Endeavor (King Arthur and Her Knights Book 6)

by K. M. Shea

  “Are you ready, My Lord?” Mordred asked, fussing with his war-horse’s black mane.

  She patted Roen. “Yes.”

  “Shall we be on our way?”

  “I guess.” She turned Roen for the gates.

  “Arthur, be safe,” Kay said, his voice gruff.

  “You too, brother.” Britt smiled and a winked. “Until I return—most likely with King Pellinore. Makes you wonder how he got a hermit to agree to help him,” she muttered. She waved to her seneschal, constable, and marshal before losing sight of them when she followed Mordred through the inner gates.

  “So, do you have any idea where we are going?” She nudged Roen closer to Mordred and his horse.

  “Of course. Sir Griflet gave me directions, and Sir Kay has lent me a map,” Sir Mordred said with a shy smile that nicely complemented his dimples.

  “I see. When we get back, can I ask for your help, Sir Mordred?”

  “Of course, My Lord. I would aid you with anything. What is it that you need?”

  “Your golden tongue to crack Merlin’s plans for Ireland.”

  Mordred laughed and directed his horse around a cart of straw. “I’m afraid not even my skills of persuasion are powerful enough to move Merlin, My Lord. That is a skill only you possess.”

  “Falsehoods. I could move Camelot more easily than I can move Merlin.” Britt said, waving at an awed blacksmith.

  “I must risk your royal wrath to say that you are gravely mistaken, My Lord.”

  Britt removed her focus from Roen’s ears and raised her eyes to stare at Sir Mordred. The knight did not react to the sudden scrutiny and guided his horse toward the outer walls of Camelot with ease.

  Although it was midday, the windows in Merlin’s study were closed, and a fire was lit in the fireplace to illuminate the stuffy room.

  “Are you certain Sir Bedivere has that witch distracted?” Sir Ulfius asked, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword.

  “Yes,” Sir Bodwain said. When he sat down on a wooden chair, it groaned under his large frame. “He lured her outside of Camelot. The guards will send notice of their return.”

  “I don’t like it,” Sir Ulfius said. “When I took my oaths to our King, I knew I would have to protect her from much. But a user of black magic?”

  “Has it been confirmed, then?” Sir Kay asked. His eyes flickered between the older knights and then settled on Merlin.

  The young wizard was hunched over one of his worktables, his colorful eyes crinkled with worry. “It’s undeniable. Vivien reeks of death and destruction.”

  “How could a mere girl have such power in dark magic?” Sir Bodwain asked.

  “Careful, Sir Bodwain.” Merlin straightened his posture like a pained, elderly man. “You underestimate the female gender. Remember, our King is also a woman—her allegiances merely lie on the other end of the spectrum.”

  “But Vivien is fifteen if she’s a day. King Arthur is some years ahead of her and underwent an extensive education,” Sir Ulfius said. “How did Vivien acquire such power? Morgause and Morgan are the most powerful sorceresses, and they will not touch black magic. Who taught her?”

  “Sometimes darkness itself will draw a man into its embrace,” Merlin said, his voice tight. “But in this case, I suspect she was led. She’s not working alone.”

  “It cannot be Orkney. King Lot still sulks, but he is fully under Arthur’s power,” Sir Bodwain said.

  “Correct. Orkney is no longer a threat,” Merlin said.

  “Rome?” Kay guessed.

  Merlin braced himself on his worktable. “I believe so.”

  “The traitorous witch,” Sir Ulfius muttered.

  “Ulfius, such language,” Merlin said. A wane smile passed across his lips.

  “Can we drive her from Camelot?” Sir Bodwain asked.

  Merlin shook his head. “It will only stoke her fury. She already made one magical attack against Arthur after being publically corrected. I managed to intercept it, but I might not manage it a second time.”

  “Then we should slay her.” Kay’s voice was hard and unforgiving.

  Ulfius and Bodwain looked at the younger knight with shock.

  “If there is a threat against my King, I will not rest until I see it eliminated,” Kay said.

  “Touching, but sadly there is very little you can do.” Merlin flopped down in a chair. “Politics is still an issue—killing the daughter of a king will bring our enemies out of the woods.”

