Enlighten

by K. M. Shea

  It was 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 knights 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.
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  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.

  “You haven’t heard? Have I got a shiner for you, cousin,” Ywain said, struggling to stand upright as he held a goblet of mead. “King Arthur is a girl.”

  Agravain, who walked next to Gawain, tensed. “What?” Agravain growled.

  “Yep,” Ywain said. “A girl—complete with the looks and the-the—everything,” Ywain said, vaguely motioning with his cup. He sloshed mead and frowned at his hand before giving his cousins a hiccupping laugh. “We’ve been had! He—she—lied to us, played with us, led us on. She strung us along like ducklings—worse than your mother. No offense.”

  Agravain’s frown grew dark, and he narrowed his eyes.

  “Agravain?” Gawain said, nudging his younger brother. He held his breath as Agravain processed the information.

  When Agravain said nothing, Gawain returned to questioning Ywain. “How did you find out?”

  “Lancelot stabbed her in the shoulder,” Ywain said with a great deal of carelessness.

  “What?” Gawain said.

  Ywain was occupied drinking his mead, so Gawain grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Is she alright? What happened? Why haven’t you killed Lancelot for his act?”

  Ywain snorted. “She’s fine. She blacked out, and Bedivere started to strip her to get at the wound. That stopped him quick.”

  “You mean no one has seen to her shoulder, yet? Where is she?” Gawain asked, concern making his voice tight.

  “Gone. Who knows where. Good riddance,” Ywain said, watching one knight take a chair to another knight. “You’re taking this awfully calmly, you know?”

  “I already knew,” Gawain said, his mind racing. He had to find Arthur. Goodness knew what would happen or how badly she was hurt—and Excalibur was still here, at Camelot!

  “You what?” Ywain squawked. “How?”

  “Mother told me,” Gawain said, already calculating what he would need to pack.

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?” Ywain scowled.

  Gawain shrugged. “It was King Arthur’s secret to reveal, not mine.”

  “You’re so bloody noble, it sickens me. How could you not be mad about this deception? Who knows if she ever told the truth? I bet she laughed behind our backs. Aren’t you mad, Agravain?” Ywain asked his younger cousin.

  Agravain shifted. “A bit,” he finally said.

  “A bit? That’s it? I thought you would blow your top,” Ywain complained.

  “That’s because you smell like you crawled into a mead barrel a week ago and surfaced only recently,” Agravain frowned.

  “Why aren’t you mad, brother?” Gawain asked.

  “It doesn’t make much of a difference if Arthur is a man or woman, does it? I mean, I would rather have Arthur rule than father,” Agravain said.

  This point was surprisingly well thought, considering Agravain was usually the most passionate of the four Orkney princes. Gawain was a little surprised, but not much. Agravain had blossomed in Arthur’s courts, and his loyalty lay close to his bones. It would take all of hell to make him forfeit his loyalty to Arthur.

  “Well said,” Gawain said, resting a hand on his brother’s shoulder and smiling. “I mean to leave and track her down. Do you wish to come with me?”

  “What?” Ywain squawked again.

  “Of course,” Agravain said, ignoring his inebriated cousin. “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as possible,” Gawain said, leading the way back to the door. He was surprised when he opened it to find Morgan le Fay on the other side. “Aunt,” he blinked.

  “Arthur is fine,” Morgan said, as if she could read his mind. “I met with her after Lancelot ran her through. The wound isn’t terrible—though I would feel better if she was back here in Camelot under Merlin’s care.”

  “She didn’t return with you?” Gawain asked.

  Morgan shook her head. “She wouldn’t, stubborn thing. She means to travel to London and stay with one of Merlin’s men. I suspect she’s waiting to see what Merlin will do.”

  “That makes sense, I suppose,” Gawain said.

  “What do we do?” Agravain asked.

  “I would advise you to wait for Merlin to make his move before you decide if you should attempt to retrieve Arthur,” Morgan said.

  “That sounds wise,” Gawain said.

