Endeavor (King Arthurs and Her Knights Book 6) (7 page)

“Yes, this way. I suspect we will find the shield—and the hermit—in the abbey sanctuary.” Mordred led the way into the abbey.

They passed through the entrance—Britt gawked like a child—and made their way into the sanctuary, their footsteps shattering the reverent quiet of the place.

The sanctuary was similar to the cathedral Merlin had built in Camelot. Windows lit the room and the vaulted ceiling, and wooden pews filled the floor, leading the way straight up to a stone altar.

After seeing the splendid abbey, Britt had high hopes. These high hopes were dashed when she set eyes on the shield propped against the altar. “I’m pretty sure an assistant blacksmith at Camelot can make a better shield,” she murmured to Mordred.

The shield was too big to use with the sword or lance, and while the red cross on the white background was striking, it was all too clear that it was cheaply made, for some of the paint had been scratched off—most likely from previous skirmishes with the White Knight (a.k.a. King Pellinore).

“Perhaps it is supposed to be symbolic rather than useful,” Mordred suggested.

“You’re being generous. I like my red dragon shield Merlin has bolted to the walls of Camelot much more,” Britt said. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re only here to grab the shield so we can summon Pellinore.”

“You are so certain it is your ally?” Mordred asked as Britt approached the altar.

“Oh, yes. Believe me, if there is any kind of knight attacking people with or for shields, it’s Pellinore,” Britt snorted. She picked up the shield and whirled around, her muscles tensed.

“I think we have to take the shield from the abbey before the white knight will attack,” Mordred said after several moments of silence.

Britt awkwardly laughed. “Ah, yes. I think you’re right—Griflet said something about that, too. Let’s go, then.” She hefted the shield and started down the aisle, pushing the doors open when she reached the entrance. She was so intent, she almost walked straight into a tall, sturdy man.

“Careful, there,” the man said, reaching out to steady her. Instead of wearing brown robes—like the stereotypical hermit—he wore a bright blue tunic, and his hair and beard were trimmed and combed. “Why, if it isn’t—”

“Arthur!” Britt was quick to say when she realized she knew him. “Blaise, I’m glad to see you again!”

Blaise was Merlin’s mentor—who happened to have a great sense of humor and possessed hundreds of stories about Merlin’s unruly childhood.

“My Lord, Sir Kay gave me specific instructions that you were to use the name of Sir Galahad,” Mordred said, one corner of his lips tightening with worry.

“It’s fine, Sir Mordred; he already knows me. This man is Blaise—Merlin’s mentor. Blaise, this is Sir Mordred—one of my knights.”

Sir Mordred bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”

Blaise whistled. “Nice manners—I hope Merlin spends time with you. You could teach him a thing or two. That boy has the etiquette of a giant.”

“He can be welcoming when he sees a direct benefit,” Britt dryly said.

“Ah, there is that.”

“Forgive my nosiness, but why are you here, Blaise? Have you moved?” Britt asked.

“Goodness, no. I love my home too much. No, a friend of mine is the keeper of this place, but he set out on a pilgrimage in spring. I promised him I would look after it for him. Speaking of which, Welcome to the Abbey of the Crimson Cross. I see you have already encountered the Abbey’s holy treasure.”

“Yes, sorry. We’ve got to borrow it.” Britt awkwardly shifted in place.

“We’re looking for the White Knight,” Mordred added.

“You’ll find him, then. I have no idea who the man is or where he stays, but he’s never failed to bring the shield back. I expect that will change with you two here.” Blaise smiled.

“We’re not interested in keeping the shield. It’s…nothing against the shield; it is just the knight we want. Whether or not we beat him, we’ll bring it back,” Britt said.

“It is fairly useless thing,” Blaise said, cheerfully cutting to the truth. “But I’m sorry to say, if you beat the man you’ve got to keep the shield.”

“Even if we don’t desire it?” Sir Mordred asked.

“It’s the reason why the abbey has the shield—to find someone worthy of it,” Blaise said. “Either way, the knight won’t attack you until you leave abbey lands—be sure to strap on your helm, Arthur. Merlin would foam at the mouth if you went into battle ill-prepared.”

“I know. Thank you for your help, Blaise.”

“Of course. But Arthur, could we speak for a moment?”

“I’ll attach the shield to Roen.” Mordred gently took the shield from Britt’s grasp.

“Are you sure you don’t want to carry it?” Britt asked.

“I am certain.” Mordred smiled and strode out to the courtyard where their horses waited.

“So, what’s on your mind, Blaise?” she asked.

“How is your relationship with Merlin?” Blaise asked.

Britt nodded as she listened to his words and paused to let the meaning sink in before she said, “
What?
”

“Your relationship with Merlin. He said you fought last year over your feelings.”

Britt groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Did the idiot tell you
everything
? I’ll have him stabbed!”

“Try to see it from his point of view—he’s lost. He’s never encountered something like this before,” Blaise said, his voice soothing.

Britt glared at the hermit, unmoved.

“He also,” Blaise said in a nonchalant, conversational tone, “is quite stupid when it comes to relationships.”

Britt cracked a smile. “What are you getting at, Blaise?”

“Nothing. I was merely wondering if you two had returned to normal.”

Britt sighed and turned so she could watch Mordred prepare their mounts. “It has gotten better,” she said. “Things aren’t quite so…tense.”

“I see. That’s disappointing of him,” Blaise said.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I will let you set out on your quest, but, Britt…?”

