by K. M. Shea
Britt, realizing the argument was swiftly turning from a shouting match to a possible bloodbath, raised her voice. “Enough!”
Merlin easily adapted to her plan and gestured at the fire, which roared twice as high and burned bright blue. When everyone fell silent, he released it, and it returned to a happy orange color.
Britt smiled in thanks at the wizard, then turned her to attention to the lovers’ quarrel. “Sir Pelleas. You found the necklace you gave to Lady Ettard on the shore of a lake, did you not?”
Sir Pelleas nodded. “I did.”
“Then you must know that this is the property of one of the handmaidens of the Lady of the Lake, the close friend and personal ally of King Arthur.”
A great deal of the rage dropped away from Sir Pelleas’s face, and he had the decency to look repentant.
Britt rested her hands on her sword belt. “Yes, we took the necklace—because it was never yours to give away in the first place.”
“I regret my actions,” he admitted. “But I should be the one to bear the punishment. Please do not take the necklace away from Lady Ettard.” His shoulders drooped slightly with this request, but he looked entirely forlorn when Lady Ettard spoke.
“It does not matter. Indeed, I do not want it back,” she said.
Even the set of Sir Pelleas’s mustache looked mournful. “It was the only thing I ever gave you that you seemed to genuinely like. I see, now, that even it has your disfavor.”
Ettard shook her head. “I realized soon after I began to wear it that it was enchanted. I should have given it back then, but I was afraid...”
Gawain stepped forward. “Afraid, my lady?”
Ettard looked down and stared at her slender hands. “I feared Sir Pelleas’s affection for me was only temporary. He is a great knight and deserves more than this small castle and myself. The necklace, I knew, would keep him in love with me…. But it was not the reassurance I sought. Knowing he loved me because of that dratted trinket was worse than the fear that his affections would fade. Desperate to keep his love but wracked with guilt, I threw him from my presence.”
Ettard shifted, then met Sir Pelleas’s gaze. “I apologize for my poor conduct. You did not deserve the onslaught I made you bear.”
“My Lady,” Sir Pelleas breathed. He knelt before her and slowly reached out to hold her hands in his. “There is nothing you could do, nothing you could say that would destroy my love for you. You may throw me from your castle—from your presence—a thousand times. But I will still return, and I will eternally love you.”
Ettard’s eyes filled with tears, and a few dropped down her cheek. She mutely nodded, her lips pressed together with the strength of her emotions.
Britt watched the spectacle, both happy for the outcome and jealous of Lady Ettard. (Who could possibly look that good while crying besides some kind of faerie lady?)
“I believe my mistress will be pleased with the outcome of this situation,” Ragnelle said quietly.
“Great,” Britt said just as softly. “When you see her, please tell her that at the next Lancelot Hate Club meeting, we’re going to be knitting purses.”
Ragnelle bowed her head slightly. “I shall do as you wish.”
“You have a rather interesting relationship with the Lady of the Lake…Sir Galahad.” Gawain joined them with a light smile.
“We’re practically soul sisters. She’s just as snarky as I am—your aunt Morgan is our third pea in the pod,” Britt whispered wryly.
“I thank you for your help in this endeavor, Sir Gawain.” Ragnelle curtsied to the young knight.
“It was my honor. I am glad I could be of assistance.” Gawain smiled at the handmaiden, then glanced back at the joyful Sir Pelleas and Lady Ettard, so he missed the pink blush that bloomed in Ragnelle’s cheeks.
Britt schooled her face so she didn’t grin, and she also refrained from ribbing the oblivious knight and his new admirer. “All’s well that ends well, I guess.”
“Indeed!” Lancelot pushed his way into their small circle and draped an arm over Britt’s shoulders. “The triumph of love is always a reason to celebrate. Come! Let us return to the feasting hall and toast this new-found love!”
Britt shrugged his arm off. “I could use a drink after all this excitement.”
“Wonderful! Sir Pelleas, lead the way with your dear lady!”
