by KM Shea
“Trying to figure out a way around the sword to claim the throne, he is,” Sir Kay said, nodding in King Lot’s direction.
“He’ll fail. The common folk won’t let that happen,” Sir Ector promised.
Britt didn’t get a chance to reply as Merlin stepped in front of the sword in the stone. “All afternoon, you mortal men have tried, and all afternoon, you have failed. There is only one in Britain who is worthy and able to pull this sword!”
“That’s our cue, My Lord,” Sir Ulfius said, appearing behind Sir Kay.
“Right. Thanks again, Sir Ector, Sir Kay,” Britt said, passing the mug to Sir Kay before brushing off her cloak.
Sir Ulfius escorted Britt up to the sword in the stone as Merlin rattled more about the sword and worthiness. When Britt was an arm’s length away he finished, “and behold, here is the rightful heir to the sword in the stone.”
The Archbishop—who was probably the best actor out of everyone involved—pushed his eyebrows up towards his hairline. “Merlin, who is this youth with you? Certainly he is very fair and noble to look at, but he cannot possibly be the one who is to pull the sword from the stone.”
“This is Arthur, the true son of Uther Pendragon and his Queen Igraine,” Merlin said, placing a hand on Britt’s shoulder.
The crowd murmured in astonishment, and the Archbishop slumped back in his chair before leaning forward in well-faked interest. “But how can that be? No one has ever heard that Uther had a son.”
“You are indeed correct, for I made sure to bury that fact and keep it secret from all men. For I saw it in the stars that Uther Pendragon would die before his son would be old enough to survive the onslaught of his father’s enemies and the burden of ruling Britain. On the night he was born, with his parents’ blessing of course, I took Arthur and entrusted him to Sir Ector of Bonmaison,” Merlin said, gesturing with his free hand.
Britt had to admire Merlin. The crowd was putty in his hands as he spun his marvelous story. He had enough charisma to make any modern day politician green with envy. Perhaps that was why men called him an enchanter.
“Sir Ector did not know Arthur’s true parentage and raised him as his own son. If anyone doubts the truth of my words, they can be verified by Sir Ulfius, one of Uther Pendragon’s own knights,” Merlin said, stepping aside so Sir Ulfius could salute the crowd.
The cemetery was breathlessly quiet as people leaned forward to listen to Sir Ulfius.
“The words Merlin speaks are true,” Sir Ulfius said.
The crowd erupted in a wind of whispers, and Merlin sharply elbowed Britt when she mutely stared at the sword.
Britt rocketed forward and asked the Archbishop. “May I try my hand at pulling the sword?”
The Archbishop inclined his head. “Indeed, all may try. I pray that the grace of God will shine upon you.”
Britt knew she could pull the sword from the stone, but as Britt approached the anvil, her heart pounded in her throat, and her ears buzzed. She could feel the weight of the stares.
What if she couldn’t pull it?
“Of course I can pull it. This is my dream—even if it is an unfortunate setting,” Britt muttered before she placed a hand on the sword. She could feel a sudden ray of sunlight cast upon her back as she pulled the sword out of the anvil. The ring of its metal blade pulling free from the anvil echoed in the graveyard.
Britt swung the sword once over her head—where it caught the sunlight and cast dazzling rays like small strikes of lightning—before resting the tip on the ground. Britt settled into a relaxed stance and finally gathered the courage to look at the assembly.
Mostly people had slack, shocked faces. Jaws hung open, and more than a few men rubbed their eyes to clear them.
Britt glanced at Merlin, but he seemed unaffected by the silence and was grinning in triumph.
Britt opened her mouth to whisper to the self-professed wizard, but instead jumped and almost bolted when the crowd roared.
Most of those present—the knights, barons, princes, and kings—raised their voices and shouted together in an alarming cry that shook Britt’s bones. It took her almost a minute before she realized it was not a war cry, but a statement of jubilation.
It was a good ten minutes before the assembly had finally quieted down enough for anyone to be heard. Unfortunately, the first audible words were not ones of encouragement.
