Endeavor (King Arthur and Her Knights Book 6) Page 4

  “T’is nothing, My Lord, I apologize for interrupting you,” Sir Bedivere said.

  “No. You sighed. In happiness. What is it?”

  “It’s only that, even though you are a woman, you are still our Dragon King.”

  “Our Elf King,” another knight added.

  She turned, sweeping her eyes across her gathered knights. “I don’t understand.”

  Agravain bowed. “I believe the idea, My Lord, is that although you are a woman, you are still the fierce being we know you to be.”

  “Aye,” Sir Safir said. “I saw that enraged look in your eyes when you faced down Urien with the wrath of an ageless elf.”

  “ARTHUR!” Merlin howled and banged on the door some more.

  “I see. Thank you, I think,” Britt awkwardly said. She turned back to Lancelot with renewed vengeance. “But you—”

  “While I do not regret creating the Queen’s Knights—for you are worthy of such honor, My Lord—I will say in the…state I was in, I perhaps was not at my clearest,” Lancelot said.

  “You were drunk,” Britt said. It wasn’t a guess, but a fact. The knights’ haggard appearances were a big enough tip-off, but she had known last night that Lancelot had plans for a party that would put a twenty-first century fraternity houses to shame.

  “I was,” Lancelot said, sounding pious as he tipped his head. “I apologize for my excessive indulgence, but I shall endeavor to make amends and regain your favor.”

  “You never had my favor to begin with.”

  “Arthur, if you do not open this door, I will blast it to bits!” Merlin shouted.

  “Steady,” Britt said to her guards.

  “If that is so, then I have an even greater vested interest in my mission,” Lancelot said.

  “You expect me to believe that sending you out questing is a punishment to you?” She asked, raising one eyebrow.

  Lancelot bowed his head.

  “I don’t buy it,” Britt said.

  “My Lord?” Lancelot forehead wrinkled.

  “On the count of three!” Merlin warned.

  Britt smiled—a barely-there curve of her lips. “Here is my judgment. If your actions and attitude haven’t altered by the time you return to Camelot after an appropriate amount of questing, you will forfeit the title of Queen’s Champion.”

  Several knights gasped, but Lancelot did not look surprised.

  “One!” Merlin shouted.

  “As you wish, My King.” Lancelot accented his words with a polished bow.

  “Two!”

  Britt pointed to the door. “Guards,” she said.

  “Three!”

  With great relief, the guards hauled the doors open, revealing Merlin, holding a ball of fire in his palm.

  “I shall begin my journey immediately,” Lancelot said. He bowed to her, then strode from the room, smiling at a confused Merlin as he passed him in the doorway.

  Merlin frowned and watched the handsome knight leave. “He’s not maimed. What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing...yet.” Britt turned her attention to the rest of her knights. “I release you from my presence, though you should know I am still angry with this development. I suggest you all see the cook in the kitchens. She has a draught to help cure hangovers.”

  “You do not wish to punish us, My Lord?” Agravain asked.

  Britt wanted to shout and lecture them, but she knew they would react poorly to such a chastisement, so instead she gave them her best verbal punch. “No.” She smiled with all the tranquility she could muster. “I am filled with grave disappointment over your conduct, but I trust you—as I always have. I do hope you will act with greater wisdom next time, wisdom I know you possess.”

  The knights winced and exchanged guilty glances. “My Lord,” they murmured before they left the room in a massive herd.

  “What did you do to them?” Merlin asked when they all left. “I haven’t seen them so at ease in your presence since the reveal.”

  Britt shrugged. “I was furious. It seemed to make them feel better.”

  “Ahhh, I think I understand. It assured them you are the same person.” Merlin folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

  “So they said, but I still don’t get it. No matter; the issue has been resolved, and Lancelot is going to go questing for a while—months, I hope. It has been a good morning.” She slapped her thighs. “Cavall, come!”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Merlin trailed after her with her guard dog.

  “Riding with Sir Ector.”

  “We have Ireland to think of.”

  “And my foster-father leaves tomorrow for the rest of the summer. I’m spending time with him.”

