Endeavor (King Arthurs and Her Knights Book 6) (4 page)

Lancelot smiled so hard his teeth ached. “Naturally. Here, have some more wine, cousin.”

“Thank you.” Lionel chugged the drink after Lancelot topped off his goblet.

Lancelot glanced at his younger cousin, surprised by his narrowed eyes. “What is it?” he asked, fixing a look of good will upon his features.

“Nothing. Just thinking,” Bors said.

“That’s no good. We’re not supposed to think tonight. Instead,
we drink
!” Lancelot shouted, emptying a pitcher of wine into Bors’ goblet.

The rest of the knights roared their approval.

An hour later, all of the men—even stuffy Bors—were completely drunk. “My Lord is going to
kill
us,” Bors said, barely able to keep his head upright.

“Let ‘er try. I ain’t afraid of no woman,” Lionel slurred.

“Then you don’t know our Dragon King,” Sir Safir—who showed a surprisingly high tolerance level for a man who commonly played the harp—snorted.

“Killing us would be a kindness. My head already aches,” another knight bemoaned.

“Here’s an idea,” Lancelot said, standing. He made a show of tottering for a few steps. “Why don’t we make an
order,
the Order of Queen’s Knights?”

“Eh? What?”

“Why would we do a
stupid
thing like that?” another knight said, his voice unnaturally high from the abundance of alcohol. “Our King…Queen? Eh, that woman’s first act would be to slaughter us all and have us buried.”

“Only if she got to us afore Merlin found out,” another knight added. “If we make an order for a queen the public don’t know we have…it’ll raise a few questions. Merlin
hates
questions.”

Lancelot stepped in before the knights could out-logic themselves of the idea. “Even if we call her our King and serve her as we would serve a King, she is still a woman,” he said. “She delights our souls the way only a woman can. She knows the best and worst of us, and she still sees worth in us. No man could do that—least, I don’t for all of you,” Lancelot said, getting the desired laughter.

“She makes enormous demands,” Sir Agravain said, slumped on a bench. “But she is loyal and looks at a person like, like…”

“Like she believes in you, like she can see straight into your heart and knows that you’re strong and valiant.”

Lancelot froze for a moment—the voice sounded too terribly much like Sir Mordred’s, whom he had worked hard to lead out of the gathering so he could prod this conversation. Thankfully, it seemed Sir Percival was the one who said such a surprisingly astute observation.

“That’s what makes her great,” Sir Bedivere said—the only one of Britt’s officials present, thank goodness. Kay would kill him before the King would. “She’s not like other women, who lose faith in you the moment you lose a match or commit a sin. She trusts in your goodness and strength.”

Lancelot moved in for the kill. “And she would have us think—no—
Merlin
would have us think her strength is boundless. Yet, she is but one person, and times have changed. We ride out and leave her, for the good of the kingdom. But what about
her
? Can’t we be knights errant
and
our sovereign’s protectors?”

“Yeah!”

“Can’t we?”

“Hear, hear!”

“Then let those of us present take a vow to protect our King,” Lancelot declared.

“Hurrah!”

In minutes, the Queen’s Knights were formed, the oaths—predetermined by Lancelot—were taken, and the celebration was back in full swing. Not all the knights present took the oath, and there were a few that
had
taken the oath that he intended to expel. But there was no need to worry about it tonight. The order was just another way to try and move the King.

She is so untrusting!
Lancelot thought. Ever since King Arthur revealed she was really Queen Britt, Lancelot had shifted goals. After all, how much fun would it be to have the
High King of Britain
calf-eyed over him! There were a few problems with this plan. Foremost, the disgustingly honorable girl appeared to like him the least out of all her knights, even though he was the greatest. Secondly, Lancelot was starting to suspect that King
Britt
was not the type of woman to get calf-eyed and stupid when she was in love. Which was quite unfortunate.

“I wonder what she
would
look like, if she were to fall in love,” Lancelot murmured.

Lionel dragged his attention from his cup. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Lancelot said. He leaned back in his chair, mulling over the idea. Though she looked at each of her knights as if he was a dragon-slayer, no one would be so stupid as to think she actually fancied any of them. She was warm to all of her men—exceedingly so to her pets like Gawain and Ywain—but she didn’t look like a woman in love, just as her knights did not look at her with any unholy thoughts.