  “What?” a deep voice boomed from in the hall.

  “Looks like King Pellinore just found out,” Morgan said looking past Gawain and Agravain.

  Gawain winced, and Agravain scowled.

  “I will wait for Merlin before I seek out King Arthur, but I will not stand by and let my fellow knights act like this,” Gawain said, frowning as there was a crash when one knight pushed another knight to the ground.

  “Good luck,” Morgan said. “Take care, nephews,” she said before sweeping away from the door.

  Gawain grimly surveyed his fellow knights. King Pellinore was seated on a chair with a look of stupor hung on his face. Most of the other knights were wild with rage and disappointment. Only Sir Tor, Sir Lancelot, Sir Lionel, and Sir Bors looked to be of good cheer.

  “What will you say to ‘em?” Agravain asked.

  “What do you think Arthur would say to them?” Gawain asked.

  Agravain considered the question for a moment before replying, “He would probably make a grand speech about everyone still being the pride of his heart.”

  “Her heart,” Gawain corrected his brother.

  “Of course. I don’t think it will work for you, though. She’s the one they love and trust. Trusted,” Agravain warned.

  “I still have to try,” Gawain grimly said before approaching the Round Table. “Enough! Knights of Camelot—enough of this foolishness!” he tried shouting.

  Most of the knights couldn’t hear him over the din, but Sir Tor did.

  “PEACE!” the ex-cow-herder bellowed, his voice filling every space of the room.

  “Thank you,” Gawain said in the sudden silence.

  “Of course,” Sir Tor said with his ever-cheerful smile.

  Gawain cleared his throat before he addressed his friends and companions. “Why do you act so…so disgracefully? We are
knights of the Round Table. We are held to acts of honor and chivalry—not drunken displays of rage.”

  “Says you. You’re the one who knew all along!” Ywain snorted.

  “Why do you act like this?” Gawain asked.

  “Because Arthur betrayed us!” Griflet shouted. He looked lost and frightened—as if someone had stolen his lady love from him.

  “In what way? She is still the just and honorable leader we have known and served these past two years,” Gawain said.

  “Nay, I imagine this was all Merlin’s doing,” Sir Bedivere said, his expression was dead. “Every last bit. From whom she appointed to those she favored.”

  “Do you really think that?” Gawain asked. “We have seen Arthur confront Merlin before—on our behalf!”

  “And what if it’s all for show?” another knight called off. “What if we’re just tools?”

  “We were always meant to be tools. That’s why we swore loyalty to her,” Gawain said.

  “I would never swear an oath of fealty to a woman,” another knight scoffed.

  “Why not?” Sir Tor asked.

  “Because she would be inferior,” the knight said, giving Sir Tor a withering glare.

  “That’s not how I see it,” Sir Tor said.

  “What would you know? You sit in the King’s pocket!”

  Sir Tor grinned so nicely, the knight who scoffed at him couldn’t help but soften his stance and sit down. “Now, that’s an exaggeration. I’m not in the King’s inner circle. Not like Sir Ywain and Sir Bedivere and the like. I think Arthur’s been just, and I’m pleased to serve him—her—but that’s as deep as our relationship goes.”

  “Then why defend her?” Ywain demanded. “If you weren’t a lapdog like us, why stick up for her?”

  “It’s what she taught us, isn’t it? That’s what being a knight is about—righting wrongs and such. Besides, you forget. I was once a cow herder.”

  Griflet blinked. “So?”

  “So if a cow herder can be a knight, why can’t a girl be a ruling monarch?” Sir Tor pointed out.

  “Those are completely different instances,” a knight protested.

  “You didn’t disguise what you were, and mislead us and misdirect us,” Ywain added.

  “You all seem intent on thinking that My Lord, that Our Lord, is somehow a different person because of this,” Gawain said. “Then I pose you a question: Why did Merlin use Arthur? He could have used any stupid sop he came across. Why would he dress up a girl and crown her King of Britain?”