  The wizard sighed. “It is understandable, I suppose. But I want to see you in my study this evening.”

  “As you wish,” Britt said. When she left Merlin in the corridor, she was already planning ways she could derail the inevitable conversation of invading Ireland.

  “Rudolph, come on. There’s better grazing up ahead.” Britt tugged on the rope tied to the white stag’s red halter. Rudolph followed behind her like a dog, wiggling his white tail. They stopped at a patch of wildflowers—the deer’s favorite food—and Britt settled in, patting her giant pet’s back with an absent-minded fondness.

  Behind her, Camelot rose up—a picture-perfect fortification of stone walls and towers, surrounded by forest. The Forest of Arroy circled around the castle in a horseshoe shape, and Britt and her companions were picking their way to the open plains at Camelot’s flank—where there was rich farmland and, most importantly, an abundance of wildflowers.

  The sky was heavy with smoke-gray clouds, but Merlin insisted it wouldn’t rain. His faith in his weather-telling skills was obvious, as he carried rolls of parchment. At the moment, he brandished a rolled-up map and muttered under his breath as he poked around the grassland. He squinted out at the farmland, compared it to his map, and muttered incessantly.

  Past him, Kay strolled with Morgan. It was a surprising pair, but as the grave seneschal and the beautiful sorceress strolled, Morgan laughed, and Kay’s mustache twitched—which was his equivalent of a smile.

  Are they friends? Morgan has never seemed particularly close with Kay…have they united under their mutual distaste for Merlin?

  “Do you graze your white hart often, My Lord?” Mordred asked, drawing Britt’s attention from the unlikely pair.

  “No, there’s a stable boy who is assigned the duty. But as Gawain went through a great deal of trouble to procure Rudolph for me, I feel I need to be a halfway decent pet owner,” Britt said, scratching the animal’s shoulders.

  Rudolph rewarded her by smearing a plant across her golden curiass. “Not that he seems to care,” She muttered as she wiped plant residue off her chest.

  “I had heard much of you before I arrived in Camelot.” Mordred seated himself on a large boulder and offered her a smile charming enough to spatter on a magazine cover in modern America. “I must confess, you are not what I expected.”

  Britt tilted her head, trying to get a gauge on him. “Oh? What did you think I would be—a noble man with great bearings?” She asked, jealously thinking of King Pellinore, who oozed nobility from every pore.

  “You are a noble man, and your presence cannot be summarized with the mere word ‘great,’” Mordred said.

  She snorted in disbelief and followed Rudolph as he moved closer to Mordred.

  “It’s not just you, but your court and subjects as well. You rule over the cleanest castle-folk I have ever set eyes on.”

  “It’s the public baths,” Britt said.

  “I heard the Romans had such things. It’s a brilliant plan,” he said. “Especially for one so young.”

  “What?” Britt frowned.

  “I thought you were only seventeen or eighteen—am I mistaken?”

  “Nooo,” Britt said, dragging out the o. Although she had graduated college, Merlin insisted Britt say she was fifteen when she
was crowned King of England.

  “Fascinating,” Mordred said.

  “In what way is my age fascinating?”

  Mordred leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “Your age was not particularly what I was thinking of. It is more the air in which you carry yourself. I heard much about you from a dear friend. He boasted in particular that you were able to win the hearts and loyalty of your knights. I doubted him, but I must confess he spoke the truth.”

  “What is the name of this friend of yours?” Britt asked, wondering if she would for once be able to out maneuver Merlin and find out Mordred’s political connections before the wizard did.

  Mordred smiled—it was small, as if he knew a good joke but couldn’t find the right moment to share it. “He does not know you well, but he has spoken often with Sir Ector, who is very vocal—and rightly so—of your praises.”

  “If your friend’s source is Sir Ector, I’m afraid I will be a bitter disappointment,” Britt laughed. “Sir Ector has a parent’s pride.”

  “Perhaps, but I came here to weigh your character. I have found Sir Ector’s portrayal of you to be perhaps not entirely accurate, but faithful.”