What about Merlin? She does not look at him the way she looks at any of us
. The thought wiggled in the back of Lancelot’s mind, and though his first impulse was to mercilessly crush it—who, after all, would pass
him
by in exchange for Merlin, the crackpot wizard?—he thought it over.

It was no secret Britt and Merlin had a big fight in the summer of the previous year. Although they were on good terms, things had been stilted between them for months.
But.
There was the way she looked at him. Her soul—vulnerable and fragile—glimmered in her eyes. She was hesitant to reach out and touch her advisor, and while their smiles were frequent, shared laughter was not often present.

Britt, our High King, is in love with Merlin.

Lancelot narrowed his eyes as he considered the idea, and decided it was the most realistic.
He must have rejected her, for he knows it as well.

Neither observation afforded Lancelot pleasure. What the King saw in Merlin was a mystery to Lancelot, but the bigger mystery was Merlin’s rejection. One would think he would encourage her feelings—if only to make her more malleable. But looking past plots and politics, Britt had her knights and relationships. Merlin had…Britt. Although he had the loyalty of thousands, he had the heart of none.
None except for Britt’s, that is.

“Why the gloomy face, Sir Lancelot?” Sir Percival—one of the milder drinkers—sat down next to him. “It is your night! You are the Best Knight of Camelot, the Queen’s Champion—sly move, by the by—and the founder of the Queen’s Knights. You have done well! I especially admired your match against Sir Mordred.”

“Yes, Sir Mordred is a jouster of high caliber,” Lancelot said, absent-mindedly rubbing his aching shoulder. The knight had hit him with the force of a rampaging boar. “I saw your match against Sir Agravain. Your stance was impeccable.”

“Thank you—though I must admit, Agravain was much better than I thought he would be, given he is a knight of but a few weeks,” Sir Percival said.

“I expect you have his teachers to thank. Before he served as Gawain’s squire, he spent hours on the jousting fields with King Arthur, watching her, Sir Kay, and Sir Bodwain. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Trains like a madman.”

“Agravain?”

“No, our King.” Sir Percival paused to take a drink and licked his lips. “Have you seen her—practicing with Excalibur on the walls of Camelot in the late night hours?”

“Yes,” Lancelot said, keeping his expression hooded.

“I’ve talked with Sir Gawain in between his quests and defense as the Ladies’ Knight. He said it’s when her demons plague her.”

“I see,” Lancelot said, employing all of his strength to keep a smile off his face. He often wondered what kept the King up at the late hours. Her emotional scars, was it?
Perhaps I have been going about this all wrong…

CHAPTER 4

Reassurances & Arrivals

Early the next morning, Britt sat on her cushioned throne in the beautiful throne room of Camelot. The morning sunlight trickled in through the windows, making her armored—bowing—knights glitter. Birds sang outside, and the blue sky seemed especially brilliant and glorious.

Britt, however, was so enraged she couldn’t speak. She had a stranglehold on her tankard of juice, and dug the nails of her other hand into the arms of her wooden throne. She was so furious, she shook.

Cavall, sitting at her side, whined and leaned away.

“You did
what
?” Britt hissed.

Lancelot puffed his chest up with pride. “We founded the Order of the Queen’s Knights.”

“We?” Britt inquired, her tone mild.

“Well, it was
my
idea,” he preened.

Someone banged on the shut doors. “Arthur—I know who you’ve got in there. Open these doors!” Merlin shouted.

The guards stationed at the door moved to let the wizard in.

“DON’T!” Britt thundered. She rocketed out of her chair, and jabbed her finger at the door while giving the one-word order.

The guards shifted back into place, their mouths grim lines.

Britt rested her hand on Excalibur’s pommel as she went down the few stairs of the dais on which her throne was perched. “Merlin’s attempts to rein you in obviously have not worked. It is now my turn,” she said. Her gold armor clanked, and her red cloak swirled behind her.

The knights swapped worried looks—Britt was surprised to see Sir Percival and Sir Agravain among them—but Britt made a beeline for the smug Lancelot.

“In case you have forgotten,
Champion
, my identity is still a secret. Only my valiant Knights of the Round Table and my hand-picked personal guards know that I am really a woman. No one else in Camelot knows, nor do the rest of my subjects, allies, vassals, or enemies. When I was placed back on the throne, you—along with every man in this room—took a vow to protect my secret with your
life
.” Britt glared into Lancelot’s green eyes.