  “We would win,” Sir Ulfius said.

  “Undoubtedly, but it would break Britt to send her men to that battle, followed by a conquest for Ireland, and the inevitable war against Rome.”

  “Kings must sometimes do ugly things—if it is for their people,” Sir Ulfius said.

  “Not Arthur,” Merlin said.

  “She is strong. Too many times I have underestimated her,” Sir Bodwain said.

  Merlin snarled. “Allow me to put it plainly, men: War is not an option. Britt has already bourn more than her share of sorrow for our vision. I will not make her shoulder more!”

  The room was silent as Merlin took a moment to recollect himself. “War aside, I’m not certain Vivien can be slain. She is filled with great darkness.”

  “What magic has she been using?” Sir Bodwain asked.

  “Seduction, mostly.”

  “But only a few knights have fallen at her feet. Indeed, since Arthur’s vocal disapproval, many take pains to avoid her,” Sir Ulfius said, smiling broadly.

  “Her spells are not aimed at the knights, but at Arthur,” Merlin said. “Arthur being a female means the specific spell Vivien is using will not work on her, and it is making her angry…and suspicious.”

  “That was why you sent Arthur from Camelot, then.” Sir Bodwain rubbed his forehead. “To get her out of Vivien’s grasp.”

  “It was a last resort,” Sir Kay said. “I would have preferred to send guards with her, but it would have been conspicuous. Mordred is a trustworthy knight; he’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Even though he does not know Arthur should, by all rights, be queen?” Sir Ulfius doubtfully asked, raising his shaggy eyebrows.

  “At this moment, Arthur is safer at any location besides Camelot,” Merlin said.

  “So, what choices do we have?” Sir Bodwain asked. “How do we react to this?”

  “She cannot be forced out or slain. Do we send word to her father to call her back?” Sir Kay asked, smoothing his mustache.

  “The King of Northumberland is in his dotage. He will do nothing to contain his offspring,” Merlin said.

  “Then what can we do?” Sir Ulfius asked.

  Merlin shook his head.

  “There must be something,” Sir Kay said.

  “With luck, we might be able to distract her if we tempt her with a different kind of power,” Merlin said, staring into the fire.

  “What do you have in mind?” Sir Ulfius asked.

  “I would rather not say.” Merlin raised his gaze to study the men. “However, I would like to affirm that we all believe Britt is the highest priority. Any sacrifice required of us is worthy if it will see her through this time.”

  “She is a good King,” Sir Bodwain gruffly said.

  “Even if we were not her advisors?” Merlin asked.

  Sir Ulfius pondered the question. “She would find new men to lean on. She’s intelligent, so much so that she knows she cannot rule without help. But none of this matters. She’ll always have you, won’t she, Merlin?”

  “Yes,” Merlin said carefully. “Always.”

  It wasn’t until the following day that Britt and Mordred reached the fabled abbey. Considering it was in the middle of the forest, Britt had been expecting a small, square hovel. Instead, the abbey was a beautiful, stone structure, complete with archways, a bell tower, and airy corridors.

  Mordred motioned to the bell tower. “This is it. Griflet mentioned the carving of the Virgin Mary.”

  “A hermit lives here?”
Britt asked, sliding off her horse. “Sheesh, if this is what the building is like, no wonder Griflet wanted the shield.”

  “Who is Sheesh?” Mordred asked.

  “No one. It’s an expression of surprise where I come from.”

  Mordred tied his mount and the pack horse to a hitching post. “Bonmaison has such a colloquialism? How interesting.”

  “Er, right. Shall we find the shield?” Britt asked, picking a leaf from Roen’s mane.

  “Yes, this way. I suspect we will find the shield—and the hermit—in the abbey sanctuary.” Mordred led the way into the abbey.

  They passed through the entrance—Britt gawked like a child—and made their way into the sanctuary, their footsteps shattering the reverent quiet of the place.

  The sanctuary was similar to the cathedral Merlin had built in Camelot. Windows lit the room and the vaulted ceiling, and wooden pews filled the floor, leading the way straight up to a stone altar.

