Endeavor (King Arthur and Her Knights Book 6)

by K. M. Shea

  The knight managed to shove her away from him, but he barely had enough time to block her strike against his right side—leaving his left side completely open, which Britt kneed. Again, the knight staggered backwards.

  Britt pulled back in temporary confusion. What was going on? King Pellinore was an excellent swordsman, but now he was fighting closer to Ywain’s level—good, but sloppy.

  “You really aren’t Pellinore, are you?” she asked.

  The White Knight raised his sword to chop at Britt’s neck—the stupidest attack you could level against someone waiting for you to strike. Britt parried—their swords clashing between them—before she angled her sword down, turning her parry into a strike at the knight’s open stomach.

  The knight jumped backwards, but he still didn’t learn his lesson. This time, he chopped his sword at Britt’s left side. Britt used Excalibur’s hilt to block the blow. She placed her palm on the back of her sword and—using Excalibur like a lever and a bat—slammed the blade into her opponent’s helm.

  He staggered backwards, and Britt followed up this time, braining him in the same spot with Excalibur’s hilt, and then slamming him with her shoulder.

  He went down like a tree, and Britt kicked his sword away. She leaned over, flicked the visor of his helm up, and declared, “I have no idea who you are.”

  Mordred, still mounted on his horse, politely looked away and tried to muffle his laughter.

  The White Knight was young—perhaps a little older than Griflet—and bore no resemblance to King Pellinore. Now that she studied him, he was much more slender in the shoulders, and not nearly as tall. He stared up at Britt with wide eyes. “You are the chosen-one, the knight destined to own the shield,” he said, his voice awed.

  “No, I’m not.” Britt backed up and sheathed Excalibur. “I apologize; I attacked you on false terms. I thought you were someone else. Here, let me get the shield for you.”

  “Oh, no! You must keep it! My family has guarded it for three generations, waiting for the day a worthy knight would arrive.” the knight shook his head. “May I ask who you are?”

  “Sir Galahad,” Britt said. “Look, I don’t think you get it. I’m not really after the shield. I only grabbed it because I thought you were a friend of mine—although in my defense, I’ve never heard of anyone besides Pellinore fighting a man over a shield.”

  “You must take it,” the white knight said, easing himself off the ground. “My grandfather will flay me if I tell him I met the proper owner and kept the shield.”

  “Your grandfather?” Sir Mordred asked.

  “He is the hermit who cares for the abbey—though he is gone right now on a pilgrimage. He’ll be so disappointed he missed meeting you,” the White Knight said, walking over to his horse.

  “He’s a hermit, but he’s your grandfather? How does that work? I thought hermits were supposed to be celibate,” Britt said. She popped off her helm so she could breathe in fresh air.

  “Oh, he is, now.”

  “I wonder if that’s what Merlin is aiming for—old age as a hermit,” Britt muttered.

  “My Lord—your chance to return the shield is ending,” Sir Mordred said, nodding to the mounted White Knight, who nudged his horse to the trees.

  “Wait, take the shield!” Britt shouted. She hurriedly unhooked it from Roen’s rump and ran after the knight.

  The White Knight shook his head. “Nay, I cannot. It has long been foretold that a worthy knight should receive the shield.”

  “I pulled you off your horse. Wouldn’t that imply I’m a blackguard knight who is unworthy?”

  “My Lord,” Mordred said, his voice strangled with stifled laughter.

  “Not at all,” the White Knight said gravely.

  “Fine, then we’ll take it back to the abbey ourselves,” she said, turning for Roen.

  “Don’t do that!” the White Knight yelped.

  “Why not?” Britt demanded.

  The White Knight remained mute.

  “Fine. Mordred, let us turn around and return to the abbey.”

  “Please don’t take it back! I am so tired of fighting men for that useless shield.”

  “Ah, so you also see its deficiencies,” Mordred said.

  “Of course,” the knight snorted. “It’s obvious. And…I may have used it once or twice for practice when my grandfather was away.”

  “Tisk, tisk,” Britt said.

