by Mari Mancusi
Arthur looked at Lucas with astonishment. They wanted him to play? To become a knight and join the team for real? Hands shaking, he dared pipe in, “I can catch, too.” He certainly had had enough practice back home with his abusive brother and his friends always lobbing things at his head.
“It's not a bad idea . . . “ Garrett mused.
“But what about the rules?” Tristan piped in. “He's not on the team. They'd never let him play. Especially not midgame.”
The other players nodded glumly.
“Technically, that's true,” Lucas said slowly. “But what if they didn't know it was him? I mean, he and I are pretty similar in height and weight, right? With a helmet on, who would know?”
The players seemed to consider this. “The college scout is sitting over on the Celt's side,” Lucas added. “And Coach is occupied with the ref.” He motioned to the teacher who was, sure enough, still screaming at the man in black and white stripes.
Graham and Garrett looked at each other. “You sure he's good?” Graham asked. “I do not want to lose this game.”
“He's amazing,” Lucas assured him. “I swear.” He paused. “Besides, what's the alternative?” he asked, gesturing to Mortimer. The other players sighed.
“Okay, team, let's huddle up.” Garrett called the players over. When everyone was assembled in a tight circle, he ushered Lucas and Arthur into the middle. “Change jerseys quickly,” he instructed. “Before Coach comes to check on us.”
The boys did as instructed and a moment later they emerged from the huddle, Arthur now wearing Lucas's uniform and helmet and Lucas was wearing Arthur's jersey and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. The whistle blew and the defense started coming off the field.
Arthur drew in a breath. This was it.
“You ready?” Lucas asked him. Arthur nodded.
“Make me look good,” Lucas said with a twinkle in his eyes. “My future football career depends on this, you know.”
“I will,” Arthur assured him, the enormity of the situation suddenly hitting him hard and fast. For the first time in his life, he'd been asked to do something important. Something that mattered. Lucas helped him out this morning when he had no place to go. And now he had the chance to return the favor.
“Come on, boys!” Garrett cried, grinning under his helmet. “Let's go win ourselves a football game.”
And that was how, a few moments later, Arthur found himself standing in the field, surrounded by tall boys in uniform, as the final play of the game began. As Tristan hiked the ball to Garrett, Arthur ran down the field, waiting for the quarterback's throw. For a moment, standing on the field, he felt paralyzed in place. Could he really do this? Could he really catch the ball and win the game?
His foster brother Kay's jeering face seemed to swim through the air. Telling him there was no way he'd pull this off. No way a nobody like Arthur could ever hope to save the day. He might as well not even try.
But just as Arthur began to despair, his ears picked up another sound, drowning out his brother's taunts. Cheering and clapping from the crowd in the bleachers and the other players on the sidelines. It was louder than any jousting match and twice as exciting. Because this time they were cheering for him.
“You can do it!” Lucas screamed.
Here, no one knew of his past or his humble birth. They didn't know he was the whipping boy of every knight. They only knew that Lucas believed in him. And they believed in him too. Believed in him enough to rest the entire outcome on the game on his shoulders.
He couldn't let them down.
As the ball spiraled through the air in his direction, Arthur dove for it with all his might—channeling the lessons in agility he'd learned when shape-shifted into a dog. Leaping into the air, he put his arms out, seizing the ball with both hands.
He'd done it! He'd caught the ball.
He grinned as he felt the pigskin, now securely locked against his chest. Once he was confident of his grip, he started off down the field, running as fast as he could toward the end-zone, using the speed techniques he'd learned as a rabbit. Dodging the first Celt coming after him, then the second, then a third—he imagined himself a skittery mouse, winding through the bushes to escape the castle cat. The wind whipped at his face through his helmet and his heart slammed against his chest as he ran and ran and ran, desperate to reach the end-zone.
But just as he was about to cross the line and win the game for his team, he was yanked backwards by his ankles. Flailing, he lost his balance and started falling forward.
No! he cried. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't fail now. Not when he was so close.
