Enlighten (King Arthurs and Her Knights Book 5) (5 page)

“This is the new captive?” the stick-like man asked, glancing up at Muscular Darth Vader.

Muscular Darth Vader nodded.

Stick Man squinted. “He looks too pretty. Are you sure you did not snatch a faerie warrior? My brother may smash him like a butterfly.”

Britt was simultaneously pleased and offended. Although she was forced to act like a man, her feminine pride always took a hit that the ploy seemed so easy to carry off. As such, she was always highly gratified whenever anyone thought her to be too beautiful to be a man. Still, the complete lack of faith in her physical abilities was a little much.

“I took out your men easily enough—they had to team up to capture me,” Britt said, making a show of stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles—as if
she
was in a position to be confident, and not them.

“Good point. Very well, knight. What is your name?” Stick Man—who obviously had to be Sir Damas—asked.

“It’s…Ywain. Sir Ywain,” Britt said, providing a false name on a flash of inspiration.

“Sir Ywain, I find myself in need of a champion to defend my name against my black-hearted brother,” Sir Damas said. “He continuously attacks me for no reason and harasses me worse than a recreant knight. My company is so pitiful that I have no men who can properly defend me against him.”

Britt ignored the outraged shouts of her fellow captives and looked past Sir Damas to stare at Muscular Darth Vader. “I see,” she said.

Sir Damas ignored her pointed look and continued—his voice was surprisingly deep and throaty despite his stick-ish body. “I have invited you into my castle with such hospitality in hopes that you would fight on my behalf.”

“If I fight for you, will you release me—whether I win or lose?”

“I will release you only if you win. Naturally,” Sir Damas said with a curdled smile.

Britt considered Sir Damas and tapped her kneecap. Although she didn’t fancy the idea of helping him, she wasn’t going to sit in the dungeons and rot either.
I can always come back and smite Sir Damas
and
Sir Outzlake once I’m freed
.

“Sure,” Britt said, liquidly rising to her feet.

“Sir Ywain, you are about to commit a grave sin!”

“If you aid Sir Damas you are a recreant knight!”

“Why would you agree to help
him
?”

“Silence!” Sir Damas shouted over the protesting knights. He was ignored. Sir Damas glared and took a key off his belt. He opened the door of Britt’s cell with a great clank.

Britt followed the short man out of the dungeons and into an open air courtyard. Britt stretched her arms above her head and soaked up the fading sunlight.

“The contest will be tomorrow,” Sir Damas said in his deep, throaty voice. “I suppose you need armor?” he grudgingly asked.

“Yes. Your men didn’t happen to bring my sword with, did they?” Britt asked.

“No. Markem will see you outfitted,” Sir Damas said, nodding to Muscular Darth Vader. “See that he is given appropriate weapons and a room—have him guarded to make sure he doesn’t run.”

“Sir Damas, a moment, please,” Britt said.

“What is it?” Sir Damas asked, impatience flashing across his face.

“Sir Outzlake is the challenger, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Then that gives you the right to decide the contest. Request a battle by swords,” Britt said.

Sir Damas frowned. “Such quarrels are traditionally decided by jousting.”

“So I’ve heard, but I’m better at the sword. Ask for a contest of swords.”

Sir Damas shrugged. “It makes no difference—so long as you win.”

“Right, thank you,” Britt said, adjusting her leather jerkin.

Sir Damas waved a hand in the air to acknowledge her and walked away.

Britt looked over at Muscular Darth Vader. “To the armory?” she asked.

Muscular Darth Vader nodded and led the way.

Britt took one of the three, two-handed swords Muscular Darth Vader had selected for her. She whirled it through the air and tried striking a dummy before stepping back. “Not quite balanced,” she muttered, swapping the sword for a different one. Excalibur’s empty scabbard was still strapped to her—there was no way she was taking the scabbard off as it was imbedded with magic that would keep her from bleeding out if she was ever wounded.

Britt ran a finger down the scabbard, missing Excalibur like she would miss an old friend. She sighed and picked up the next sword, twirling it before testing it against the dummy.

“Better,” she said.

“So you’re the champion my brother finally found. Funny—I never thought you would be so comely.”

Britt spun, her muscles tense as she found herself face to face with a teenage girl. She probably wasn’t older than fourteen or fifteen, although she was dressed in a plain, undyed kirtle.

“Lady Vivenne?” Britt guessed.

Vivenne nodded and plopped down on a stone bench. “I thought only a recreant knight would be willing to help my brother. You don’t look very recreant, though,” she said, studying Britt.

