Enlighten Page 6

  Britt hesitated.

  Ywain laughed again. “Don’t be foolish, Sir Bedivere. Of course someone knew. You can’t tell me Merlin is oblivious, nor Sir Kay and Sir Ector. In fact, I bet most of those old codgers Merlin holes up with know about it. Know about her,” Ywain scoffed, removing his armored gloves. He clenched them in his hand before throwing them at the ground.

  “I was your marshal,” Bedivere said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I would have done anything for you.”

  “I know!” Sir Griflet brightened. “This is a faerie trap! We’ve been caught in a faerie trap that plays games with our minds. We must find a way out of it—we have to continue our search for the real King Arthur. This one is obviously a farce,” Sir Griflet said.

  “We’re not in a faerie trap, Griflet. We’re just being played with by a conniving female,” Ywain snarled.

  Britt looked from the three unsteady knights to Lancelot—who still leaned against his horse. The shallow knight’s face held traces of anger, but he was markedly less affected than the others. His dreamy, green eyes met Britt’s, and he raised an eyebrow, looking down on her.

  Everything has been ruined, Britt realized. Once the rest of the Order of the Round Table knows, King Arthur’s rule will be over. I’ll be lucky if they don’t hang me or burn me at the stake.

  It pained Britt to see the knights she knew, men she loved—with the exception of Lancelot—turn into enemies before her very eyes. Their anger, betrayal, and newly minted hatred were exposed in their eyes and the tight muscles of their faces.

  Run.

  “You’re worse than my Aunt Morgause!” Ywain finally spat out. “At least a man knows when she’s playing with him. But you whispered exactly what we wanted to hear and petted us and cooed over us like we were your lapdogs!”

  “I never treated you—”

  “LIAR! Everything you’ve told me is a lie—I cannot possibly believe you now!” Ywain said.

  Britt’s heart beat in her throat. Run! Her mind urged her, but her heart twisted to see the pain she caused her knights.

  “I’m still Arthur. Just because I’m…” Britt trailed off and glanced at Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake, but they were busy poking each other in the chest. “I’m still the person you know me as.”

  Sir Bedivere shook his head. “No. The king I knew is dead,” he said. The shadows in his eyes said he was mourning the loss of King Arthur—of Britt’s charade.

  There was the scrape of a sword sliding out of its scabbard. Britt snapped her head in the direction of the sound and found Ywain glowering at her, holding his unsheathed sword.

  RUN!

  Unable to leash her fear any longer, Britt lunged to her feet. To accomplish the feat, she had to use her injured arm—which made her stomach queasy. She pushed the nausea aside and snatched up her borrowed sword before scrambling to her temporary mount’s side. She slid the sword in the scabbard attached to the horse and threw herself on the chestnut’s back.

  She wheeled the horse towards the woods and heeled it, making the animal launch into a canter.

  “That’s my horse!” Sir Damas shouted—finally distracted from his argument with his brother.

  “Wait—My Lord!” Griflet shouted, running a few steps after Britt before he changed directions and ran towards his horse.

  Lancelot caught him before he reached the charger. “Don’t,” Britt heard the handsome knight say. “Let her go.”

  Anything else he said was lost to Britt as she entered the thick forest, leaving broken dreams and broken knights in her wake.

  When Sir Bedivere, Sir Lancelot, Sir Ywain, and Sir Griflet returned to Camelot, they called a meeting of Arthur’s core knights. These thirty or so knights were men that had served King Arthur loyally. Most of them stood with him—her, Lancelot supposed—since she was crowned, although there were some more recently additions, like Sir Tor, Lancelot himself, and his cousins—Lionel and Bors.

  Normally, the numbers of King Arthur’s loyal knights was much higher, but as it was spring, many of them—like Sir Gawain and King Pellinore—were absent from the courts and were out questing.

  It’s just as well, Lancelot mused. If we had any more knights present, they might turn into a mob and rip Camelot apart, he thought as he watched a knight throw a drinking goblet at the wall.