Chapter 7
The Character of Sir Lancelot
A dry branch crackled, and Britt froze. She exchanged looks of worry with Sir Gawain, who was crouched behind a bush not far from her. Carefully, she peered around the trunk of a huge tree and studied their targets.
The Roman soldiers either hadn’t heard the crunch, or it didn’t bother them, for they were still working in a well-organized formation, setting up their camp. A centurion yelled at one of his men, probably for using wet leaves as kindling for their fire that was making an inordinate amount of smoke and smelled awful. The rest scurried like ants, setting up tents and unloading provisions from carts.
Britt, using a slightly burned stick and a curl of birch bark, tallied the number of soldiers she saw, careful not to double count anyone.
Gawain finished before her, but waited until she gave him the hand signal to indicate she was done. Together they slithered through the underbrush, moving as quietly as possible. (They had shed their armor before setting out for this very reason.)
Though they quickly fell out of hearing range of the camp, Britt dared not utter a word lest they run into any scouts. So she kept her mouth shut even though she burned to talk to Gawain about Ragnelle during this rare moment they had alone.
Several days had passed since they left Lady Ettard’s castle. The evening they had managed to bring lady Ettard and Sir Pelleas together, Ragnelle had remained with them for quite a while. (Until the celebration was over, actually.)
It was obvious to Britt that she mostly stuck around because she had a huge crush on Gawain, but the gallant knight either didn’t notice it or wasn’t interested. Britt suspected it was the former, but she also guessed he would be horrified if she told him her observations.
She breathed out heavily through her nose in a combination of frustration and amusement. When Merlin had me crowned king, I never thought matchmaker would be part of my role.
When they had walked so far they could no longer smell awful smoke from the enemy camp, Gawain finally spoke. “I don’t know if it is bothersome or encouraging that all the Roman fortifications have similar numbers.”
“Probably a bit of both,” Britt said. “It means there’s definitely a pattern, and I’m certain Merlin will be able to figure it out. But to be honest, I’d much rather have them disorganized and impulsive.”
“Aye,” Gawain said grimly.
They wound their way around a naturally occurring hedge, popping out where Merlin waited with their horses.
“We got them,” Britt said. She and Gawain passed off their estimations. “Just like all the other groups, it seems they’re heading north and then east.”
“It’s a curious thing that we haven’t found any traveling east,” Merlin said.
“Is it possible they made alliances with kings and rulers in the east?” Gawain asked.
Merlin frowned at their numbers. “Anything is possible, but Britt has some staunch supporters there. I would’ve thought we’d have heard something from them if they suspected their neighbors of treason.”
“Is it possible they mean to split Britain down the center, so the east and west cannot rally together and attack as one?” Britt asked.
Merlin frowned. “That particularly sunny deliberation had not occurred to me. I thought it was more likely they meant to deal with you and Camelot first, as you are the greatest threat to their expansion. But now I have another worry to warm my bed at night.”
“Sorry,” Britt said.
Merlin shook his head. “Don’t be. We should consider all possibilities, no matter how grim they may be. Besides, if that is inde
ed their plan, we may have already outmaneuvered them by sending Kay and Mordred back to Camelot to inform our allies of their movements.” Merlin finished his explanation with the brilliant smile, one that Britt automatically returned.
Though Britt dreaded the thought of a war with the Roman Empire, she had to admit it was a thrill to be back with Merlin. To be able to talk to him without fear, to laugh and joke with him again…it made her realize just how much she missed him back in Camelot.
“We have your numbers!” Lancelot proclaimed as he and Percival approached the group from the opposite end of the clearing. “Because I so desired to get such precise numbers, My Lord, I daringly approached our assigned camp. Indeed, I nearly crawled my way straight to the center. Ask Percival if you do not believe me!”
Britt rolled her eyes. “No, I believe you. Only you would do something that stupid.”
“Stupid?” Lancelot crowed. “It was dashing and brave!”
“It was foolhardy,” Britt said. “What would you have said if they caught you? ‘Excuse me sir, but I’m looking for the Holy Grail. Do you have it hidden in the middle of your camp?’”
