Enlighten (King Arthurs and Her Knights Book 5) (7 page)

“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 rode 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 nightmare-ish 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—ancient 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.

It was in the mid afternoon when Britt finally heard another voice—although it was loud and angry.

Curious, Britt guided her horse through the trees, ducking low-hanging branches. She popped into a meadow, where two children stood with a flock of sheep.

A knight in dingy armor, mounted on muscled stallion, held a razor sharp spear at one of the kids—a dirty little girl—in a menacing manner.

The other child—a boy just a little older than the girl—held onto a squirming lamb.

Britt frowned and unsheathed her borrowed sword. Her shoulder protested at the use, and Britt checked to make sure Excalibur’s empty scabbard was still strapped to her before she nudged her horse closer.

“Slaughter the lamb, boy. It is a proper tithe to a knight of great importance,” the knight growled.

“I can’t! They’re not even our sheep,” the boy cried, white faced and panicked.

The little girl started crying and the knight swung his mount closer to her.

I can’t leave them, I’ll have to bluff
. Britt heeled her horse so it shot into the meadow. She steered the horse with her legs and swung the sword up with her good arm—roaring like some of her knights did when they were about to attack.

The knight turned around and saw her coming. He raised his spear—as if to run her through.

“For Arthur!” Britt shouted in a moment of inspiration.

Surprisingly, the knight wheeled his horse around and, wildly kicking it, fled from the meadow.

Britt watched him go with wide eyes. “I can’t believe that worked.” She rested the sword on her saddle and stopped her gelding near the children. “Hello,” she said, looking down to see the kids staring at her with adoring gazes.

“You’re one of King Arthur’s knights?” the boy asked, his voice worshipful.

“Do you sit at the Round Table?” the little girl asked, clapping her hands.

“Where is the rest of your armor?”

“Are Sir Ywain and Sir Griflet out questing again?”

“Children, I apologize. I’m not on a quest, I’m just trying to reach London,” Britt said, interrupting the flow of questions.

“But are you from Camelot?” the boy urgently asked.

“Yeeees,” Britt slowly admitted.

“Thank you for saving us,” the girl said, doing her best to curtsey in her tattered skirts.

“It was good of you! Come back home with us,” the boy said.

“I, err, I’m on my way to London,” Britt repeated.

“But everyone will want to meet you,” the boy said, crestfallen.

Britt was at a loss. Most of the peasants she met were awed by her—she thought they were awed by her knights as well. What gave these children such unrestrained enthusiasm? Typically peasants were expected to bow and scrape before knights and noble ladies.

“Don’t you need more provisions if you’re goin’ to London?” the girl asked.

“Our village will replenish you,” the boy said.

“I suppose so,” Britt reluctantly said.

“Great—we have to take the sheep back anyhow. This way,” the little girl said, running to gather stray sheep.

“What’s your name, Sir knight?” the boy asked, finally releasing the squirming lamb.

Britt thought for a moment, trying to invent a name. Last time she used one of her knights’ names it nearly blew up in her face, given that the
real
Ywain found her. “I’m…Sir Galla…Sir Galahad,” Britt said, congratulating herself on the neat use of the word gallant.

“Sir Galahad, I ain’t heard of you,” the boy said.

“I’m a new addition to Arthur’s court,” Britt said.

“Oh.”

“Caerl, get that sheep,” the little girl shouted, pointing to a stray sheep as she herded the rest of the livestock along.

Britt reluctantly dismounted her horse and followed the children on foot. They walked for about twenty minutes before they left the forest and joined a dirt road. Britt could see a castle in the distance—it was crumbling and even smaller than Sir Damas’. Spread before the castle was a small village of cottages. Puffs of smoke trickled out of chimneys, chickens scratched in the dirt and grass, donkeys brayed, and several goats baaed.

“Arth! Arth!” the boy shouted, running ahead of the sheep. “We found another knight, Arth!”

A young man exited a barn, leading a donkey behind him. He couldn’t have been older than Griflet or Ywain, but he wore a cheerful countenance and was built with broad shoulders and ripped arms. “Caerl, Isel—you’re back already?”

The girl—Isel—burst away from the sheep—scattering them in her path—and skid to a stop in front of the young man. “Sir Rancor returned and was demanding a lamb—”

“One of Betta’s lambs, the best one! I was going to run but Isel threw a rock—” Caerl tried to add.

