Endeavor (King Arthurs and Her Knights Book 6) (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

The Queen’s Champion

The tournament lasted for hours. There were jousting matches, archery competitions, sword battles, and more.

Colors, coat of arms, and personal symbols paraded past Britt and her dais as the matches progressed. Predictably, Lancelot was at the front of the pack, although Sir Mordred—in a surprise move—trailed closely behind him.

“‘Tis a pity Sir Lanval is too injured to fight,” Guinevere sighed in longing. “He is ever so handsome.”

“Yes, although I am more regretful that Sir Kay nor Sir Bodwain were allowed to enter,” Britt said.

“For the last time: you, nor any of your men—like Sir Ulfius and Sir Bedivere—can enter. The point of the tournament is to find the best
knight
, not the best vassal,” Merlin said.

“Sir Kay is an excellent knight.”

“Sir Kay is your seneschal and does not go questing and adventuring as your knights do. And you cannot fool me; the only reason you wanted Kay or Bodwain to enter is because they would be guaranteed to beat Lancelot in jousting.”

Britt grew misty-eyed. “It would have been a glorious thing, to watch one of them tossing Lancelot from his horse like a ragdoll.”

“You are just as savage as the rest of your subjects,” Merlin muttered.

“I think they are about to begin the last match. Only the brave Sir Lancelot and Sir Mordred remain.” Guinevere leaned forward in glee. “Look how Sir Lancelot’s clear brow gleams in the sun.”

“Because he’s sweating,” Britt said.

Guinevere heaved a sappy sigh. “It’s so heroic.”

Britt was admittedly out of touch with girl-talk—her closest female friends in this time period was the mouthy Lady of the Lake, Nymue, and the war-like enchantress, Morgan. Neither of them took the time to notice Britt’s knights, much less admire them, but Britt couldn’t help but think how bizarre medieval girl-talk was. “Unless, was it always this silly, and I just never noticed?” she muttered as Lancelot—in silver and blue—and Mordred—in black and red—directed their horses to opposite ends of the jousting field.

A herald blew a horn, and the men spurred their horses, driving them forward in a flood of blue and a storm of black. There was a massive crack when they met, but both men stayed in the saddle.

Britt winced in sympathy for Mordred. Lancelot had once unhorsed her with a bone-crunching blow. Mordred had to have a significant amount of strength to ride out the blow and return for a second pass.

The crowd murmured with excitement as the knights lined up at opposite ends of the jousting field, again. The herald sounded his horn a second time, and the horses burst forward. When they met this time, there was a tremendous crack as Lancelot’s lance shattered.

The men returned to their posts, and a squire ran out to deliver a new weapon to Lancelot. The young, charismatic knight flipped up his the visor of his helm to smile at the squire. He took a moment to wave to his supporters—drawing cheers—then flipped his visor back down. In the split second before his face disappeared, Britt could have sworn she saw him frown.

“He’s actually taking this seriously,” Britt said.

“Who, Lancelot? Of course he is. He wouldn’t miss the chance to be titled the best knight of Camelot for all the riches in your courts,” Merlin said.

Guinevere twisted the end of her braid. “Sir Lancelot du Lac is serious in all of his ventures.”

Britt was unconvinced. She had never before seen the knight wear a look of such grim determination. “What is he up to?”

She didn’t wonder long, for the knights spurred their horses forward into another run. There was the familiar crack of the lances hitting shields, and Mordred was thrown from his black steed.

The crowd roared.

“Brave Sir Lancelot!”

“The Greatest Knight of Camelot!”

“Hurrah for Sir Lancelot!”

The field monitors ran to Mordred to see if he was still alive, but he was already peeling himself off the ground. He pulled his helm off and smiled, wincing a bit when a young page helped him stand.

“Well fought, Sir Lancelot. It was an honor to cross lances with you. You, indeed, are the best,” he said, bowing.

Lancelot wrenched his helm off. “You have such valiance, Sir Mordred. The honor was all mine,” he said before undoing the humbleness of his words by riding up and down the field with his right arm raised, gathering cheers and squeals.

“Sir Lancelot!”

“Knight of the Lac!”

“Peerless among knights!”

As Lancelot’s win was not unexpected, Britt had spent hours preparing herself so she could smile at the knight she detested. Watching him, she was glad she had.

When he finally finished bathing in the praise of the crowds, Lancelot approached Britt’s dais and bowed on the back of his horse. “My Lord, King Arthur!”

“Well done, Sir Lancelot du Lac,” Britt said in a voice falsely filled with wonder. “You have proven yourself today, out of those
present
, to be the best knight of Camelot. In honor of your feat, I bequeath you that title.”

“Thank you, My Lord.” Lancelot’s green eyes shone with exuberance.

“He certainly lives for the crowds,” Britt muttered. She cast her eyes to the side and smiled with a little more realness when Mordred, leading his horse, limped up to the podium. “Sir Mordred, well done. You also fought valiantly today. Though you cannot share the title, I must say I am proud and awed by your performance.” Merlin cleared his throat and Britt quickly amended, “
Both
of your performances.”

Mordred bowed. “Thank you, My Lord. It was my honor.”

“I was especially impressed with your swordsmanship, Mordred,” Britt continued, warming up to the subject she was most passionate about. “Your matches were splendid to watch.”

“I thank you for the compliment, My Lord, but I fear I am yet unskilled.” Sir Mordred stroked his horse’s muscled neck.

Merlin shifted closer to Britt—probably so he could be within elbowing range—and frowned. “The boon,” he whispered.