Lancelot frowned. “I would never be caught.”
“It was perhaps a little dangerous,” Percival said in a calm manner. “But as a result, he has far more accurate estimations than I do.” Both he and Lancelot handed over their birch bark computations to Merlin.
The wizard nodded in thanks. “Both groups you observed perfectly match the patterns we’ve seen in the other companies and squadrons. Adding up all the numbers makes them a huge force. I can’t believe they have the cheek to prance around in King Ryence’s colors and pretend it’s a legitimate disguise.”
“As far as we know, we are the only ones who have ventured this far south to spy on their movements.” Gawain checked over his horse’s tack and equipment. “A person in the north—or the south—would have no way of knowing there’s a line of soldiers moving south to north in Ryence’s colors. It becomes noteworthy only if you’ve been aware of the movements for a while.”
“Sir Gawain speaks the truth,” Lancelot said. “Only men of Camelot are smart and cunning enough to pursue such accuracy.”
“What is it supposed to even mean?” Britt asked.
“I believe he means to say that Knights of Camelot are more inquisitive—and perhaps a little protective—and as a result would be more likely to be suspicious of random soldiers in King Ryence’s colors marching through the country,” Percival guessed.
Lancelot smiled brightly. “Exactly!”
Britt patted Percival on the shoulder as she passed by him, moving to untie Roen from the tree branch he was hitched to. Percival smiled shyly, but his brow was slightly furrowed in confusion at the pity in her gesture.
Since leaving Lady Ettard’s castle, Percival and Lancelot had been matched frequently for spying duties. It surprised Britt, but Percival seem to get along well enough with Lancelot. (Probably because he had the sweetest temper in all of Camelot besides Sir Tor.)
Roen nuzzled and lipped Britt’s cheek as she fussed with his reins. Abruptly, the gelding jerked his head up and swung around, his ears flattened. Branches crackled as something crashed through the underbrush nearby.
Alarmed, Britt unsheathed Excalibur. Gawain, Lancelot, and Percival all grabbed their swords as well.
Britt raised her sword, hoping the crashing was not a wild boar—boars could kill men and horses alike if you weren’t careful. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, and the source of the crashing finally careened into the clearing.
It was a knight, though he appeared half wild and hadn’t cared for himself or his mount in days. His armor was dingy and smeared with mud; the horse’s hooves were crusted with dry dirt, and the animal’s barding was so dirty, the symbol on his rump (a female lioness), was barely visible.
Britt blinked. “Ywain?”
The knight flung his helm off and swung his horse around so he could blearily face her. It was Ywain, but his face was gaunt, his chin bristled with unkempt beard growth, and his hair was greasy. “My Lord…it’s over. She won’t take me back.”
Britt slid Excalibur back into its scabbard and secured Roen to the tree branch again. “Who won’t take you back?”
“Laudine.” Ywain stared at the ground.
“Your wife?” Gawain asked.
Ywain did not acknowledge his cousin and kept staring.
Merlin eyed the young knight, and Britt could tell he was getting ready to whack Ywain in the head, so she quickly intervened. “Tell us everything, Ywain. It’s okay, we will help you.”
Britt approached him and placed her hand on top of his. Ywain finally raised his gaze and smiled sadly at Britt.
“It seems to me that—with this new addition to our party—we should probably pitch our camp for the night,” Percival said.
“Here is no good,” Merlin said. “We’re far too close to the Romans for my comfort.”
Lancelot flung himself on the back of his dapple gray horse. “There is a fine little meadow just south of here. It’s less than an hour’s ride and is downwind of the Romans. They shouldn’t see any hint of our activity.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow at the fashionable knight. “How do you know of this meadow’s existence?”
“I am ever so glad you asked.” Lancelot gave Britt his most dazzling smile, his white teeth twinkling. “I discovered it last year! I fought a recreant knight there in honor of My Lord. I sent them to you; he was one of many I defeated to illustrate my regret over angering my dear king.”
