Chapter 6
Negotiating with Hostages
During the preparations for war Britt mostly felt…useless. Sir Kay was busy buying and arranging for provisions for the newly raised army, and was unavailable for swordplay, jousting practice, or their regular afternoon ride. Sir Bodwain and Sir Bedivere organized the troops that poured into Camelot, and Sir Ector was almost always answering a correspondence sent by bird from Merlin, King Ban and King Bors, or any of the other army leaders.
Their departure from Camelot was rather sudden. Sir Ector received an urgent letter from one of the camp leaders, and within the day they were out.
“Can someone please explain to me why we are hurrying like my grandparents when they’re late for a fish fry?” Britt asked, briefly standing up in her stirrups to relieve the strain on her rear.
Roen was a much smoother ride than the bay mare, but Britt still wasn’t accustom to riding for hours.
“It’s military matters, Sire,” Sir Bodwain said.
“Why don’t we just tell the boy? He is King, he should be informed,” Sir Ector argued.
“Arthur is King, but it is Merlin who must make the decisions,” Sir Bodwain said.
Sir Bedivere frowned. “I do not think that is how it is supposed to work.”
“Gentlemen, unless you want me to turn Roen around and ride back to Camelot please inform me what has you all in a tizzy,” Britt warned as her black horse arched his neck and neighed.
“Some of our men have captured Ywain, the heir of King Urien,” Sir Ector said.
Britt briefly pinched the bridge of her nose. “King Urien, he’s Lot’s brother-in-law, yes?”
“Indeed. His wife and Lot’s wife are sisters,” Sir Ulfius carefully said.
“So we’re hurrying to our camp to decide what to do about this Ywain guy?” Britt asked.
“Exactly,” Sir Ector beamed.
“Right. And how many more days do you think we will have to travel to get there?” Britt said.
“It is not a matter of days but a matter of hours. We will arrive shortly before the evening meal, My Lord” Sir Bodwain said.
“Ah. Thank you,” Britt said, nodding to her escort. The knights picked up their conversations of war, and Britt stewed over the unsteady future of young Ywain.
When they arrived the army camp was in an uproar.
“You there, what’s going on here?” Sir Ector demanded, grabbing the shoulder of a knight who was running with a sheathed sword.
“Ywain has gotten loose! We are searching the camp for him,” he said before hustling off.
“He what?” Sir Bodwain bellowed before he followed Sir Bedivere into the thick of the swirling camp.
“Arthur, you had best stay here. This could go badly. Come along, Kay,” Sir Ector said as he grabbed his sword from his horse. The father and son headed around the outskirts of the camp, disappearing from sight in the crush of knights.
Britt glanced at Sir Ulfius, who was frowning at the chaotic mess. “You can go as well, Sir Ulfius.”
“My Lord, it would be irresponsible to leave you alone,” Sir Ulfius gravely said.
Britt laughed. “Are you kidding? I’m at our fortified camp with a couple thousand babysitters at hand.”
“My Lord,” Sir Ulfius said, looking uncomfortable.
Britt sighed as she pulled her helm off her head—one always had to ride responsibly—and shook out her hair. “I won’t tell Merlin if you won’t. Good luck,” she said before nudging Roen forward. “You can find me at the royal tents,” she called over her shoulder, but Sir Ulfius was already gone.
“This Ywain guy must be a ninja. Or Macgyver,” Britt said plunging into the fray. She could see the royal tents off in the distance—it was impossible to miss them. They were ornate and an all around eyesore decorated in gaudy colors and flags. “Say what you will about Merlin, but he spares no expense on my behalf. Uther must have been filthy rich.”
Britt dismounted Roen when she reached her tent and removed her gloves before tightening the leather cord that held her hair back in a half ponytail. She strapped Excalibur to her side and was about to set out in search of water for Roen when she heard a hoarse cry.
“Help!”
Britt tied Roen to a hitching post and hurried to the source of the cry: a small grouping of about 20 to 25 men. She pushed her way to the front of the crowd—some of the knights from London recognized her and stepped aside, bowing as she approached.
At the center of the crowd was a spindly boy who looked no older than sixteen and a well groomed man dressed in an expensive looking suit of armor.
The boy had a dagger at the man’s throat.
“Ywain?” Britt asked the knight closest to her.
“Yes, My Lord,” the knight—one of the London ones—nodded.
“Why is no one approaching him?”