  Sir Ywain was in a shouting match with Sir Ector, and Sir Bedivere was almost boneless in his seat—he had renounced his title of marshal shortly after the so-called meeting started. Sir Griflet was still in denial, spouting ridiculous ideas like the female King Arthur was a changeling from the faeries, and they needed to rescue the real Arthur; and Sir Percival was in the process of challenging Sir Bodwain since it had been revealed the older knight knew Arthur’s gender. Chaos and shouting ruled the room.

  The only knight that was taking Arthur’s femininity in stride was Sir Tor. The good-humored knight was not enraged or at all shaken by the proclamation. Instead, he thought about it for a few minutes before shrugging and watching the “meeting” with the same good humor with which he did everything.

  “Pay up, Lionel,” Sir Bors said, holding out a hand.

  Sir Lionel grumbled before slapping a few coins in Sir Bors’ outstretched hand.

  Sir Bors smiled in satisfaction and slipped the money into a money bag on his belt.

  “What was that for?” Lancelot asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “When we first heard about our pretty king, we made a bet,” Sir Lionel grumbled.

  “I said you wouldn’t raise a fuss. Lionel bet otherwise,” Sir Bors said in satisfaction.

  “I see,” Lancelot said, unperturbed by his cousin’s behavior.

  “So why aren’t you raising a fuss?” Sir Lionel asked.

  “There is nothing for me to be upset about,” Lancelot said, leaning back in his chair to avoid a flying plate.

  “You were set on worming into Arthur’s inner circle,” Sir Bors pointed out.

  “Certainly, but not because I actually liked the man,” Lancelot said. “It was more that I couldn’t comprehend why he didn’t want me in his circle. I am the best there is,” Lancelot shrugged.

  “Except at sword play. My Lord—or My Lady, I suppose—has you beat there,” Sir Lionel said with a cheeky smile.

  Lancelot gave Sir Lionel a look so dark and hateful, a lesser man would have begged for forgiveness. As it was, Lancelot’s cousin was used to receiving such a look. “Ahh, see? You are angry. Give me my money back, Bors.”

  “Our bet was how he would openly react, not what emotions he harbored silently,” Sir Bors said, folding his arms across his wide chest.

  “Still, I’m surprised you’re not more upset,” Sir Lionel said, rubbing his chin.

  “It’s simple. I was not emotionally invested like the foolish sops around us were. They believed in him and in his cause. Now, everything they have known and fought for has been dashed,” Lancelot said.

  “I don’t know that everything is dashed,” Sir Bors said.

  “I know you were never Arthur’s faithful little knight like most of the Round Table, but I thought would be angry over his—her—deception. She had the wool pulled over our eyes.”

  “She was most assuredly not the one doing the tricking,” Lancelot snorted. “King Arthur is a female. She hasn’t the intelligence necessary to run this trick. Merlin is one who played the courts.”

  “Merlin was the mastermind, no doubts there,” Sir Lionel nodded.

  “I don’t think it would be right to say that King Arthur lacks intelligence,” Sir Bors argued. “Yes, Merlin must have led the charge, but she would not have gone undiscovered so long if she didn’t have some measure of cunning.”

  “She might be like Morgause or Morgan le Fay. That would be a chilling thought,” Sir Lionel said, making a face as he watched Sir Ector and Sir Ywain come to blows.

  “If anything, I find it reassuring,” Lancelot said. “King Arthur being female explains why she was so easily able to manip
ulate the men and women of her courts. A few pretty words, that wretched smile of hers, and everyone wriggled like a puppy for the beautiful woman—even if they didn’t know it.”

  Sir Lionel looked away from the fighting and gave Lancelot a strange look.

  “What is it?” Lancelot asked.

  “You’re acting queer.”

  “In what way?” Lancelot scoffed.

  “You’re too easily accepting whatever ideas Bors and I toss out. Not a minute ago you were calling our pretty king stupid. Now you’re saying she’s a conniving female,” Sir Lionel said. “Normally someone has to bash your head against a rock to get you to change your mind.”

  “It is odd,” Sir Bors agreed.

  Lancelot shrugged. “The important bit is that I am not a vested party. I don’t care about King Arthur or whatever happens to her. I’m only here for the fun of it.”