“I had to—he renounced Arthur as King! And he said Baron Marhaus was a stupid old codger!” Isel said, sounding scandalized.

“Sir Galahad saved us. He’s not questing, though, just riding through. He wouldn’t say if Sir Griflet and Sir Ywain are questing—do ya think they are? When will they come back?” Caerl said, gesturing to Britt—who was securing her horse to a wooden fence.

“Sir Galahad is going to London, but he doesn’t have all his armor,” Isel said.

“Children, enough,” Arth said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the chatter. “Go tell Edla your tale. She’s out with the chickens.”

Immediately Caerl and Isel turned on their heels and ran—hollering and screaming. “Edla! Edla!”

Britt saw a very pregnant girl waddle around a cottage and wave to the children.

“Wait—the sheep…” Arth trailed off with a sigh.

“They’re charming children,” Britt said as she started chasing sheep into the small, fenced in area.

“They are
not
mine. Oh! Please, noble sir,” Arth said, rushing to help when he realized what she was doing. “You need not lower yourself to this.”

“It’s fine,” Britt said, feeling a little awkward from her sudden arrival and being abandoned by the kids.

“T’is not,” Arth firmly said. “Caerl said you saved them?”

“It was much less glorious than it sounds. I stumbled up them and ran at the knight shouting at the top of my lungs,” Britt said, wincing when a sheep ran over her feet.

“T’was honorable of you,” Arth said.

Britt would have shrugged if not for her injured shoulder. “Am I in the lands of Baron Marhaus?”

“Aye, that’s his fortress yonder,” Arth said, nodding at the crumbling structure.

It took Britt a moment to remember all she knew about Baron Marhaus. The man was, if she recalled correctly, kind enough. He swore to her when she pulled the sword from the stone on Pentecost in London and had lent her a few troops in her fight against King Lot, King Urien, King Ryence, and their lackeys. He also didn’t seem to mind that she sent her knights near his lands.

“I’ve heard he is a fair man. Is that true?” Britt carefully asked. (Last time she thought well of an ally, it turned out he was nothing but a greedy cheapskate.)

“Oh, yes,” Arth said, shooing a sheep into the paddock. “He’s quite nice. He comes riding through the village some days and says kind things to the children. He’s gettin’ a little up in the years and hasn’t any heirs, I’m afraid to say. His court is small too—that’s why we’re grateful to King Arthur.”

Britt blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Before he sent his knights out questing, we used to get a lot of recreant knights demanding tithes and the like. Good ol’ Marhaus couldn’t take care of ’em, but you younglings from Camelot do a smash up job,” Arth grunted.

“Who has been here before?” Britt asked.

“Sir Ywain and Sir Griflet hung around a bit last year. We saw Sir Gawain in the early fall, once. This spring we even hosted King Pellinore for a night,” Arth boasted with a broad smile.

Britt smiled fondly at the listed knights. All four of them were open men who didn’t expect honors—no wonder the kids treated her more like a favorite uncle than a regent. “I know those men. They are very noble.”

“Aye,” Arth said when the last sheep ran into the paddock. He slapped his tunic, making a dust cloud puff up. “Isel and Caerl said you’re going to London?”

“Yes.”

“You can spend the night here, if you wish. We would be honored to have you, especially after you saved that pair,” Arth said.

Britt thought about his offer for a moment. She wasn’t in any great hurry to reach London—it wasn’t like her knights would come galloping after her anyway—and she didn’t relish the idea of sleeping outdoors without any company—or Excalibur.

“I will take you up on your offer, Master Arth. Thank you.”

“Oh, no. Thank you,” Arth smiled before he ran a hand through his dirty, strawberry blonde hair. (He would have been handsome if he wasn’t so grungy.) “I will speak to my wife, Edla, but I’m certain you can stay with us, if not Isel and Caerl’s family.”

“Thank you,” Britt said, patting her horse.

“If you’d like, I can show you where you can stable that fine boy for the night.”

“Yes, please. I would like to strip him of his tack and rub him down.”

“Right, then. This way, Sir.”

Britt unhitched her horse and followed the swarthy fellow, forcing a smile to her lips even though her heart still ached from the events of the previous day.

When Sir Gawain and King Pellinore returned to Camelot, everyone was still in an uproar. “What’s going on?” Sir Gawain asked when he entered the hall of the Round Table. He expected to find King Arthur there. Instead he found twenty or thirty knights who were in various stages of anger and drunkenness.