“Surely you jest that this beardless youth would be set before us as our King,” King Lot said. His voice was deep and fathomless, like the darkest and longest of caves. “This must be a plot crafted by Merlin and Sir Ulfius to further their power. I will have none of it, nor will I have this mere boy as my king!”
“Here, here!” King Urien shouted.
“He is no King. He is not even a warrior. What honor does he have?” King Pellinore demanded, sparkling in his black armor.
“He has pulled the sword from the stone. It is a sign from the heavens; we cannot go against it,” another knight argued. (Britt was fairly certain he was one of Merlin’s.)
“I believe Merlin!”
Merlin leaned closer to Britt and muttered over the loud argument. “Sheathe the sword back in the anvil, and pull it out again. Do it at least two more times. We must show them you are capable of pulling it.”
Britt did as she was told, and when she plucked it out of the anvil for a fourth time, the Archbishop, who was watching, spoke. “Has Arthur not performed a great miracle? Each of you has tried your hand at pulling the sword from the stone—yes, even you, King Lot. It is known that whoso pulls the sword forth shall be King of Britain. Do you doubt the words of the sword? How then can you naysay Arthur as your ruler?”
“We are not satisfied. We would have a different sort of ruler than a beardless boy who knows nothing, and whose pedigree is attested to by one knight and a petty wizard,” King Lot snarled. “We will not be satisfied until another trial is held that more men of Britain might have a chance to pull the sword,” King Lot snarled before he left the graveyard, with King Pellinore, King Urien, and King Ryence at his heels.
3
Crowning the King
Britt was stormed by knights and noblemen as Merlin slipped off to the Archbishop’s side. Although many of the knights rallied around Britt, it was decided that there would be another trial to see if anyone else could pull the sword from the stone at Candlemas.
“Don’t scowl so, Arthur. Those who attempt to pull the sword from the stone and fail—and they will fail—then have no rightful claim to the throne. This will make your crowning that much easier,” Merlin insisted.
Britt was unconvinced that another trial would win her more supporters, but mostly she was surprised that she hadn’t woken up from her dream yet. She supposed it probably was because she hadn’t been crowned king yet, so she was relatively amiable to Merlin’s wishes and agreed to another trial.
Candlemas was the second of February. The day was chosen for the sword trial to give men enough time to travel from all parts of Britain to London. Merlin used the time to make more allies and further educate Britt in the ways of medieval society. For hours each day, she was forced to study military campaigns, charts of nobility, and religion.
Britt was somewhat surprised, though, that it was Sir Kay and Sir Ector who thought of the more useful sorts of knowledge.
“Tell me, Arthur. Do you know how to ride a horse?” Sir Ector asked one day as he stood with Britt and Sir Kay in the stables. (The father and son were her assigned babysitters for the day as Merlin was meeting with King Leodegrance—one of the kings who was not opposed to her.)
“I do,” Britt said as she watched Sir Kay clean his saddle. “I’m not on a knightly level, though. I can keep my seat, and I know the paces, but I can’t even jump. My sister was the real horsewoman of the family. I only learned because of her.”
Sir Kay grunted.
“It will be good enough. Your skills will increase when we leave London and begin riding again. London. Hmmph. No on
e rides in London. Everybody walks everywhere,” Sir Ector said, shaking his head.
“But I don’t even have a horse,” Britt argued.
“Nonsense, Merlin and I picked out a sweet little bay mare for you not two nights ago when I reminded him you would need a mount. That wizard is so absorbed in the future, he sometimes forgets the simplest things. Ah, where was I? Oh, yes. Your mare.” Sir Ector said, stopping in front of a stall that housed a small horse.
Britt slipped into the stall with the mare and set about introducing herself to her horse. The mare was plainly well broke and well trained. A child could have ridden her saddle-less without any trouble. Britt felt a little insulted—she wasn’t that bad of a rider—but reasoned it was probably for the best. Britt had no desire to ride a stallion, like Sir Kay did.