  “I want to be free—free to leave this abbey, free to sleep indoors instead of camping outside, waiting for someone to try to take the shield. I beg of you, Sir Galahad. If there is any mercy in your blood, take that wretched thing.”

  “He sounds desperate, My Lord,” Mordred said.

  “I can’t say I blame him,” Britt said. “Alright, I’ll take the shield.”

  “Bless you, Sir Galahad!”

  “Yeah, you’re welcome. All I’m going to do with it, though, is toss it in my armory.”

  “It matters not what you do with it. You won, fair and square. Godspeed, Sir Galahad.” The White Knight kicked his horse, fleeing into the forest.

  Britt returned to Roen and hooked the shield back on his rump. “You do think I won fairly, don’t you, Mordred?”

  “You did nothing that could be frowned upon, My Lord.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Do you think he purposely fought at a lower skill level?” Britt asked, putting her helm back on.

  “Perhaps a little, but you clearly were the better swordsman.”

  “Good. Well, that was not at all what I was expecting. Shall we return home?”

  “Whatever you wish, My Lord.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Britt grinned and flipped her visor up so he could see it. “Now on to Camelot—lest Kay send out a search party after us!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Sir Lancelot’s Deeds

  A week later, Britt—with Cavall and a squad of guards trailing her—walked the familiar route to her throne room. As she navigated her way, she gnawed on a very green, unripe apple and complained to her guards. “Sir Ulfius said I have a line of vanquished knights waiting to swear loyalty to me, compliments of Sir Lancelot. I’m beginning to think I should have bells sewn into his horse’s tack.”

  “Think of all the recreant knights he’s clearing from your lands, lassie,” Britt’s guard—the one with the Scottish brogue—chuckled. “That’s the point o’ questing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—just like the rest of his life—Lancelot takes it to excessive measures.” Britt chewed her acidic apple as they walked past a garden. She paused and retreated, her forehead puckering. “Merlin?”

  The handsome wizard was standing in the middle of the castle herb garden, staring at the plants. His hair was messy and unkempt, and he had bags under his eyes—like he hadn’t gotten much sleep. “Yes?” he asked, still staring at the herbs.

  “Are you alright?” Britt asked.

  “Of course I am. Why?”

  “You look terrible.”

  “You never choose to be charming and use your pretty words when you can bludgeon a person with the truth,” Merlin said, looking to her with a wry quirk in his brow.

  Britt entered the garden. “Is it that thing you still won’t tell me about?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And there’s still nothing I can do?”

  “Goodness, no.”

  Britt ate another chunk of her unripe apple. Merlin stared back at her, forbidding her to inquire further. “Is it really worth it to push yourself like this?” she asked.

  Merlin drew his shoulders up. “I thought I told you this was for your sake.”

  “I know. I remember, but that’s why I’m asking. Is putting yourself through this worth sparing me?” Britt asked.

  Merlin sighed. “It is.”

  “So it must be something about uniting Britain?” she guessed.

  Merlin scowled. “My dream has nothing to do with this mess.”

  His response surprised Britt. She thought h
e moved only to benefit Britain. Although he had in the past occasionally shown acts of kindness to her, he hadn’t been so gentle or thoughtful since he learned she…well…loved him. She awkwardly cleared her throat and guiltily realized she had assumed the worst of him. Feeling at fault, she decided it was her duty to lighten the moment. “So you must be brooding over your weak magic, huh?”

  The jest had the desired result of bringing fire back to Merlin’s eyes. “You!” he declared. “I suggest you turn on your tail and run, puppy, before I light your blasted cape on fire!”

  “Someone is sensitive. Do you need to talk about it? Admitting your limitations can make you feel better—or so I’ve been told. I wouldn’t know, of course.”

  “How humble of you. Have you become the new Lancelot in his absence?”

  “Okay, now, that was below the belt,” Britt said.

  “And insulting my magic was not?”

  “No. If I compared your magic to Morgan’s or Morgause’s and noted how you lacked skill in contrast to them, that would be below the belt.”