  After seeing the splendid abbey, Britt had high hopes. These high hopes were dashed when she set eyes on the shield propped against the altar. “I’m pretty sure an assistant blacksmith at Camelot can make a better shield,” she murmured to Mordred.

  The shield was too big to use with the sword or lance, and while the red cross on the white background was striking, it was all too clear that it was cheaply made, for some of the paint had been scratched off—most likely from previous skirmishes with the White Knight (a.k.a. King Pellinore).

  “Perhaps it is supposed to be symbolic rather than useful,” Mordred suggested.

  “You’re being generous. I like my red dragon shield Merlin has bolted to the walls of Camelot much more,” Britt said. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re only here to grab the shield so we can summon Pellinore.”

  “You are so certain it is your ally?” Mordred asked as Britt approached the altar.

  “Oh, yes. Believe me, if there is any kind of knight attacking people with or for shields, it’s Pellinore,” Britt snorted. She picked up the shield and whirled around, her muscles tensed.

  “I think we have to take the shield from the abbey before the white knight will attack,” Mordred said after several moments of silence.

  Britt awkwardly laughed. “Ah, yes. I think you’re right—Griflet said something about that, too. Let’s go, then.” She hefted the shield and started down the aisle, pushing the doors open when she reached the entrance. She was so intent, she almost walked straight into a tall, sturdy man.

  “Careful, there,” the man said, reaching out to steady her. Instead of wearing brown robes—like the stereotypical hermit—he wore a bright blue tunic, and his hair and beard were trimmed and combed. “Why, if it isn’t—”

  “Arthur!” Britt was quick to say when she realized she knew him. “Blaise, I’m glad to see you again!”

  Blaise was Merlin’s mentor—who happened to have a great sense of humor and possessed hundreds of stories about Merlin’s unruly childhood.

  “My Lord, Sir Kay gave me specific instructions that you were to use the name of Sir Galahad,” Mordred said, one corner of his lips tightening with worry.

  “It’s fine, Sir Mordred; he already knows me. This man is Blaise—Merlin’s mentor. Blaise, this is Sir Mordred—one of my knights.”

  Sir Mordred bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Blaise whistled. “Nice manners—I hope Merlin spends time with you. You could teach him a thing or two. That boy has the etiquette of a giant.”

  “He can be welcoming when he sees a direct benefit,” Britt dryly said.

  “Ah, there is that.”

  “Forgive my nosiness, but why are you here, Blaise? Have you moved?” Britt asked.

  “Goodness, no. I love my home too much. No, a friend of mine is the keeper of this place, but he set out on a pilgrimage in spring. I promised him I would look after it for him. Speaking of which, Welcome to the Abbey of the Crimson Cross. I see you have already encountered the Abbey’s holy treasure.”

  “Yes, sorry. We’ve got to borrow it.” Britt awkwardly shifted in place.

  “We’re looking for the White Knight,” Mordred added.

  “You’ll find him, then. I have no idea who the man is or where he stays, but he’s never failed to bring the shield back. I expect that will change with you two here.” Blaise smiled.

  “We’re not interested in keeping the shield. It’s…nothing against the shield; it is just the knight we want. Whether or not we beat him, we’ll bring it back,” Britt said.

  “It is fairly useless thing,” Blaise said, cheerfully cutting to the truth. “But I’m sorry to say, if you beat the man you’ve got to keep the shield.”

  “Even if we don’t desire it?” Sir Mordred asked.

  “It’s the reason why the abbey has the shield—to find someone worthy of it,” Blaise said. “Either way, the knight won’t attack you until you leave abbey lands—be sure to strap on your helm, Arthur. Merlin would foam at the mouth if you went into battle ill-prepared.”

  “I know. Thank you for your help, Blaise.”

  “Of course. But Arthur, could we speak for a moment?”

  “I’ll attach the shield to Roen.” Mordred gently took the shield from Britt’s grasp.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to carry it?” Britt asked.

  “I am certain.” Mordred smiled and strode out to the courtyard where their horses waited.

  “So, what’s on your mind, Blaise?” she asked.

  “How is your relationship with Merlin?” Blaise asked.

  Britt nodded as she listened to his words and paused to let the meaning sink in before she said, “What?”