Britt smiled. “Looks can be deceiving. You want your other brother, Sir Outzlake, to win, I suppose?”

“I don’t care who wins. It’s all the same to me,” Lady Vivenne dully said.

“But the way everyone speaks, Sir Outzlake is a wronged saint,” Britt said, trading swords again to test out her last option.

“Oh, he’s nicer. But he’s just as selfish as Damas. He doesn’t give a berry for me—I’m just another thing Damas got put in charge of. Father always said Outzlake was less responsible—he’s a bit of a warmonger. At least Damas will never get himself killed since he’s hiding away in his study all the time.”

“I see,” Britt said, at a loss for the young lady’s bluntness. She glanced up at the night sky and the four sputtering torches that had been lit for her benefit in the courtyard. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be up?”

“Maybe. But I had to stay up. One of the servants was having her baby, and Damas won’t hire an herb woman, so I’m the best the castle has,” Lady Vivenne said.

“I see,” Britt carefully said.

Lady Vivenne tilted her head. “Are you wondering why I’m telling you all of this?”

“You may say whatever you like, Lady Vivenne,” Britt said, turning her back to the young lady to study the three swords.

“That’s no fun. I thought I would whet your curiosity. I’ll give you a hint—it’s not because you are handsome.”

“That is reassuring,” Britt said, choosing the middle sword.

“It’s because I’ve heard about you, Sir Ywain.”

Britt almost dropped her sword. “
What
?”

“You’re from King Arthur’s court, and you went questing last summer and fall in the Forest of Arroy with your close companion, Sir Griflet. I heard about a few of your battles.”

Britt stared at the girl in horror. She thought Ywain was a safe bet compared to Gawain, or Kay, or Pellinore. He wasn’t as widely known. How had this girl heard of him?

“I want you to know that neither of my brothers are good knights—not really. They would never hurt their people, but they don’t care for others like they should,” Lady Vivenne said. “And if you beat Outzlake tomorrow, I know you’re going to return to Camelot. If you speak to King Arthur, and if he decides to ride out to see both of my brothers removed from their knighthoods—as I would imagine would happen since Damas has
kidnapped
you—please ask him to be thoughtful when he decides what knight to give our lands to. Not for my brothers’ sake—though I do love those silly men—but for the sake of their people. They deserve to serve a just knight—not one of King Leodegrance’s men.”

Britt had managed to regain her wits during Lady Vivenne’s talk. “You have a compelling case. I will be sure to tell Arthur.”

Lady Vivenne smiled brightly. “Thank you,” she said before dropping a cloth bundle that contained food on the bench. “This is for you. If you’ll excuse me, I really should retire.”

Britt bowed. “As you wish, Lady Vivenne.”

Lady Vivenne scampered out of the torchlight, leaving Britt alone with her insomnia and the night sky.

Britt rubbed her eyes. “This isn’t what I bargained for. Why can’t it be more clear-cut?” she muttered before she looked up at the stars. “One thing is for certain—Merlin and Kay must be
fuming
.”

Chapter 4

A Fight Between Champions

Britt sneezed, spattering the inside of her helm with spit. “Gross,” she said, making a face. The spring air was cool, but Britt was warm enough, bundled up in black armor as she was. The chest piece was a little uncomfortable since it lacked the extra padding Britt’s armor was usually stuffed with to help camouflage her chest. As a result the armor piece flatted her like an ironing board.

The morning sun beat down on Britt and her companions—Sir Damas, a number of his guards, and Lady Vivenne. Birds chirped and sang, and high in the sky a hawk wheeled overhead.

Britt tried to discreetly check her buckles—she had donned the bulk of the armor alone to preserve the illusion of her gender, and she wasn’t certain she did everything right.

“Prepare yourself, Sir Ywain. Yonder comes my recreant brother, Sir Outzlake,” Sir Damas said, indicating to the far end of the meadow, where a party of knights emerged from the forest.

“He looks…unwell,” Britt said.

The man Sir Damas pointed to was, oddly enough, not wearing armor. He wore a plain tunic, and his arm was tied in a sling, even though he rode a spirited horse. He was a great hulk of a man—Sir Damas’ opposite in every physical aspect.

“I thought I was going to fight him,” Britt said, taking in his lack of armor.

“That was the plan,” Sir Damas muttered. “What is the meaning of this, brother?” he shouted when the other party drew near enough to hear him over the jingling of horse tack. “Did you not agree to fight whatever champion I might find?”

“I did,” Sir Outzlake said.