  “You would,” Merlin muttered, rubbing the side of his head. He abruptly broke into a laugh. “It’s been months since you’ve mocked my magic.”

  “I only needed to learn that lesson once,” Britt snorted.

  “Oh?

  “Bringing it up for comedic effect is a different matter,” Britt said when she noticed his look of disbelief.

  “I see. You are on your way to the throne room?”

  “Yes. Lancelot has defeated more foes.”

  “See to them as quick as you can—Kay always complains about feeding recreant knights.”

  “Of course. See you later, Merlin,” Britt called over her shoulder before she resumed her march, tossing her apple into a compost pile as she left.

  “Cheeky brat,” Merlin muttered as she left.

  “At least I didn’t destroy Stone Hedge.”

  “Blaise fixed it!”

  Britt waved farewell and retorted, “Doesn’t matter!”

  “Mind your cape, you cave troll!”

  “Again, you resort to insults. Yes, you’re clearly more mature than I am.”

  “LEAVE!”

  “We’re going!”

  For the next two hours, Britt sat on her throne and listened to recreant knight after recreant knight report Lancelot’s activities and wins.

  “The man has been gone for only two and a half, almost three weeks. Does he not sleep? Thank you,” Britt said, taking the tankard of water Kay offered her.

  “He did say he would attempt to win your favor,” Kay said.

  “I wish he would ‘attempt’ a little less. We’re going to run out of roles to put these guys in.”

  “Lady Morgan suggested we use them as farmhands.”

  “That’s a good idea—though I’m not certain they’ll appreciate that, being knights and then demoted to farmers.”

  Kay shrugged. “They chose for mercy to be extended to them as opposed to dying by the sword. I believe they will be thankful to be alive and have a chance to redeem themselves.”

  “Perhaps. Wait, Morgan thought that up? Not that I doubt it, it sounds like her, but you were talking to Morgan, voluntarily?”

  “She clubbed Merlin while you were gone with Sir Mordred.”

  “And I missed it? Dang it! Everything fun keeps happening whenever I’m gone. What did he say to her?”

  “He suggested she was getting to be too old to have younger knights enamored with her.”

  “Hooo, and she only hit him once? She was feeling kind.”

  “I thought her restraint was admirable,” Kay said.

  “Admirable? I mean, admirable? Yes, for sure,” Britt said, scrambling to check her shock. Kay was shy and spoke to the ladies of Camelot only under dire need. For him to actually converse with Morgan was huge. Although, now that she thought of it, when Sir Ulfius first came to tell Merlin about Vivien, he was speaking with Morgan. She was about to question her brother further about this interesting personal development, but her thoughts were interrupted.

  “My Lord?”

  Britt shook her head to clear it and smiled at the knight standing in the doorway. “Yes, Sir Bedivere?”

  “King Pellinore is here to see you.”

  “Pellinore? Marvelous, send him in!” Britt said. She stood and trotted down the dais stairs, rolling her shoulders to loosen them.

  King Pellinore entered the throne room with his typical noble bearings. “Arthur.” A smile creased his face when the two met just past the line of recreant knights still waiting for review.

  The two kings paused awkwardly before Britt slapped him on the back. “Come, pull up a chair and suffer with me.” She beckoned for him to follow her to her throne.

  “Are you expanding the Round Table?”

  “No. These are some of the knights Lancelot has beaten during his summer holiday,” Britt said wryly. “What brings you to Camelot? Percival? You just missed him; he left yesterday on a quest.”

  “No, although I did hope to hear he is conducting himself in an honorable manner. How did he do in the tournament?” King Pellinore asked, taking a seat on a padded bench a servant placed near Britt’s throne.

  “Quite well! I was impressed, although I think he wished he had done better. He did justice to your family, though.”

  “I am glad you think that is so,” Pellinore said. “I heard Lancelot won the tournament and asked to be called the Queen’s Champion?”

  “Yes.” Britt’s voice was as hard as stone.

  “Ah. Is that why he’s out questing?”

  “No, he did something even more stupid. If only Gawain wasn’t gone for the tournament—he might have beaten Lancelot.”