“I’m sure,” Britt said dryly. She squeezed Ywain’s hand. “Do you mind a short ride with us?”
Ywain sighed deeply; it was almost a moan tugged from the depths of his soul. “A short or long ride, it matters not. All is lost to me without Laudine’s love.”
Britt winced and gratefully took Roen when Percival led the gelding up to her. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems, Ywain.”
He shook his head. “No, it is far worse. And I have only myself to blame.”
Britt waited to question Ywain until they reached the meadow and cared for their mounts.
“Sit, Ywain. Explain to me what happened—and I want the whole story.” Britt steered Ywain over to the campfire and sat him down on the ground.
She joined him, cleaning the brow band of Roen’s bridle to give her hands something to do.
Gawain gently brushed Ywain’s horse, grooming the ignored mount and caring for its hooves. Percival scooped up the horse’s barding and was attempting to clean it. Even Merlin had the decency to pretend he wasn’t listening, and instead puttered around with the notes they had all taken. Only Lancelot was foppish enough to waltz over to the fire and sit down across from Ywain and Britt.
Britt glared at him and scrubbed the brow band harder.
It didn’t matter though, for Ywain didn’t appear to notice Lancelot’s presence. He stared into the campfire, which was not strictly necessary as darkness had not fallen, though the sky was gloomy enough to make it a welcome thing.
“Originally, I set out with those who chased after you once you were kidnapped,” Ywain began. “I thought to stop by and see how Laudine was doing, believing I could easily catch up with the rest of the group as they approached Duke Maleagant’s lands. I rode into Laudine’s castle, my spirits high and eager to see her. But she turned me away.” Ywain heaved a rattling death sigh.
“What do you mean when you say she turned you away?” Britt asked.
Ywain rubbed his thumbs over the grooves of his sword’s scabbard. “She refused to speak to me, or even see me. She said, through her handmaidens, I was gone too long. And if I so easily forgot her, she did not need me. She said I was to consider myself free, and that she was no longer my lady.”
Britt set aside the brow band and began brushing fur from Roen’s saddle blanket. “And she barred you from returning?”
Ywain nodded. “I have lost her love, and with it much of the li
ght of my life has gone out.”
“She didn’t say she stopped loving you.” Britt paused and spat when she accidentally got a horse hair stuck to her lips. “She just sent you away.”
“But if she will not see me, she must not love me! How else could she do such a cruel thing to me?”
“As she has cast you off, Sir Ywain, I see only one recourse,” Lancelot piped up.
Britt suspiciously eyed the knight, certain she wouldn’t like whatever came out of his mouth next. “Oh? Please, illuminate us.”
“All you must do is find a new lady to serve. There are plenty out there,” Lancelot said.
Britt wondered if she could suffocate him with Roen’s blanket. “Are women so easily replaceable to you?”
Lancelot shrugged. “I’m aware in our oaths as Knights of the Round Table, we are to love only one lady. But Ywain doesn’t have much of a choice, does he? His lady has forsaken him and cast him off without a second thought. He’s a free man and should be allowed to find love elsewhere.”
Britt was silent, but only because her rage was still building. “He’s married. That’s not something you can just walk away from and toss aside like a used handkerchief.”
“But she has expressed her wishes. Should he not respect them?” Lancelot asked.
“It does not matter. I could never love another as I love Laudine,” Ywain said. “Though she has hardened her heart against me, I will always love her.”
Some of the tension in Britt’s shoulders eased. She’d spent significant time in Camelot trying to drive respect for females into her knights. She had to remember that Playboy Lancelot, or the Debaucher as the Lady of the Lake called him, did not reflect the honor and chivalry the rest of her knights exhibited.
Ywain struggled to rise like a feverish man. “Indeed, I still love her deeply, as I always have! I never stopped thinking of her, never stopped believing her to be the joy of my heart. Yet she doubts my affection…. I must not have shown it well enough, or perhaps I did not do enough to earn her love.”
