from Sir Authoritarian to hold it. That event had been a dud.

  The second fair lined nearly the whole wall of the Great Hall. On one side. And, really, it wasn’t exactly a line, more of a curve. And the crowd—if you could call the ten or so people gathered a crowd—could easily see all the children’s projects while standing at the center of the semi-circle.

  Still, there was a quantifiable and qualitative increase in this year’s fair. Yes, thought Morgan. This was definitely progress. Unfortunately, her marked success was now ending with an unplanned bang.

  But one little—okay, big—explosion should not negate this day of success where magical b
eings came to embrace science. This was a huge accomplishment, getting children born with magic in their blood to get excited about the realm of science. To make a hypothesis and undergo experiments instead of simply conjuring whatever they wanted.

  Magic lived in the gut. It was instinct. Science was deduction and logic. It lived in the mind.

  Morgan had gotten witch and wizard children to hold still and think instead of rushing to react. She should get a medal. Instead, she got angry and annoyed glares from parents as the smoke billowed higher.

  As the small crowd moved away from the smoke, Morgan made her way toward it, passing all the projects. Of course, there were the flowing volcanoes, bouncing eggs, bottle rockets, magnets, and musically-induced germination projects that came with the average human science fair. But some of the kids had stepped up their game this year, thanks in part to Morgan's tutoring.

  Osbert Clarke had created a robot of organic matter. The young wizard had the natural ability to animate flesh, but he’d turned his brain toward imparting his innate gifts. Not only was the robot made of organic matter, it ate organic material for its energy source. True, it couldn’t tell the difference between humans and plants and plastics. Osbert sported plasters on seven fingers as a result.

  Ranulf Hughes, who was a telepath, had crafted a glove that converted sign language to speech. Being fourteen, the young wizard had taught the glove to curse. But it cursed in five ancient languages, which really—if you thought about it—was quite impressive that Ranulf knew that many tongues.