  “I thought a lady requested his help, and as the Ladies’ Knight, he had to aid her?”

  “Yes,” Britt admitted, her shoulders slumping. “It was a chivalrous action. I’m just missing my knights—although Griflet is back for a bit.”

  “Ah, yes. I meant to tell you I met a knight in the Forest of Arroy. He said Sir Ywain had been captured by a knight who guards a magic fountain.”

  “What? The knight must have been better than he thought. I guess I’ll be taking that company to the fountain after all.”

  “You know of what he speaks?”

  “Yes. One of my other knights—Sir Lanval—stumbled upon it and was roughed up by a knight after inspecting it. Ywain wanted to avenge Sir Lanval’s injuries—though I think he was just sick of sitting around the castle, waiting for Griflet or Gawain to come back and release him from babysitting duty.”

  “From what?” King Pellinore asked.

  “Guard duty, I guess you could say. Ever since…Lancelot injured me, one of that trio has been in Camelot.”

  “How loyal.”

  “And stifling. However, it sounds like it is my turn to return the favor,” Britt said before raising her voice. “Sir Bedivere, would you please dismiss the rest of the defeated parties? Kay—Ywain has been captured. You know what knights to take?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Kay answered.

  “Excellent. Pellinore, come tell Merlin with me—we ride at dawn.”

  “He’s trapped in the gatehouse of the castle?” Sir Bedivere asked, turning his horse in a tight circle.

  “That’s what the knight said,” King Pellinore said.

  “Ywain would chase a knight straight into a stronghold,” Griflet said, shaking his head.

  “So would you,” Sir Lionel—Lancelot’s cousin—said with a mischievous smile.

  “I would,” Griflet admitted. “But I haven’t, yet, so I will use this opportunity to gloat.”

  “Are we to assume it is likely that the knight is holding Sir Ywain in a dungeon?” Sir Bors asked.

  “Most likely. He must have been captured—Sir Ywain could not defend a gatehouse on his own,” Sir Kay said. “Are you ready to leave, My Lord?”

  “Yes, but where is Merlin?”

  “Here. I apologize; Sir Ulfi
us and Sir Bodwain required last-minute instructions.” Merlin rode out of the stable on his spindly-limbed horse. “Has everyone assembled? Good, let’s go save that foolish youth.”

  The company of fifty knights clattered from Camelot. The sound of horse hooves on stone was deafening and almost muted the jingle of armor and equipment. Britt led the line with Merlin and Kay directly behind her.

  “No—you can’t be serious,” Britt said in horror when they left the castle for the meadow that surrounded Camelot. A knight with blue embellishments on his armor and tack rode a palomino—a horse with gold-colored fur and a white mane and tail—in their direction.

  “I say, that’s Lancelot, isn’t it?” Merlin asked, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

  “Merlin,” Britt started.

  “He may as well come with us, Arthur,” Merlin said.

  “Why?”

  “He will make our company one person stronger,” Merlin said mildly.

  “Shouldn’t he stay behind to see to the defense of the castle?”

  “Nonsense. This is much better than setting your cape on fire. Lancelot!” Merlin shouted.

  “I hate you.”

  Merlin waved an arm in the air. “Lancelot! Come, join our company!”

  “Seriously hate you,” Britt said as the palomino pranced closer.

  Lancelot pulled off his helm so he could subject them to his full-wattage smile. “Good morn to you, My Lord and Merlin the Wise. What trouble has befallen the lands to require such a grand company?” He peered past Britt and gestured to the spread of knights flowing out of the castle.

  “We ride to the rescue of one of the companions of the Round Table—Sir Ywain,” Merlin said. “He’s gotten himself in a bit of a scrape and has apparently been taken captive.”

  “A rescue of this level? It is sure to be inspiring. Might I intrude upon this company and join you?” Lancelot asked.

  “Actually—” Britt started.

  “Absolutely, yes!” Merlin said. “We will be highly appreciative to have you in our ranks, Sir Lancelot. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall check with the tail of our procession. Arthur—lead on.”