“Arthur, stop this at once and open the door!” Merlin shouted again.

“As it stands, you have done a
horrible
job of standing true to your vow.” Britt spoke in a tone of frosted fire.

“
Arthur
! If you kill him, I will make your life a misery! Guards, open this blasted door!”

“I apologize if you find my conduct worrisome, My Lord. I only have your best interests in mind,” Lancelot said.

Britt opened her mouth to reply, but she was shocked when someone released a happy sigh. She twisted on her heels, her lips slightly downturned as she looked—with eyes as hard as granite—at Sir Bedivere. “What.”

“T’is nothing, My Lord, I apologize for interrupting you,” Sir Bedivere said.

“No. You sighed. In happiness. What is it?”

“It’s only that, even though you are a woman, you are still our Dragon King.”

“Our Elf King,” another knight added.

She turned, sweeping her eyes across her gathered knights. “I don’t understand.”

Agravain bowed. “I believe the idea, My Lord, is that although you are a woman, you are still the fierce being we know you to be.”

“Aye,” Sir Safir said. “I saw that enraged look in your eyes when you faced down Urien with the wrath of an ageless elf.”

“ARTHUR!” Merlin howled and banged on the door some more.

“I see. Thank you, I think,” Britt awkwardly said. She turned back to Lancelot with renewed vengeance. “But
you
—”

“While I do not regret creating the Queen’s Knights—for you are worthy of such honor, My Lord—I will say in the…state I was in, I perhaps was not at my clearest,” Lancelot said.

“You were drunk,” Britt said. It wasn’t a guess, but a fact. The knights’ haggard appearances were a big enough tip-off, but she had known last night that
Lancelot
had plans for a party that would put a twenty-first century fraternity houses to shame.

“I was,” Lancelot said, sounding pious as he tipped his head. “I apologize for my excessive indulgence, but I shall endeavor to make amends and regain your favor.”

“You never
had
my favor to begin with.”

“Arthur, if you do not open this door, I will blast it to bits!” Merlin shouted.

“Steady,” Britt said to her guards.

“If that is so, then I have an even greater vested interest in my mission,” Lancelot said.

“You expect me to believe that sending you out questing is a
punishment
to you?” She asked, raising one eyebrow.

Lancelot bowed his head.

“I don’t buy it,” Britt said.

“My Lord?” Lancelot forehead wrinkled.

“On the count of three!” Merlin warned.

Britt smiled—a barely-there curve of her lips. “Here is my judgment. If your actions and attitude haven’t altered by the time you return to Camelot after an appropriate amount of questing, you will forfeit the title of Queen’s Champion.”

Several knights gasped, but Lancelot did not look surprised.

“One!” Merlin shouted.

“As you wish, My King.” Lancelot accented his words with a polished bow.

“Two!”

Britt pointed to the door. “Guards,” she said.

“Three!”

With great relief, the guards hauled the doors open, revealing Merlin, holding a ball of fire in his palm.

“I shall begin my journey immediately,” Lancelot said. He bowed to her, then strode from the room, smiling at a confused Merlin as he passed him in the doorway.

Merlin frowned and watched the handsome knight leave. “He’s not maimed. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing...yet.” Britt turned her attention to the rest of her knights. “I release you from my presence, though you should know I am still angry with this development. I suggest you all see the cook in the kitchens. She has a draught to help cure hangovers.”

“You do not wish to punish us, My Lord?” Agravain asked.

Britt wanted to shout and lecture them, but she knew they would react poorly to such a chastisement, so instead she gave them her best verbal punch. “No.” She smiled with all the tranquility she could muster. “I am filled with grave disappointment over your conduct, but I
trust
you—as I always have. I do hope you will act with greater wisdom next time, wisdom I
know
you possess.”

The knights winced and exchanged guilty glances. “My Lord,” they murmured before they left the room in a massive herd.

“What did you do to them?” Merlin asked when they all left. “I haven’t seen them so at ease in your presence since the reveal.”

Britt shrugged. “I was furious. It seemed to make them feel better.”

“Ahhh, I think I understand. It assured them you are the same person.” Merlin folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

“So they said, but I still don’t get it. No matter; the issue has been resolved, and Lancelot is going to go questing for a while—months, I hope. It has been a good morning.” She slapped her thighs. “Cavall, come!”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Merlin trailed after her with her guard dog.

