Britt dusted horse hair off her tunic. “Always the charmer aren’t you? But who cares when the trial starts? I’m only needed for the last few minutes, and it’s just going to end with scheduling another.”
“No, it will not. Brice—the Archbishop—has decided enough is enough. He is going to crown you today regardless of the dissatisfaction King Lot and his conspirators. Come lad, you need to be properly dressed.”
“What?”
“You need to be properly dressed! You look more like a pig keeper than a king.”
“No, before that. I’m going to be crowned King? Today?”
“I do not understand your shock. That has been our goal all along, now stop yapping and start moving. Thank you, Sir Kay, for staying with Arthur,” Merlin said as he dragged Britt out of the stables.
Sir Kay shrugged and his horse neighed.
Britt leaned against a doorway as she watched man after man pull and yank on the sword in the anvil. More than one older baron had thrown out his back during his attempt, and watching the knights strain was an easier task than listening to Merlin and his cohorts battle it out behind her.
“We need to press Arthur’s heritage. He’s the son of Uther Pendragon, he’s the rightful heir to the throne,” Sir Ulfius said.
“A royal pedigree means very little to the general population. They will follow anyone who is charismatic and offers them protection. We should show our support of Arthur the instant he pulls the sword from the stone and the people will follow our lead,” Sir Bodwain argued.
“Pulling the sword from the stone is a miracle. No one besides Arthur can pull it, let us use the sword as our rallying cry,” another knight said.
“That won’t work. He is generally unimpressive to look at. Certainly he’s tall enough, but he hasn’t so much as a spot of fuzz on his chin. In spite of Merlin’s best efforts he still looks like a girl. Not to mention he hasn’t a spine to speak of, he shows no ambition, and his leadership skills are woefully absent,” another knight challenged.
Britt yawned—she had grown use to the arguments and abuse concerning her looks—but turned around, shocked, when she heard Sir Ector growl, “My Britt has plenty pluck, it cannot be helped that you don’t understand that, you great gaping fool!”
Merlin patted Sir Ector on the shoulder. “His name is Arthur,” he reminded him as he passed them, his voice light in spite of the argument.
The knights spared Merlin a glance before they continued to argue the best strategy to rally people behind Britt during her crowning ceremony.
“Aren’t you going to join in?” Britt asked Merlin when he joined her at the open door.
“And ruin their fun? Goodness, no,” Merlin said, adjusting the fall of his storm colored robe on his shoulders.
“You usually run these types of conversations with an iron fist, though. Anything that has to do with my rule you become a bulldog over,” Britt said.
“A bulldog? What a hideous image. And no, I intend to leave the knights be for several reasons. The foremost being that it will keep them occupied.”
“Oh? Aren’t you worried about getting the peasants to like me?” Britt asked.
“No, not at all,” Merlin shook his head.
“Why not?”
“We have no reason to court them because, as I have previously mentioned, they’re already in love with you. Now, the moment is here. Come, it’s your chance to pull the sword from the stone,” Merlin said, stepping into the cemetery.
“But shouldn’t we—?” Britt trailed off and pointed over her shoulder where all the knights (excluding Sir Kay) were still arguing.
“Nay. They’ll merely get in our way. Come along, Arthur,” Merlin said, pushing his way through the crowded cemetery.
Britt reluctantly followed, lingering at Merlin’s elbow when he reached the sword in the stone, cutting in line. “Archbishop,” Merlin boomed. “Today marks the fourth trial, the fourth day men have come from near and far to pull the sword from the stone. For the three trials before this Arthur has been the only one to pull and sheathe the sword in the stone. Do we let him try again today?”
The peasants who were swarming in the streets, barely able to see the trial taking place in the cemetery but waiting none the less, clamored over each other.
“Yes, let Arthur try!”
“Give him a chance!”
“Arthur!”
“Let Arthur pull the sword!”
The Archbishop stood up—his chair had wisely been brought out of St. Paul’s Cathedral for the day—and held up his hands, quieting the commoners. “Please, Arthur, do try,” the Archbishop kindly said.
Britt exhaled as Merlin edged aside, clearing her way to the sword. The feeling of power and magic still oozed off the sword, but it no longer impressed Britt as it once had. She had been forced to watch too many trials and act like a performing monkey to be intimidated anymore.