“Yes?”

“Merlin has never been good at discussing matters of the heart, and while he may be a prodigy at magic and among the most clever and learned men alive, in the realm of the heart he is as apt as Sir Lancelot is humble.”

“Now you’re speaking my language. But I want to cut you off before you get any strange ideas: Merlin has no romantic intensions towards me.”

Blaise tapped his chin. “I don’t think he knows what romantic intensions look like—the Good Lord knows I never modeled it for him. But please, don’t give up on him. I must tell you that he has great affection for you.”

His words made her brighten for a moment, but she savagely silenced the hope.
No. Affection could mean anything, and Merlin doesn’t look at me that way.
She forced a look of peace upon her face. “Why are we discussing this?”

“Because Merlin and I might not be related by blood, but he is still my son, and I love him dearly—even when he’s acting like a thick-headed dunce who doesn’t know what he wants, what he
needs
. Now, I had best send you on your way. Your companion looks ready to leave.”

“Yes. Thank you, Blaise.” She was eager to abandon the conversation, which was swiftly becoming uncomfortable. She waved to Blaise as she strode into the courtyard, then mounted Roen and nodded to the hermit. “I hope to see you again, soon.”

“As do I. Godspeed, Arthur, Sir Mordred.”

Mordred inclined his head in acknowledgement and wheeled his horse around. “We thank you, sir.”

“Goodbye, Blaise,” Britt called over her shoulder. She cast a look at the shield—which hung over Roen’s rump—and sighed. “Let’s go find Pellinore, shall we?”

“As you wish, My Lord.”

Britt and Mordred rode in companionable silence for twenty minutes before a knight in white armor crashed onto the path in front of them. His horse was dapple gray with white tack.

“Hail, Sir Knight,” the white knight said, using his horse to block their way. “Was it you who tooketh the shield—though the hermit at the abbey said not to?”

Britt—her helm already secured in place—scowled at the knight through the slits of her visor. “You’re the White Knight?”

“I have been called that.”

“
Pellinore
! You have got to get over your obsession of using shields to incite fights!” Britt seethed as she climbed down from Roen.

“I beg your pardon?” the White Knight said.

Britt stalked up to the White Knight, ignoring the unsheathed sword he held. “Get down, or so help me, I will drag you off that horse myself. Does your wife know you’re doing this?”

“I am not this Pellinore you speak of,” the White Knight said. His horse snapped at her, but she ignored it. Pellinore wouldn’t let her get hurt.

“Likely story.” She grabbed the knight’s arm and yanked, hard. He fell down with a clatter.

“You, Sir Knight, have acted without honor,” the knight wheezed, his tinny voice echoing in his helm.

“So you still want to fight?” Britt asked. She would have placed her hands on her hips if Mordred hadn’t been there.

“Of course. You have dishonored me! I must punish you,” the White Knight said.

“Fine. Let’s fight,” she said, unsurprised by his stubbornness. Pellinore loved a good fight—regardless of whether he won or lost.

The White Knight stood in a basic defense stance. Britt gave him a moment before she descended upon him, moving like lightning.

She opened with a thrust to his left shoulder—which he blocked—and struck his right side with her knee. As he was protected by padding, the knee didn’t hurt him, but it made him stagger back. This surprised her—Pellinore always had a great stance and usually wouldn’t be moved so easily.

The knight managed to shove her away from him, but he barely had enough time to block her strike against his right side—leaving his left side completely open, which Britt kneed. Again, the knight staggered backwards.

Britt pulled back in temporary confusion. What was going on? King Pellinore was an excellent swordsman, but now he was fighting closer to Ywain’s level—good, but sloppy.

“You really aren’t Pellinore, are you?” she asked.

The White Knight raised his sword to chop at Britt’s neck—the stupidest attack you could level against someone
waiting
for you to strike. Britt parried—their swords clashing between them—before she angled her sword down, turning her parry into a strike at the knight’s open stomach.

The knight jumped backwards, but he still didn’t learn his lesson. This time, he chopped his sword at Britt’s left side. Britt used Excalibur’s hilt to block the blow. She placed her palm on the back of her sword and—using Excalibur like a lever and a bat—slammed the blade into her opponent’s helm.

He staggered backwards, and Britt followed up this time, braining him in the same spot with Excalibur’s hilt, and then slamming him with her shoulder.

He went down like a tree, and Britt kicked his sword away. She leaned over, flicked the visor of his helm up, and declared, “I have
no
idea who you are.”

Mordred, still mounted on his horse, politely looked away and tried to muffle his laughter.

The White Knight was young—perhaps a little older than Griflet—and bore no resemblance to King Pellinore. Now that she studied him, he was much more slender in the shoulders, and not nearly as tall. He stared up at Britt with wide eyes. “You are the chosen-one, the knight destined to own the shield,” he said, his voice awed.

“No, I’m not.” Britt backed up and sheathed Excalibur. “I apologize; I attacked you on false terms. I thought you were someone else. Here, let me get the shield for you.”

“Oh, no! You must keep it! My family has guarded it for three generations, waiting for the day a worthy knight would arrive.” the knight shook his head. “May I ask who you are?”

“Sir Galahad,” Britt said. “Look, I don’t think you get it. I’m not really after the shield. I only grabbed it because I thought you were a friend of mine—although in my defense, I’ve never heard of anyone besides Pellinore fighting a man over a shield.”