Sir Bedivere, who was with him, looked curiously at Sir Bodwain. The knight still did not know the truth of Britt’s gender and identity, so he was not surprised and dazed like Sir Bodwain, but instead was approving. “I’ll do it,” he volunteered when Sir Bodwain did nothing but gawk at Britt.
“Escort him nowhere. I say we cut off his head right now and send it to his father. He attacked King Ban and King Arthur. He deserves death,” a knight Britt recognized from the Pentecost feast darkly said.
“No,” Britt said, glancing down at Ywain who was now ashen. “Killing him would only further enrage Urien. He lives.”
“For now,” Sir Bedivere muttered, kneeling next to Ywain. “One move, boy, and you will find yourself singing with angels,” he said as Britt took several steps back, allowing the knight to haul Ywain to his feet. Sir Bedivere held a dagger to the boy’s back. “Will someone show me where we’ve been holding him?”
“This way,” a knight said as the crowd began to disperse.
“King Arthur?”
Britt turned when she heard herself addressed, and came face to face with King Ban. “King Ban?” she said.
He nodded. “It is an honor to meet you. I must thank you for your interference,” he said, gesturing behind him to the location of the scene.
“No, it is I who must thank you,” Britt said—speaking carefully. Merlin had warned her to curb her twenty first century language around the kings, who were more likely to judge her than her knights. “Your willingness to be my ally has brought me great hope.”
“You are skilled with the sword,” King Ban said, shaking his head. “I have never seen a warrior strike quite like that. You completely overwhelmed your opponent.”
Britt shrugged and slid Excalibur into its scabbard. “Not really. I am taller than Ywain, giving me a longer reach. Plus he is little more than a boy, green and inexperienced.”
“I was told you are 15?” King Ban asked.
Britt hesitatingly nodded. (The age thing was still a sore spot.) “I am.”
“That boy is 17, two years older than you. You call him inexperienced?” King Ban asked with a raised brow.
Britt froze, caught in the trap for a moment before she shrugged. “I was born with a sword in my hand, I suppose. I’m not afraid to admit that while I excel at the sword, the remaining knightly arts elude me,” she smiled.
King Ban chuckled. “I have son who is a number of years older than you. I hope one day you meet. I am sure you would get along splendidly.”
“He remained in your lands across the sea?”
“No. I believe he is somewhere here in Britain. He is something of a knight errant,” King Ban smiled.
“I see. Perhaps I will indeed make his acquaintance if that is the case. Tell me, King Ban, do you know where I could procure some water for my mount and I? We traveled hard today and I’m dead th—and I am rather parched,” Britt corrected herself.
“Of course, of course. This way, I would be honored to be your guide,” Kin Ban smiled.
Ywain’s fate was not resolved until Merlin arrived at the camp a week later—gleeful and joyous that he had been able to smuggle 10,000 mounted soldiers through Britain without alerting King Lot.
Britt spent most of the week with King Ban and his brother-in-law, King Bors. (Once again a set of kings related by their wives. Britt had to wonder if all royal consorts traditionally came from one or two big families, or if coincidences were commonplace in the time of fairies and magical swords.)
King Bors was a big, gruff man with enough hair to make a monkey green with envy. He laughed easily, was generally good tempered, and he swung his sword with purpose and great experience.
Britt, Ban, and Bors frittered away most of the day inspecting troops—a tireless, endless process in Britt’s estimation. Usually one of Britt’s regular babysitters accompanied them, most often it was Sir Bedivere, but Sir Bodwain and Sir Ector took a turn as well.
When Merlin finally did arrive Ywain was not discussed at length until the follow day.
“We should have him executed,” King Ban stiffly said. (He still hadn’t forgiven the boy for the hostage thing.)
“It would certainly send a message to our opponents, but I’m not sure if it is the kind of message we truly want to present,” Sir Ector frowned.
“Ransom him. He is his father’s heir. Urien would pay handsomely to see him returned to his care,” Sir Ulfius suggested.
“Better yet, cripple ‘im first and then ransom him. A cripple king won’t cause many skirmishes further down the road,” King Bors said, his great mass perched on a stool as he poked a stick in the cooking fire.
Britt, sitting in an arm chair Merlin had summoned from goodness knows where, rested her left cheek on her left hand.
“King Urien is King Lot’s strongest ally. It is doubtful that his son’s death would cow him,” Merlin said, his eyes fastened on Britt.
“I wasn’t suggesting he be executed for Urien. It should be a natural result for attacking a king, much less two kings,” Ban sniffed.