“I’m getting to it,” she hissed. She cleared her throat before continuing, “As Lancelot is the winner of today’s contest of arms, I will—as I promised—grant him a boon. What is it you wish for, Sir Lancelot?”

Lancelot studied Britt for a moment before he smiled—his slick smile that was dangerously close to being a smirk. “I request permission to be the Queen’s Champion.”

Spectators gasped and cheered at the “kindness” of Lancelot’s request. As King Arthur, Britt couldn’t serve as the Queen’s Champion—she didn’t have the time, and it would have opened up political battles. If Lancelot did not know of Britt’s real gender, the action would have only been pompous and politically motivated as there was no queen. But, as he knew Britt was a girl, there was only one way she could interpret his actions.

He was openly asking to be declared
HER
champion, as she was secretly a queen.

“Accept his request, lass,” Merlin whispered.

“You cannot be serious,” Britt hissed.

“You cannot easily deny his request. Accept it, and I will speak with him. In
private
.”

“Why not publically? He deserves to be humiliated,” Britt snarled.

“My Lord?” Lancelot said, his eyes falsely innocent and artless. “Is my request inappropriate?”

“Accept it,” Merlin said.

Britt squared her shoulders and stood. “No, it is only unusual as I don’t even
have
a queen, yet. Trying to get ahead of the competition, Sir Lancelot?” she asked, making a show of smiling at the man—as if she was teasing him.

Lancelot laughed back. “Perhaps, My Lord.”

“Very well. If that is the boon you wish for, you shall have it—though I warn you it will be a
long
wait before your services are ever needed,” Britt said. She hopped off the platform and unsheathed Excalibur as Lancelot slid off his horse. He knelt before her, and she touched Excalibur to his shoulders. “I call you, Sir Lancelot du Lac, the Queen’s Champion!”

As she hoped, the spectators went wild and crazy, so as Britt leaned in—Excalibur weighing heavily on Lancelot’s shoulders—no one heard her whisper, “Step carefully, or the
Queen
will eat you alive.”

Britt made a show of pulling Lancelot into a standing position. “Camelot, I give you your victor!” she said before “playfully” pushing the knight at the roaring crowd.

Ladies squealed and fanned themselves, and children strained on their tip-toes to see the famed knight.

“They do love him,” Sir Mordred said, his words mirroring Britt’s earlier utterances.

“Yeah. You fought well, though, Sir Mordred. I thought you almost had him,” Britt said, turning to the dark-armored knight.

Sir Mordred chuckled. “It was never that close. He hits like a dragon.”

“I was impressed you lasted three rounds. He unhorsed me at two—and he was gentle for the first pass,” Britt said.

“You’ve jousted Sir Lancelot?”

“Yes. He moved to jousting after learning not to test my sword.” She twirled Excalibur then slid it back in its magical scabbard. “It’s a shame King Pellinore couldn’t make it—although I appreciate Percival’s presence. I think Pellinore would have beaten him. Sir Kay and Sir Bodwain, though, could have thrashed him while blindfolded.”

“I have heard of their great prowess on the jousting field. Perhaps I should ask them for pointers.” Sir Mordred’s dimples flashed when he smiled.

Britt—who took great pride in her foster-brother’s abilities, felt highly gratified. “If you can catch Kay when he’s not buried in work, he’s an excellent teacher. He made me into a passable jouster, which I thought was beyond my grasp.”

“Never, My Lord,” Sir Mordred protested. “You are too hard on yourself!”

“You didn’t see what I was like when I first started. I think he would enjoy helping you, particularly as you are already quite skilled.” Britt noticed Merlin staring at her—and Mordred—and gave the wizard a questioning look. He averted his eyes and turned his back to her. She mentally frowned at his odd behavior, but kept her expression pleasant.

“Perhaps, then, I might win next time,” Sir Mordred said. “That is, of course, assuming there will
be
a next time?”

“Count on it,” she emphatically said, wrinkling her nose as she watched Lancelot smile at a court lady, making her swoon. “In fact, if you can take the title of Best Knight at the next tournament, I will forever hold you in high esteem.” As far as Britt was concerned, the sooner Lancelot was pushed from his throne of “Best Knight,” the better.

“Let the mead run think and the wine spill over—the Knights of the Round Table have proved their valor!” Lancelot shouted.

“Hear, Hear!” Sir Percival, King Pellinore’s oldest son, said.

“Drink up!” Lionel—Lancelot’s boisterous cousin—yelled.

Two tables down, a knight tipsily stood on top of a table and recited terrible poetry about Guinevere. Just past Bors, the injured Sir Lanval was already passed out and lay snoozing on the ground.

“I always thought the King made brief appearances at our celebration before leaving because he was too busy.” Bors contemplated his goblet of wine. “Now I know better.”

“This drunken display is enough to make anyone hiding a secret as she did nervous,” Lancelot said. “There’s no telling what drunkards would do.”

In spite of his words, it had not escaped Lancelot’s notice that barely a word was uttered over their King, and whenever someone mentioned her, they were careful to use her title only—never her name or gender.

“It seems I am not the only one with their eye on our little King,” Lancelot said.

“Little?” Lionel snorted. “Our King may be slight, but she’s as little as Kay is talkative. Speaking of which, what was this afternoon about? The Queen’s Champion?
You
? You’re as faithful as stallion!”

Lancelot frowned. “I am loyal to those I choose to serve.”

Lionel swatted the air. “Of course—until you change your mind.”