  Britt would have questioned him further, but at that moment someone called out, “My Lord!”

  Britt swung around to see Sir Ulfius striding across the field, a beautiful girl gliding behind him.

  She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. She was beautiful with blonde hair and hazel eyes, but had a self-conscious, mean-spirited presence that reminded Britt of the catty, popular girls in high school.

  “My Lord, King Arthur, and the great Merlin. I ask that you would allow me to announce the presence of Lady Vivien, daughter of the King of Northumberland,” Sir Ulfius said, his bow short and choppy.

  Britt tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looked to her advisor, a frown threatening to tug at the corners of her lips.

  Typically Sir Ulfius never bothered to introduce any girls to Britt and Merlin—princess or not. As much as it chafed Britt to witness it, women—young girls in particular—were unimportant, politically speaking, in the era. There were exceptions, like Queen Morgause, wife to King Lot and mother of Gawain, Agravain, Gareth, and Gaheris; and her sister, Morgan. But women like them were mournfully few.

  Merlin stared at Sir Ulfius, who was scratching at his throat. It seemed to be a kind of wordless communication, for Merlin abandoned his map-checking and joined Britt, Rudolph, and Mordred.

  “Welcome to Camelot, Lady Vivien,” Merlin said. His voice was neither warm nor cold.

  Following his cue, Britt added, “We hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you. I am delighted to be here,” Vivien said in a whispery, simpering voice.

  “Sir Ulfius and I will show you to your chambers, if you will wait for a moment,” Merlin said.

  “Of course. I do not mean to intrude upon you, My Lord,” Vivien said. She waited until Britt met her gaze and smiled.

  Merlin stepped between them—his back to the girl—and hooked his arm around Britt’s shoulders. “Come along, Arthur,” Merlin said, towing her away.

  Mordred reached out and took Rudolph’s rope with a smile.

  “Thank you,” Britt said before Merlin yanked her out of hearing range.

  “Listen to me.” Merlin spoke in a soft whisper as he gripped her shoulder with surprising strength. “At any public event, I want Guinevere with you.”

  “What? Please tell me you are joking.”

  “Morgan will do in a pinch, but keep that silly-headed princess by you whenever possible.”

  “Why?” Britt asked. Conversing with Guinevere wasn’t the punishment it used to be, but that didn’t mean she was Britt’s first choice—or even in the top ten—as a dinner companion.

  “I can’t explain it right now, but it is essential that you do as I ask. Do you understand?” It wasn’t his words that convinced Britt the situation was serious, but his dazzlingly blue eyes. They had a faint cast of desperation to them that seemed to highlight the gloomy sky and heavy air.

  “You’ll tell me soon?” she asked.

  Merlin mutely pressed his lips together and his forehead wrinkled with worry.

  Britt nodded. “Fine. I’ll sit with Guinevere.”

  “Thank you, lass,” Merlin said. He studied Britt for a moment, looking her up and down, then squeezed her shoulder and stepped away. “Shall we be off, Sir Ulfius?” he asked.

  “Of course,” the older knight said, turning back to Camelot. “This way, Lady Vivien.”

  “Good bye, King Arthur. I hope to see you tonight,” the girl said.

  Britt raised her hand in a wordless farewell as she rejoined Mordred with Kay and Morgan. “That was odd. Do any of you know her, or the King of Northumberland?”

  “No,” Mordred said.

  “I’ll find out,” Kay said as the first raindrop fell.

  “Better get inside before this storm wages war. Wouldn’t want to frighten…Rue…?” Mordred started, turning to Britt.

  “Rudolph. And that is a wise plan.” Britt took her pet’s leadline back and marched towards the castle.

  Morgan joined her as sky opened up in a steady trickle. “That was not, I take it, the Lady Vivien you crowned lady over her brothers’ lands a few short week ago?”

  “No. She’s about as opposite as you can imagine. I gave Vivien her brothers’ lands because she is responsible and kind. This Vivien reminded me of a high school mean-girl.”

  “I do not know exactly what you refer to, but I believe the title of ‘mean-girl’ might accurately reflect this new arrival,” Morgan said. “Though I hope we are wrong.”