Then he remembered! He only had to get the ball over the line—not himself. As he careened to the ground, he stretched his arm out as far as he could—a frog capturing a fly on his tongue—mere seconds before the rest of his body slammed down onto the grass with a hard thump.
As he lay on the ground, the world went still and the moment seemed to last a lifetime. Arthur lifted his face from the dirt and forced himself to take a look, his heart in his throat, the wind knocked from his lungs.
The ball had crossed the line.
Touchdown.
The world suddenly sprung back into motion and everyone was cheering at once. The cheerleaders kicked up their heels and the other knights stormed the field while the Celts slunk away in defeat.
The battle was over. They'd won.
The players threw Arthur up on their shoulders and carried him off the field, everyone wanting to congratulate him at once. Ladies hugging him, knights slapping him on the back with pride. Lucas approached and shook his hand.
“Thanks, man,” he said, his eyes shining under his baseball cap. “You saved my life out there. You're a real hero.”
Arthur shook his head modestly. “It was a team effort,” he replied, knowing he couldn’t take all the credit. “We're all heroes here.”
And, to that, everyone cheered.
Chapter 20
“Excuse me, could I get some food over here?” Sophie grabbed a servant boy by his tunic and pointed to her empty plate. The coronation after-party had been going on for about an hour now and she still hadn’t managed to score a bite to eat. Probably didn’t help that she was stuck at the back table, about as far away from the guest of honor—aka the newly crowned King Arthur/Stu—as possible. She was dying to talk to him, to find out how things were going with his new role, but no one would let her near him. Most likely because Merlin had insisted she play the role of some lowly priestess-in-training from Avalon—which basically meant glorified nun—rather than the beautiful and powerful visiting princess she had told him she’d like to be.
Sophie rose to her feet. If she wasn’t going to eat, she at least needed some fresh air. The overwhelming smells of the hall—eau de burnt meat combined with essence of stinky body odor—were making her more than a bit queasy.
She made her way across the great hall, weaving through a series of long wooden tables, packed with rowdy knights and nobles shoveling handfuls of stringy meat into their mouths. (Sophie had quickly realized this was strictly a “bring your own knife” type time period.) Pretty, young servant girls pushed past her, arms laden with heaping trays of fruits and cheeses that they set down on the already overflowing tables, deftly ignoring the pleas of nearby knights who begged they abandon their duties and come join them at the feast.
Of course, no one asked Sophie. Even in medieval times, she still couldn't score a date.
She pulled up her skirts to step over a steaming pile of dog poop no one had bothered to pick up. The mangy mutt responsible for the mess was nearby, contentedly scratching his fleas, unashamed by his lack of housetraining. Sophie shook her head and kept moving. To think once upon a time she’d imagined a medieval castle to be a romantic, beautiful place. In reality it was as rowdy as a state fair and twice as smelly.
She finally made it to the front door. But just as she was about to open it and taste some blessed fresh air
, the door burst open from the other side, clipping Sophie’s hip and sending her sprawling to the ground. She looked up to see who had so rudely caused her to fall. Her eyes widened as a tall figure wearing chainmail under a sash of plaid stepped over the threshold. Broad shoulders, wild black hair, and a fierce scowl written on his scarred, bearded face.
A hush fell over the formerly jovial crowd. Sophie scanned the room, noting the frightened eyes of each and every noble. The servant girls abandoned their knights to retreat to the kitchen. Even the dog had crawled under a nearby table. Whoever this guy was, he was definitely bad news and everyone knew it.
The man clomped forward in heavy black boots, almost stepping on Sophie as he passed. She scooted back quickly, only to smack into Sir Gawain, who had come up behind her.
“I apologize for my father’s ill manners, lady,” Sir Gawain murmured quietly as he helped her back to her feet. “Far north in the Orkney lands even kings can be found lacking in the most common codes of chivalry.”
“Your father?” Sophie raised an eyebrow. It was hard to imagine this guy as anyone’s dear old dad.
