King Arthur and Her Knights: Enthroned #1, Enchanted #2, Embittered #3 (5 page)

“How can this be?” Britt said.

“When you were but a babe a stranger brought you to my manor. He gave me a great sum of gold and instructed me to raise you as though you were my own son,” Sir Ector said, wiping tears from his eyes.

(For the sake of appearing impartial, Merlin had instructed Sir Ector to leave out the part about Merlin being the stranger, and of knowing all along exactly who Arthur was. “It did not work for our favor so there is no point in telling it anyway,” Merlin had said.)

Britt knew what was supposed to happen next. She was supposed to fall to the ground, weeping and crying that she had lost her father and brother. The trouble was Britt was still unimpressed with the occupation of fatherhood. Britt dropped to her knees, hoping the crowd would observe her unemotional response as shock. “What a wretched day, for in it I have lost my father and brother. And mother,” Britt said, adding the unscripted mother bit. She knew her tone was wooden and unfeeling, but almost everyone was watching Sir Ector and Sir Kay anyway.

Merlin moved behind Britt. “Archbishop, what do you say to summoning all the knights and princes and barons from the tournament to come to this cemetery and see the will of God?”

Brice, the archbishop, tucked his hands in the sleeves of his priestly robes. “I say that sounds wise, and let us commence with the summoning in all speed.”

“You will not leave me, even though I am not your son or brother?” Britt said, reciting the well rehearsed line.

Sir Kay shook his head, but Sir Ector replied with a fierceness that surprised Britt. “Never, My Lord.”

“As long as we can be of use to you we will stay, My Lord,” Sir Kay said.

Britt looked to Sir Kay, surprised. Merlin had told Sir Kay to keep his mouth shut during the cemetery interchange. Kay met Britt’s gaze and nodded before lowering his eyes to the ground. The young knight meant every word.

“Stand, Arthur. This is not a time for weeping, it is a time of great joy. Finally, Britain will have a king again!” Merlin declared as he pulled Britt to her feet.

Britt stomped her hands and flapped her cloak in an effort to warm herself as she watched lords and knights parade past the sword—which was once again stabbed in the anvil—and grapple with it.

It seemed everyone from the tournament had turned out, intent on giving the sword in the stone one last pull. The sword pulling had gone on for most of the afternoon, and the air grew increasing chilly as night loomed on the horizon.

Britt leaned forward and tried to catch Merlin’s eye, but he was busy talking to the Archbishop, planning the next move probably.

“Are you cold, boy?” Sir Ector asked.

Britt leaned back against the church. “No, I’m fine thank you.”

Sir Ector held a rough wool blanket. “Are you certain? Winter has yet to truly bare its teeth, but it is still cold.”

“I’m fine,” Britt insisted. She almost shrieked when Sir Kay materialized next to her and shoved a hot mug in her hands.

“Warm cider,” Sir Kay grunted. “Drink it.”

“Thanks,” Britt awkwardly said.

The father and son stood with Britt, blocking some of the noise and excited shouts of the crowd when yet another knight failed to pull the sword from the stone.

Britt hesitated before she brought the mug to her lips and sipped. The cider was stronger and sourer than what Britt was used to. It was not nearly as sugary either, but it was warm and tasted good.

“How much longer will this last?” Britt asked, once again watching the knights.

Sir Ector turned to watch the interchange. “As long as it must. There must be no doubts that you are our true King.”

Sir Kay briefly nodded his direction in front of the crown. “King Lot hasn’t had his chance yet. He will be your biggest naysayer.”

“King Lot?” Britt asked, taking another sip of the cider.

Sir Kay pointed out a tall man who wore a fur cape and a floor length purple hued tunic. His face was craggy like cliffs, and a scowl seemed permanently etched on his lips. It was his eyes, though, that caused Britt to pull back. He had clear, grey eyes that judged every person who walked in his sight. They were cold, calculating, and hard, like chips of stone.

He stood with three other men, speaking to them as he glared at the crowd.

“Who is that with him?” Britt asked.

“Ah yes. That would be King Urien, King Pellinore, and King Ryence,” Sir Ector said.

King Urien was unremarkable, resembling most males of the day in build and hair length. King Pellinore was more…
noble
. He stood like a warrior, his hand resting on his sword as he sifted through the crowd with narrowed eyes. King Ryence resembled a ferret.

“They are all Lot’s allies?” Britt asked.

“Not usually, no. King Urien always sides with Lot, and Ryence follows whoever seems to have the winning side. King Pellinore is most often a lone man, though. It is unusual that he allies himself with anyone,” Sir Ector said, thoughtfully grooming his beard.

“Looks like he’s changed his ways,” Sir Kay growled as King Lot approached the sword in the stone/anvil.

The tall man pulled on the sword, his face cracking with effort even though he didn’t pull until he was red in the face like the other barons, knights, and kings before him. After pulling for a few moments he took three sweeping steps backwards and scowled at the sword. He then tilted his head up and walked away, as though the competition was a child’s game.

King Pellinore was next—pulling with everything he had—and King Urien and King Ryence were directly behind him. All three kings failed.

“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, I 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 were rubbing 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 Britt 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, King Pellinore, King Urien, and King Ryence at his heels.

Chapter 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.