  “Your relationship with Merlin. He said you fought last year over your feelings.”

  Britt groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Did the idiot tell you everything? I’ll have him stabbed!”

  “Try to see it from his point of view—he’s lost. He’s never encountered something like this before,” Blaise said, his voice soothing.

  Britt glared at the hermit, unmoved.

  “He also,” Blaise said in a nonchalant, conversational tone, “is quite stupid when it comes to relationships.”

  Britt cracked a smile. “What are you getting at, Blaise?”

  “Nothing. I was merely wondering if you two had returned to normal.”

  Britt sighed and turned so she could watch Mordred prepare their mounts. “It has gotten better,” she said. “Things aren’t quite so…tense.”

  “I see. That’s disappointing of him,” Blaise said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. I will let you set out on your quest, but, Britt…?”

  “Yes?”

  “Merlin has never been good at discussing matters of the heart, and while he may be a prodigy at magic and among the most clever and learned men alive, in the realm of the heart he is as apt as Sir Lancelot is humble.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language. But I want to cut you off before you get any strange ideas: Merlin has no romantic intensions towards me.”

  Blaise tapped his chin. “I don’t think he knows what romantic intensions look like—the Good Lord knows I never modeled it for him. But please, don’t give up on him. I must tell you that he has great affection for you.”

  His words made her brighten for a moment, but she savagely silenced the hope. No. Affection could mean anything, and Merlin doesn’t look at me that way. She forced a look of peace upon her face. “Why are we discussing this?”

  “Because Merlin and I might not be related by blood, but he is still my son, and I love him dearly—even when he’s acting like a thick-headed dunce who doesn’t know what he wants, what he needs. Now, I had best send you on your way. Your companion looks ready to leave.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Blaise.” She was eager to abandon the conversation, which was swiftly becoming uncomfortable. She waved to Blaise as she strode into the courtyard, then mounted Roen and nodded to the hermit. “I hope to see you again, soon.
”

  “As do I. Godspeed, Arthur, Sir Mordred.”

  Mordred inclined his head in acknowledgement and wheeled his horse around. “We thank you, sir.”

  “Goodbye, Blaise,” Britt called over her shoulder. She cast a look at the shield—which hung over Roen’s rump—and sighed. “Let’s go find Pellinore, shall we?”

  “As you wish, My Lord.”

  Britt and Mordred rode in companionable silence for twenty minutes before a knight in white armor crashed onto the path in front of them. His horse was dapple gray with white tack.

  “Hail, Sir Knight,” the white knight said, using his horse to block their way. “Was it you who tooketh the shield—though the hermit at the abbey said not to?”

  Britt—her helm already secured in place—scowled at the knight through the slits of her visor. “You’re the White Knight?”

  “I have been called that.”

  “Pellinore! You have got to get over your obsession of using shields to incite fights!” Britt seethed as she climbed down from Roen.

  “I beg your pardon?” the White Knight said.

  Britt stalked up to the White Knight, ignoring the unsheathed sword he held. “Get down, or so help me, I will drag you off that horse myself. Does your wife know you’re doing this?”

  “I am not this Pellinore you speak of,” the White Knight said. His horse snapped at her, but she ignored it. Pellinore wouldn’t let her get hurt.

  “Likely story.” She grabbed the knight’s arm and yanked, hard. He fell down with a clatter.

  “You, Sir Knight, have acted without honor,” the knight wheezed, his tinny voice echoing in his helm.

  “So you still want to fight?” Britt asked. She would have placed her hands on her hips if Mordred hadn’t been there.

  “Of course. You have dishonored me! I must punish you,” the White Knight said.

  “Fine. Let’s fight,” she said, unsurprised by his stubbornness. Pellinore loved a good fight—regardless of whether he won or lost.

  The White Knight stood in a basic defense stance. Britt gave him a moment before she descended upon him, moving like lightning.

  She opened with a thrust to his left shoulder—which he blocked—and struck his right side with her knee. As he was protected by padding, the knee didn’t hurt him, but it made him stagger back. This surprised her—Pellinore always had a great stance and usually wouldn’t be moved so easily.