  “Fun?” Sir Bors asked, a frown forming on his square face.

  “Fun,” Lancelot said with a sparkling smile. “I cannot think of a more interesting situation than watching men who used to be faithful subjects turn against a king they idolized and adored.”

  “You’re twisted,” Sir Lionel said, taking a sip from his goblet. “But that’s what I like about you.”

  Sir Bors was still frowning.

  “What, did you love and adore King Arthur like the rest of his men?” Lancelot said with a mocking smile.

  Sir Bors—who was unfortunately more observant than his brother—thinned his lips. He looked like he was going to say something before he changed his mind and looked out at the chaotic crowd.

  “Still, I salute you, Sir Lancelot du Lac,” Sir Lionel said.

  “Why?”

  “It takes a great amount of fortitude to brush off the knowledge that you were soundly beaten—thrashed even—by a girl every time you crossed swords with her,” Sir Lionel grinned.

  Lancelot darkly scowled at his cousin—who gave a great big belly laugh—before he returned his attention to the upset knights of the Round Table.

  It is interesting now, but it will be absolutely entertaining when Merlin returns, he thought.

  By the end of the day, Britt knew she would be in major trouble if she didn’t get her shoulder looked at. She had ridden out of Sir Damas’ lands hours ago, so she couldn’t ask Lady Vivenne for help. Returning to Camelot wasn’t an option—and it was even farther away than Sir Damas’ home.

  “Maybe I could get some faerie help. I’m still in the Forest of Arroy,” Britt murmured, her body drooping with pain and heartache. “But how would I know where to find any? Night will soon fall. If I don’t get help by then…”

  Britt swallowed with difficulty. “I need to find Merlin,” she said, swaying on the back of her borrowed horse.

  “My Lord?”

  Britt tried to turn, but she was too weak and fell off the horse, landing on her injured shoulder. Britt hissed in pain and tried to cling to consciousness. She almost lost it when she realized Morgan le Fay stood over her, worry etched into her face.

  “Morgan, are you a sight for sore eyes,” Britt groaned.

  “What on earth did you do to yourself, My Lord?” Morgan asked.

  “Lancelot stabbed me—that traitorous jerk,” Britt hissed.

  Morgan pressed her lips together. “Hold on. I have a healing draught in my pack—faerie made,” she said, disappearing from Britt’s view.

  When she returned, she carried bandages, herbs, and a glass vial—which she gave to Britt.

  “This tastes awful,” Britt sputtered after taking a sip.

  “You would find it worse should you learn the ingredients. Drink it,” she ordered.

  Britt swigged the rest of the drink down as Morgan slipped Britt’s shoulder out of her jerkin and inspected the wound. “It’s not deep, but I have no doubts your scabbard saved your life. This should have been bandaged hours ago,” Morgan said.

  “How did you know about the scabbard?”

  “Nymue.”

  “Ah, should have guessed. Anyway, it’s feeling better. I think my arm was dislocated earlier. Sir Bedivere and Lancelot must have set it before they…found out,” Britt said.

  “Before they found out about what?” Morgan prompted, pouring a liquid from a water skin on Britt’s wound.

  “What is that?” Britt hissed, her teeth clamped in pain.

  “Another healing draught. What did they find out?”

  The tale spilled from Britt’s lips. She explained everything from getting kidnapped by Sir Damas, to facing Sir Lancelot, and finally being revealed as a girl.

  “I knew Lancelot was going to cause trouble. Merlin should have let me kick him out the moment I knew who he was,” Britt growled.

  “Your knights were going to find out eventually, My Lord,” Morgan said, wrapping Britt’s shoulder. “It was only a matter of time.”

  “As long as Merlin was with me, no one would have learned,” Britt said.

  “Even Merlin cannot be with you every second of the day,” Morgan said.

  “I know,” Britt groaned. “But I’ve only been ruling two years. Camelot is supposed to last much longer than that! Two years, and it’s already over.”

  “Maybe it is not,” Morgan said.

  “Hah! Yeah, right. Unless Merlin can erase the memories of all my knights—because I’m sure Lancelot opened up his big yap and told everyone at Camelot—I’m sunk.”