Gawain’s face flushed. “King Lot. But I can assure you, madame, it is but by birth, not choice that I claim him as kin.”
Sophie gulped. She knew from playing Camelot’s Honor that Lot was one of the major villains in the King Arthur story. Right up there with Morgan Le Fay. Ruthless, power-hungry, and prepared to stop at nothing to gain the throne of England.
“Will he try to hurt . . . Arthur?” she asked, casting a worried look at Stu. After all, she felt it unlikely, given his reputation, that this legendary bad guy had just shown up for the open bar and all you can eat coronation buffet.
Gawain gnawed at his lower lip, eyes not leaving his father for a second. “I do not know,” he admitted. “But he’s had his sights set on the lowlands since Uther died, believing that without a proper heir, they’re ripe for the conquering. And you won’t find him taking much stock in magical prophesies that would pronounce an unknown boy as king.”
Sophie swallowed hard, guilt and worry warring inside her. It’d seemed like such a simple thing when she’d first come up with the plan for Stu to fill in for Arthur.
“Where’s Lord Merlin?” Gawain asked her. “After all, he is the one who gave Arthur the throne.”
“He’s not here,” Sophie replied, panicked. Merlin had gone to spread the word of the sword and stone miracle across the land, neglecting to mention that while he was gone an evil knight might be swinging by Camelot with intentions to kick Stu's butt.
“Where can I find this legendary king they sing of in the streets tonight?” Lot asked, his gravelly voice echoing through the high-ceilinged stone hall. “This mighty King Arthur, destined to save us all?”
The crowd was silent, all eyes turned toward Stu. He rose slowly from his seat and Sophie could see his trembling fingers and white face. But he held his head high as he addressed the intruder with a clear, strong voice.
“I am the one you seek. State your business with the court, sir. Do you come to pledge your allegiance to me?”
Sophie grimaced.
Lot burst out laughing. “You?” he asked incredulously. “But you’re just a boy. Not even grown your first beard, I’d wager.”
“Beards do not make a king,” Stu replied, not missing a beat. “I am the son of Uther Pendragon and rightful heir to the throne of England.” Sophie had to admit all those videogames were paying off. Stu had his lines down pat.
Lot’s eyes narrowed. “I knew your father,” he growled. “We fought side-by-side for years, slaughtering the barbaric Saxons who dared breach our shores. You, my boy, with your soft hands and unscarred face are not your father. In fact, I would wager a year's crops you have never spent a day in battle.”
“Be that as it may, I have proven my birthright this day by pulling the sword from the stone,” Stu countered. “As many in this room have witnessed.” He gestured to the crowd, most of which, Sophie noted, suddenly seemed extremely fascinated by the meals in front of them. So much for backup.
“My lord, I’ve no doubt you pulled a blade from a rock,” Lot replied smoothly. “What I wonder is, do you know how to wield it?”
A flicker of fear passed over Stu’s face, but he recovered quickly. “You obviously came here with a proposition,” he managed to say, his voice a little less steady than before. “I suggest you make it now.”
“Why how astute of you, my lord,” Lot said mockingly. “Yes, I have indeed come to offer you . . . a proposition. A chance to prove your claim to the throne once and for all. One on one, you and I, man to man.” He paused dramatically, then added, “If you win, I promise to bow down to you and call you master the rest of my days.”
“And if I lose?”
“I’ll call you a hairy son of sheep herder’s wench.” Lot shrugged. “But I imagine you’ll be too dead to care.”
Ugh. Sophie dug her fingernails into her palms, not knowing what to do. Stu couldn’t fight this guy. He could barely lift his sword. And even with Arthur’s more muscular frame, he was still a shrimp compared to this battle-scarred knight.
Just say no! she begged him silently. Say you’re busy. The dog ate your sword. Run and hide under the freaking round table if you must. Something—anything—to get out of a fight to the death with a well-trained medieval knight.
Stu paused for a moment and it seemed the whole kingdom was collectively holding its breath. Then, “I accept your challenge,” he told Lot. “Name your place and weapon.”