“Riding with Sir Ector.”

“We have Ireland to think of.”

“And my foster-father leaves tomorrow for the rest of the summer. I’m spending time with him.”

The wizard sighed. “It is understandable, I suppose. But I want to see you in my study this evening.”

“As you wish,” Britt said. When she left Merlin in the corridor, she was already planning ways she could derail the inevitable conversation of invading Ireland.

“Rudolph, come on. There’s better grazing up ahead.” Britt tugged on the rope tied to the white stag’s red halter. Rudolph followed behind her like a dog, wiggling his white tail. They stopped at a patch of wildflowers—the deer’s favorite food—and Britt settled in, patting her giant pet’s back with an absent-minded fondness.

Behind her, Camelot rose up—a picture-perfect fortification of stone walls and towers, surrounded by forest. The Forest of Arroy circled around the castle in a horseshoe shape, and Britt and her companions were picking their way to the open plains at Camelot’s flank—where there was rich farmland and, most importantly, an abundance of wildflowers.

The sky was heavy with smoke-gray clouds, but Merlin insisted it wouldn’t rain. His faith in his weather-telling skills was obvious, as he carried rolls of parchment. At the moment, he brandished a rolled-up map and muttered under his breath as he poked around the grassland. He squinted out at the farmland, compared it to his map, and muttered incessantly.

Past him, Kay strolled with Morgan. It was a surprising pair, but as the grave seneschal and the beautiful sorceress strolled, Morgan laughed, and Kay’s mustache twitched—which was his equivalent of a smile.

Are they friends? Morgan has never seemed particularly close with Kay…have they united under their mutual distaste for Merlin?

“Do you graze your white hart often, My Lord?” Mordred asked, drawing Britt’s attention from the unlikely pair.

“No, there’s a stable boy who is assigned the duty. But as Gawain went through a great deal of trouble to procure Rudolph for me, I feel I need to be a halfway decent pet owner,” Britt said, scratching the animal’s shoulders.

Rudolph rewarded her by smearing a plant across her golden curiass. “Not that he seems to care,” She muttered as she wiped plant residue off her chest.

“I had heard much of you before I arrived in Camelot.” Mordred seated himself on a large boulder and offered her a smile charming enough to spatter on a magazine cover in modern America. “I must confess, you are not what I expected.”

Britt tilted her head, trying to get a gauge on him. “Oh? What did you think I would be—a noble man with great bearings?” She asked, jealously thinking of King Pellinore, who oozed nobility from every pore.

“You
are
a noble man, and your presence cannot be summarized with the mere word ‘great,’” Mordred said.

She snorted in disbelief and followed Rudolph as he moved closer to Mordred.

“It’s not just you, but your court and subjects as well. You rule over the cleanest castle-folk I have ever set eyes on.”

“It’s the public baths,” Britt said.

“I heard the Romans had such things. It’s a brilliant plan,” he said. “Especially for one so young.”

“What?” Britt frowned.

“I thought you were only seventeen or eighteen—am I mistaken?”

“Nooo,” Britt said, dragging out the o. Although she had graduated college, Merlin insisted Britt say she was fifteen when she was crowned King of England.

“Fascinating,” Mordred said.

“In what way is my age fascinating?”

Mordred leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “Your age was not particularly what I was thinking of. It is more the air in which you carry yourself. I heard much about you from a dear friend. He boasted in particular that you were able to win the hearts and loyalty of your knights. I doubted him, but I must confess he spoke the truth.”

“What is the name of this friend of yours?” Britt asked, wondering if she would for once be able to out maneuver Merlin and find out Mordred’s political connections before the wizard did.

Mordred smiled—it was small, as if he knew a good joke but couldn’t find the right moment to share it. “He does not know you well, but he has spoken often with Sir Ector, who is very vocal—and rightly so—of your praises.”

“If your friend’s source is Sir Ector, I’m afraid I will be a bitter disappointment,” Britt laughed. “Sir Ector has a parent’s pride.”

“Perhaps, but I came here to weigh your character. I have found Sir Ector’s portrayal of you to be perhaps not entirely accurate, but faithful.”

Britt would have questioned him further, but at that moment someone called out, “My Lord!”