As soon as he spoke Britt had to turn away to keep from laughing. While small, stick-like Damas had a voice of thunder, Outzlake the hulk sounded like a pre-pubescent boy.

“Unfortunately,” Sir Outzlake continued in his almost soprano voice. “I have recently injured myself.”

“This is suspicious timing. Perhaps you fear my champion?” Sir Damas asked.

Sir Outzlake puffed up like an angry cat. “Never!” he hissed. He cleared his throat and—with great difficulty—made himself relax. “I am pleased to say, however, that I too have found a champion to serve in my place.”

“So two strangers are fighting each other for the sake of two brothers. Somehow this doesn’t make sense,” Britt muttered.

“Silence,” Sir Damas snapped.

Britt rolled her eyes and adjusted her stance—her borrowed sword unsheathed and held at her side.

“If that is what you wish,” Sir Damas said, directing his gaze to his brother. “As the challenged party, it is within my rights to declare the test.”

Sir Outzlake frowned. “You mean our champions will not joust?”

“No,” Sir Damas said. “I prefer a contest by swords.”

Sir Outzlake turned in his saddle to face his followers.

At the far end of the meadow an entourage of four knights was gathered. Britt squinted—trying to make out their coat of arms—but she couldn’t see at the great distance. They did appear to be arguing, though. One of the knights threw his hands in the air, and another emphatically pointed into the forest. The third knight lunched for the fourth knight’s reins but missed, and the forth knight cued his horse into a trot, drawing towards Sir Outzlake.

Sir Outzlake spoke to the knight in an undertone before he shouted, “I agree. Let our champions settle the score through blades.”

Britt rolled her shoulders—attempting to loosen them up—as she studied her opponent. He was tall—taller than Britt—and his shoulders were wider as well.

I’ll have to compensate for his additional strength—and he very likely is a quick mover judging by the cut of his armor
, Britt thought as she sashayed up to the open space between Damas and Outzlake.

Outzlake’s champion met her there, an unreadable statue of armor and weapons. Britt wondered at the stance he took—she had seen it before.

“Champions! You may begin,” Sir Damas shouted.

The words were barely out of his mouth when Britt struck—attempting a sweeping blow that would make a slash starting at her opponent’s hip and ending at his opposite shoulder. He blocked—as she hoped he would—and Britt struck out with her left leg. The knight took the hit like a brick wall, but Britt slithered closer, attempting to use her sword like a lever to pop her opponent’s sword out of his hands.

He unfortunately guessed her movements and sprang away. Britt followed at him with a gut thrust—crouching low before pushing forward.

The opposing champion blocked that as well. Britt meant to rush him and carry through with the thrust, but the knight—using brute strength—pushed his blade up during the block, taking Britt’s sword with his.

This left both of them wide open. The knight tried to hit her in the neck with the pommel of his sword.

Too flashy
, Britt thought. She dodged by sinking to her knees and slamming her borrowed sword into her opponent’s right knee with as much force as she could muster.

Finally, she had thrown the knight off guard. He muttered an oath inside his helm and took a step backwards. Britt pushed her advantage, leaping from the ground and throwing all of her weight into her opponent. He staggered again, and with a fancy twirl Britt tangled her sword in the hilt of his, turning at unnatural angle so the knight was forced to break his wrist, or let it go.

When the knight released his sword it almost hit Britt in the face with the force he used to throw it, but Britt used her sword to direct it away.

The fight
should
have stopped there with the knight being unarmed an all, but the knight roared in rage and almost nailed Britt in the neck.

I was too careless
, Britt grimly thought, dodging the worst of the blow—although her gorget dug into the skin of her neck from what pressure he managed to hit her with.
I have to end this or my stamina is going to give out.

Britt finished the knight off with a brutal chop to his helm, rattling his head and sending him to his knees. She kneed his shoulder, spilling him backwards so he landed on his back. Britt, brisk and business-like, kicked his arm away so she could wedge her blade in his unprotected armpit.

“Well done, champion,” Sir Damas boomed, clapping his hands. “I believe this means you will give up all claims, brother?”

“Wait just a moment, I never agreed that I would stop fighting this injustice,” Sir Outzlake said, puffing up again.

Britt sneezed again. “Ugh, I need a tissue,” she muttered to the spitty inside of her helm. She removed her sword from her opponent’s armpit and rested it on her shoulder as she strolled back to Sir Damas’ party, aiming for the chestnut gelding she had ridden to the meadow—lent to her by Damas.

Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake had stalked towards each other and were busy arguing in the middle of the meadow.

“So what if your champion beat mine? All that means is that you were able to pay a better man to fill your shoes—coward,” Sir Outzlake said.

“I am a scholar—fighting was never my business.
You
are the warrior of the family, and yet
you
chose not to fight either!” Sir Damas said.

Britt tried unhooking her helm to get the spit out of her face, but wasn’t having much luck with it since she could only use one hand. When she finally got it so she could ease it off, something roared behind her—sounding like an enraged dragon.

Britt spun around—thinking Sir Outzlake had lost it and was going to kill his brother.

To her shock she found the other champion lunging at her—his sword extended.

Britt didn’t have enough time to react. She was stabbed—the tip of the champion’s sword wedging through the armor pieces delicately arranged on her shoulder.

Britt fell to her knees with the force of the blow—her helm toppling from her head. Pain exploded in her shoulder, and her legs twitched as she tried to make them work—what if this maniac tried to finish her off?! Excalibur’s scabbard would keep her from bleeding, but it couldn’t keep her heart pumping!

There was the thundering of hooves as horses galloped across the field.

“Lancelot you dishonorable, blackguard. What are you
doing
?!”

“There! Your champion just laid an illegal blow upon my champion. Clearly I am in the right,” Sir Damas shouted.

“Sir Ywain!” Lady Vivenne shouted.

“…What?”

There was a scuffle and a knight appeared in Britt’s line of vision.

“Lancelot, what have you
done
,” the knight uttered. He tossed his helmet aside, revealing a face Britt knew well: Bedivere.

“Sir Bedivere,” Britt said, licking her lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I could say the same, My Lord,” Bedivere said, his expression tight as he started to remove pieces of Britt’s armor.

“My what? ….LANCELOT!”

“That sounds like Ywain. The real one,” Britt said as Lady Vivenne knelt next to her, carrying a supply pack.

“It
is
Ywain—and Griflet,” Sir Bedivere said fumbling with the buckles of Britt’s borrowed breastplate.

“Then who did I fight?” Britt asked.

There was a roar and a clang as Ywain tackled someone.

“None other than Sir Lancelot,” Sir Bedivere said. “Though I’m not sure he’ll live to see the end of the day.”

Britt laughed and winced in pain.

“I have bandages, and some herbs to staunch the blood flow,” Lady Vivenne said, digging through her pack.

“Oh, where are my manners? Lady Vivenne, this is Sir Bedivere. Bedivere this is Lady Vivenne. She’s the little sister of the arguing idiots,” Britt said, carefully exhaling in an attempt to master her pain.

“A pleasure,” Sir Bedivere said, not paying attention.

“You know, you don’t have to hurry. I’m not going to bleed out. Although my shoulder does feel odd. Did Lancelot dislocate it?” Britt frowned.

“How was I to know my opponent was Arthur? He was wearing a full suit of armor!”

“You shouldn’t have been dishonorable as to attack a man from behind after you clearly lost!” Sir Griflet shouted.

There was another clang as someone else—Griflet probably—tackled Lancelot again.

Britt gasped in pain when Sir Bedivere jostled her as he tried to slide her plackart off.

Lady Vivenne swore most colorfully. “I’ve forgotten my vial of ground ivy. I’ll ride back to the castle—it’s only a few minutes away. I shan’t be long,” the girl said before scrambling away, leaving a cloud of dust.

“Bon Voyage,” Britt said, raising her good arm to swat the air away from her face. “I knew I was right to hate Lancelot. He’s such a slug.”

“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your tongue, My Lord,” Sir Bedivere said, his face gray with anxiety.

“I’m not on my death bed, Sir Bedivere. This hurts about as badly as when I broke my arm as a kid. Ugh, stab wounds. Not fun,” Britt grimaced. “Although it might be worth it. Kay is going to
murder
Lancelot.

Miles away, Sir Kay and Merlin rode together through the Forest of Arroy. Sir Kay abruptly straightened in the saddle and squinted, looking ahead.

“What’s wrong?” Merlin asked, glancing at his taciturn companion.

“I have a bad feeling in my gut,” Sir Kay said.

“About?”

“I feel as if Britt has been hurt.”

Merlin uneasily shifted in his saddle, although he said, “That’s not the worst that could happen. As long as she has Excalibur’s scabbard I expect she’ll be fine. Besides, who is to say your gut is right?”

Sir Kay blinked. “I will track down whoever hurts her,” he said.

“I wouldn’t expect any less of you,” Merlin said, urging his horse forward.