Sophie stared at him, eyes wide in horror. Was he utterly insane? This was going to be a slaughter of epic proportions. She should have never brought him here to begin with. Never asked him to pull the sword from the stone.
Lot smiled a slow, lazy smile. “The courtyard,” he named. “Tomorrow when the sun is highest in the sky. And as for weapon, it matters not what you bring. A sword, a mace, a magical staff gifted to you from the gods themselves—please. I could cut you down with a serving wench’s knife and use it to eat dinner when I’m through.”
“You certainly can if you like,” Stu replied with a casual shrug. “If you prefer to fight like a little girl, that is.”
Don’t antagonize him! was Sophie’s first thought. Until she realized the banquet hall had erupted in laughter, Stu’s bravado evidently giving them back some of their own. For the first time since he’d arrived, Lot seemed to lose his cool. His face darkened as he turned to address the jeering audience. “Laugh now,” he growled in his gravelly voice. “For your tears will fill a river once I cut down your useless boy king and take this land for my own.”
And with that delightful prediction, the Orkney king turned and stormed out of the hall, knocking Sophie over a second time as he swung the doors back open and disappeared into the night. The banqueters erupted into excited conversation. This was better than reality TV for them.
Heart still beating a mile a minute, Sophie scrambled to her feet and dove through the crowd desperate to get to Stu. She almost made it, too, before she was grabbed roughly by a guard and yanked backwards.
“Let me go!” she cried, trying to squirm free. “I have to talk to Arthur!”
“You will not bother the king,” the guard replied, pinning her arm behind her back. Ow, that hurt. She turned her head, ready to spit in his face.
“Release me this second! Or I swear to—”
“That’s okay, Brutus,” Stu said, rising to his feet. “You can let her go.” He approached Sophie. Reluctantly the guard let go of her arm. “Lady Sophie is a wise and powerful druid—arrived this day from the island of Avalon to counsel me.”
“Yeah, I’m wise and powerful, you jerk,” Sophie agreed, giving Brutus a dirty look. “And I have a message to deliver to…m’lord.” She paused, then added, “For his ears only.”
Brutus shook his head disapprovingly, but allowed Sophie to lead Stu into an adjoining room. She shut the heavy wooden doors behind her and bolted them, then turned t
o her friend, hands on her hips.
“Are you out of your freaking mind?” she demanded.
Stu looked defensive. “What?”
“Agreeing to a duel? A fight to the death?”
“He challenged me in front of everyone! What was I supposed to do?”
She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “I don’t know. Anything but that. After all, he’s a trained knight. You’re a twenty-first-century kid. The only battles you have half a chance to win are the ones played over X-Box Live. And even I can beat you at most of those.”
“Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Confidence? How about a vote of reason?” she countered. “You shouldn’t be fighting battles. You should be keeping a low profile until we can get the real Arthur back where he belongs.”
Stu shook his head and spoke seriously. “Sophie, don’t you see? In this time and place they believe might makes right. In other words, the one with the biggest sword wins. If I hadn’t accepted his challenge, all the tribal lords out there who pledged their allegiance earlier would have turned against me. I might as well have never pulled the sword from the stone to begin with.”
She sighed, hating how much his words made sense.
“Look, you wanted me to play King Arthur,” he reminded her. “Well, unfortunately, this is part of the gig.”
“I know but…” She trailed off, anguished. “It’s just that…I mean, I just…I don’t want to see you die, okay?” she blurted out angrily, feeling like an idiot for having to say it out loud.
Stu stepped forward to wrap his arms around her trembling frame. She pressed her face against his shoulder, which was broad and very un–Stu like, breathing in his woodsy scent. So confusing to have him look and smell so much like Arthur but really be Stu underneath it all.
“You’re my best friend,” she managed, pulling away after choking down the majority of her sobs and looking him in the eyes. Could she see the real Stu, deep down in their depths? “I don’t want to lose you.”