“Sir Ulfius owes me a drink. He thought you wouldn’t know how to ride,” Sir Ector laughed.
“Well, normally he would have been right. People in the future don’t typically ride horses,” Britt said as she ran her hand down the mare’s neck.
“They don’t know how to ride? How do they get around then?” Sir Ector said, sounding dismayed.
“Ahh, we have horseless carriages,” Britt said.
“Sounds like sorcery to me,” Sir Ector snorted. “Kay, what’s wrong boy?”
The knight had paused in the middle of buffing his saddle. “My Lord,” he said, his voice almost strangled sounding. “Do you know how to handle a sword?”
“I do. I can fight loads better than I can ride,” Britt said, hanging her arms over the stall door.
“How good are you?” Sir Kay asked.
Britt bit her lip. “I don’t really know. I was good compared to the students I practiced with…but swordsmanship as a hobby is even more rare than horseback riding in my time.”
“A hobby?” Sir Ector said, his voice trilling.
“Do you mind if we spar?” Sir Kay asked as he stood, abandoning his tack. He seemed strangely intense. “I would like to observe your skills.”
“Sure,” Britt shrugged, exiting the stall.
Sir Ector tried to talk Britt out of it as she and Sir Kay walked through the cold streets to a meadow outside of the city limits. He fell silent, however, when Britt and Sir Kay started fighting.
“That will do,” Sir Kay declared after three matches. Britt had won all three, but she reasoned that the knight had to be holding back. How else could she beat him?
Sir Ector was speechless.
“Am I no good?” Britt worriedly asked, glancing at her “foster father.”
“Britt you are…” Sir Ector trailed off before kneeling. “My Lord,” he said.
“My Lord,” Sir Kay echoed, joining his father on the ground.
The Candlemas trial came and went. It was utterly unremarkable to Britt, perhaps even boring. Many knights, kings, and barons showed up. All of them tried pulling the sword, and all of them failed. Britt pulled the sword from the stone and stabbed it back in the stone multiple times, freezing because it had finally snowed and the wind cut through all but the warmest of cloaks. Lot and his allies were not moved.
A third trial was scheduled at Easter. Britt felt for sure she would wake up from her unusually long nap by then, but the trial came, men came, and no one could pull the sword but Britt. The days passed by in a haze. Britt almost felt as though she had been stuck in London for a few days instead of months. But that was how dreams worked, or so Britt supposed.
Since she first pulled the sword from the stone on the day of the Christmas tournament, Merlin had banned her from wandering around alone. Sir Kay was Britt’s escort of choice as he usually left her alone or practiced riding and swordsmanship with her. If Britt was with any of the older knights—or even worse, Merlin—she was usually coerced into learning more about her allies and enemies. (And frankly Britt did not care that King Lot preferred red roan horses to chestnut-colored ones.)
“This isn’t working. Your plan to unite Britain is going to fail, Merlin,” Britt yawned. She was riding out the Easter trial in the comforts of a pub.
“It’s working,” Merlin said, running a hand through his light blonde hair. “I didn’t think everyone would immediately accept you as King. I planned for it to take a season. What you have not noticed is that each and every time you pull the sword from the stone, more men join our cause,” Merlin said, stabbing a finger at Britt.
“What do you mean?”
“The commoners. Peasants, they are deeply in love with you already. Knights respect those who are known for battle prowess, the will of God, royalty, and magic. You might appear to be green in the art of battle, but the sword proves the other three. Mark my words that many a knight thinks you are the true King.”
“At this rate, I’m going to wake up before I am crowned king,” Britt muttered.
“What did you say?” asked the sharp-eared Merlin.
“Nothing. If this doesn’t work out, will you send me home?”
“It will work out. It must,” Merlin said, suddenly involved in studying the pattern of the wooden table.
Britt frowned as she watched the enchanter avoid her gaze. “What aren’t you telling me, Merlin?”
Merlin took a sip of his drink and muttered into his mug.
“Merlin,” Britt repeated.
Merlin sighed. “I can’t send you back to your time.”