  “You think your knights will no longer follow you?” Morgan asked.

  “I know they won’t.”

  “How can you know? You aren’t giving them a chance,” Morgan pointed out.

  “I know because this is ancient England. They aren’t going to be okay with a woman ruling over them,” Britt said. She thought Morgan would question her about her strange choice of words, but the sorceress said nothing more and finished wrapping Britt’s shoulder.

  “Thank you for your help,” Britt said, gingerly rolling her shoulders. “It’s lucky you stumbled upon me. What are you doing here—if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Not at all. I was searching for Gawain and Agravain to tell them you were kidnapped,” Morgan said, gathering up her supplies. “It’s just as well that I found you first. What will you do?”

  “Ride to London, I think,” Britt said, stripping off the remaining pieces of armor she had ridden off in. “I can easily blend in there, and I know a few knights who live near there and belong to Merlin. They’ll let me stay with them.”

  “I believe I shall return to Camelot,” Morgan said. “Perhaps my nephews have already returned.”

  “Would you tell Merlin where I am?” Britt asked.

  “Certainly, if I see him. Merlin and Sir Kay set out to search for you when Sir Damas kidnapped you,” Morgan said.

  “Merlin will return to Camelot,” Britt promised.

  “Shall we spend the night together? I cannot ride back to Camelot tonight, and you have several days of travel before you will reach London,” Morgan said.

  “It would be a relief to camp with someone,” Britt said, giving Morgan a weak smile. “Thank you.”

  “For?” Morgan asked as she started unhooking packs from the white donkey she rode.

  “For helping me, for listening to me. I’m lucky to have you in this…” Britt trailed off, unable to think of a label for her nightmare.

  “I believe you will see the situation with new eyes tomorrow, My Lord. All is not lost. Your knights may be troubled, but their hearts still stand with you.”

  Britt exhaled deeply. “I’ll start finding wood for our campfire. Is that alright?”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter 6

  Sheep without a Shepherd

  Britt slept very little that night. For the first time since her arrival in medieval Britain, she wasn’t kept awake by thoughts and memories of the friends and family she left behind in the twenty-first century, but by the nightmarish events of the day. The expression of betrayal in Sir Bedivere’s eyes and Ywain’
s barely contained range seemed to set up a permanent base near the front of her mind.

  In the morning, Morgan asked Britt to return to Camelot with her. Britt refused. The sorceress did not seem surprised by the refusal and packed up her camp.

  “Take this—you’ll need it if you are to survive the journey to London,” Morgan said, offering out two stuffed saddle packs.

  “What’s in them?” Britt asked.

  “Some provisions, a blanket, extra bandages, a hunting knife, and the like.”

  “I can’t take all of that from you,” Britt said.

  “You can, and you will. I will reach Camelot this afternoon. You have several more days of travel before you,” Morgan said, taking the packs from Britt and placing them on the back of Britt’s horse. “I will not force you to return to Camelot with me, but I will not allow you to go gallivanting into the wild without any sort of equipment,” she said, securing the packs to the saddle.

  “Thanks, Morgan,” Britt said.

  “It is the least I can do,” Morgan said before returning to her donkey. She nimbly lifted herself into her side-saddle and fixed her skirts. “I wish you would return. You underestimate your knights—and yourself.”

  Britt shook her head. “The rule of Arthur is over—unless Merlin can track the real one down. Thank you, Morgan. I hope I see you again,” Britt said.

  “So do I, My Lord,” Morgan said before she nudged her donkey into a walk.

  Britt watched the beautiful sorceress disappear through the trees before she turned and mounted her horse. She glanced around the abandoned camp and nudged her horse forward, heading for London.

  She rode all morning long without meeting a soul. That didn’t surprise her much—medieval England was far less inhabited than its modern-day counterpart. What Britt did find odd, though, was the lack of vagrants, bandits, and recreant knights.

  Based on the stories her knights gave her, she thought the countryside was crawling with them. This did not seem to be so, based on the lack of contact.

  Britt shrugged it off and plodded along, stopping several times to water her horse or to walk next to it and stretch her legs.