  “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER 5

  True Colors

  “You seem to be in good spirits, My Lord,” Sir Percival said, joining Britt. She was tucked against a wall of the feast hall, surveying her friends and subjects as the evening feast progressed. Dinner with Guinevere as her “date,” so to speak, was progressing well, but she needed the break or she would soon go cross-eyed from listening to the younger girl categorize the knights by their pleasing manners and questing feats.

  “Indeed. I was just thinking how nice it is with Sir Lancelot gone,” Britt said.

  “You do not miss his tales that highlight his prowess?”

  “No,” Britt said, her response sour.

  Sir Percival laughed. “Father said you didn’t care much for him. I find it surprising—you’re so similar, after all.”

  Britt gave the knight a look of horror. “You think so little of me?”

  “Not at all, My Lord. I think the very best of you, just as I think the best of Sir Lancelot. He is a skilled man.”

  Britt made a noise of disgust in the back of her throat. “He’s talented. But I prefer my knights more chivalrous—like Gawain, and your father—although he’s a king, not a knight,” she said, referring to King Pellinore.

  Sir Percival shook his head. “Father is proud to be called your knight.”

  Britt thought for a moment to arrange the appropriately courtly words in her mind before she spoke. “It is a testimony to his character that he is so.” She watched Vivien the vixen stroll up to Britt’s table—which was located on a dais. (Merlin seemed to have a thing for daises and putting Britt several feet above everyone else.) Guinevere sat there, nibbling on her food and smiling at the knights who approached her. “I am proud to say, however, that many of my knights more closely resemble your father’s character than Lancelot’s. Even those new to the table.”

  “Such as myself?”

  “Yes. And Mordred, I think,” Britt said, frowning as Vivien clasped her arms behind her back and climbed the dais stairs to speak to Guinevere.

  “He fought well and lost honorably to Sir Lancelot,” Sir Percival said.

  “Yes…Tell me, do you think he is a good knight?” Britt asked, tearing her eyes away from the girls to directly address the tall knight at her side.

&nbs
p; “I do,” Sir Percival said, his manners open and his expression honest. “Just as I think Sir Lancelot is a good knight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sir Percival shifted and placed a little space between them as he cleared his throat. “Forgive me for my impertinence, My Lord, for I have been a Knight of the Round Table for only a short time. I should have said nothing.”

  “I value your opinion. What is it?”

  Sir Percival hesitated.

  “Percival?”

  “It is only that, well, you seem unusually suspicious of Sir Lancelot and Sir Mordred.”

  Britt tried to think of a response that wouldn’t involve the word “huh?” but came up short. Thankfully, Sir Percival didn’t seem to notice and pushed on.

  “You invited Sir Tor, the son of a cowherd, to the Round Table when any other King would have beaten him for his request. You welcomed my father—who waged war against you—when by rights you could have killed him and taken his lands. Yet with Sir Lancelot and Sir Mordred—two of the most talented knights in Camelot—you hold back your affection. You are more polite with Mordred, but it is obvious to all that you hold him at arm’s length.”

  “He doesn’t know who I am,” Britt said, gesturing up and down her body.

  “A scant month ago, no one knew who you were,” Sir Percival quietly replied.

  Britt considered the knight’s words. Was she unfairly prejudice of Mordred and Lancelot? She had always struggled with the responsibility to either fulfill or destroy the legends of King Arthur that she knew. While she no longer put herself under pressure to be a replica of the original Arthur, she still held Lancelot and Guinevere’s affair responsible for the downfall of Camelot, when that wasn’t even possible—especially as her knights now knew who she was.

  “You’ve given me much to think over, Sir Percival.”

  He drew his shoulders back. “I hope I did not overstep my place, My Lord.”

  “Not at all. You are as wise and insightful as Pellinore. He has helped me puzzle through the difficulties of being a king on more than one occasion.” Britt smiled. “Thank you.”

  The faintest hint of a blush bloomed in Percival’s cheeks. “You exaggerate, My Lord.”