Alarm shot through Britt, and the world spun before she reminded herself that it didn’t matter because it was just a dream anyway. “Oh?”
“It’s easy to bring a person from the future to the past because to that person, it is history. It has already happened, and they could learn about it if they searched. Once in the past, though, it is very difficult to send a person to the future because no one knows the future,” Merlin said.
“So you’re saying you could keep sending me back through history, but I would never be able to come forward through time,” Britt said, ice settling over her heart.
“That is correct. The faeries are more able to conduct time travel, but only a select few can manage it, and it is forbidden as it would wreak chaos on the fabric of time,” Merlin said.
“I see. Good thing this is all just a dream then,” Britt muttered to herself before she rubbed the back of her neck, unable to cast off the feeling unease.
A fourth trial was scheduled for Pentecost.
“This could go on forever,” Britt complained the morning of the Pentecost trial. She fed a carrot to Sir Kay’s horse as the quiet knight brushed it.
“Merlin will end it soon, My Lord,” Sir Kay said, running a hand down his horse’s front left leg. He still had an aversion to calling her Britt or Arthur.
Britt picked up a brush and turned to her horse. “I’m starting to doubt he will. We’ve been at this for months,” she said as the mare nuzzled her.
“Merlin will see it through. He is nothing if not determined and filled with perseverance. He planned for this when he was but a child himself. He will put you on the throne,” Sir Kay said.
At that moment, Merlin banged into the stables, upsetting Britt and the horses.
“What are you doing out here? The trial starts at noon! You’re filthy and wretched-looking,” Merlin said, clearly aghast.
Britt dusted horse hair off her tunic. “Always the charmer, aren’t you? But who cares when the trial starts? I’m only needed for the last few minutes, and it’s just going to end with scheduling another.”
“No, it will not. Brice—the Archbishop—has decided enough is enough. He is going to crown you today regardless of the dissatisfaction of King Lot and his conspirators. Come lad. You need to be properly dressed.”
“What?”
“You need to be properly dressed! You look more like a pig keeper than a king.”
“No, before that. I’m going to be crowned King? Today?”
“I do not understand your shock. That has been our goal all along! Now, stop yapping and start moving. Thank you, Sir Kay, for staying with A
rthur,” Merlin said as he dragged Britt out of the stables.
Sir Kay shrugged, and his horse neighed.
Britt leaned against a doorway as she watched man after man pull and yank on the sword in the anvil. More than one older baron had thrown out his back during his attempt, and watching the knights strain was an easier task than listening to Merlin and his cohorts battle it out behind her.
“We need to press Arthur’s heritage. He’s the son of Uther Pendragon. He’s the rightful heir to the throne,” Sir Ulfius said.
“A royal pedigree means very little to the general population. They will follow anyone who is charismatic and offers them protection. We should show our support of Arthur the instant he pulls the sword from the stone, and the people will follow our lead,” Sir Bodwain argued.
“Pulling the sword from the stone is a miracle. No one besides Arthur can pull it; let us use the sword as our rallying cry,” another knight said.
“That won’t work. He is generally unimpressive to look at. Certainly he’s tall enough, but he hasn’t so much as a spot of fuzz on his chin. In spite of Merlin’s best efforts, he still looks like a girl. Not to mention he hasn’t a spine to speak of, he shows no ambition, and his leadership skills are woefully absent,” another knight challenged.
Britt yawned—she had grown use to the arguments and abuse concerning her looks—but turned around, shocked, when she heard Sir Ector growl, “My Britt has plenty of pluck. It cannot be helped that you don’t understand that, you great gaping fool!”
Merlin patted Sir Ector on the shoulder. “His name is Arthur,” he reminded him as he passed them, his voice light in spite of the argument.
The knights spared Merlin a glance before they continued to argue the best strategy to rally people behind Britt during her crowning ceremony.
“Aren’t you going to join in?” Britt asked Merlin when he joined her at the open door.
“And ruin their fun? Goodness, no,” Merlin said, adjusting the fall of his storm-colored robe on his shoulders.
