“No, they are speaking English, admittedly with a very thick accent. I wonder…,” Merlin said before plucking a book from his bookshelf. He paged through it for a few minutes, his eyes tracing letters as Britt closed her eyes and relaxed in the warm room.
“Ah-hah. Here is the problem,” Merlin finally declared, pointing to a passage in his book. “It is the spell I used to bring you back through time. I knew there was a good possibility we may end up with a foreigner king, and it would do no good to have a worthy king if he couldn’t understand what we were saying. Keeping this in mind I added a portion to the spell which I borrowed from an ancient faerie magic which would enlighten whomever I brought back to understand my language. I never thought to include any provision for accents. Gawain and his brothers are speaking English, but their pronunciation is horrible. It is likely that their accents have kept the spell from working.”
“If it’s just a matter of accents why can I understand Morgause perfectly?” Britt asked.
“Morgause was born in central Britain. She does not have an accent,” Merlin said.
“I suppose that makes sense. This is good, right? It should be easy to fix,” Britt said.
Merlin grimly shook his head. “I don’t know. Faerie magic is difficult to translate, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a spell of theirs that refers to human accents. With time it is possible I will be able to come up with something, but it will likely be months before I will have anything to cast on you.”
Britt bit her lip. “Is there someone else who knows more about this sort of thing? Someone who could fix it faster?”
“No,” Merlin sourly said. “The Fae teach very few humans the ways of magic. I do not doubt they would have a way to fix this, but as the only faerie people near us all live with the Lady of the Lake I would rather not ask them. To begin with she is not likely to help us, and it is very likely she would do something in retaliation for your heist of Excalibur.”
Britt bit the inside of her cheek. Nymue might know? “Of course she would know,” she sighed. “She’s going to complain that I am hitting her up for a favor again if I ask for help.”
“What?” Merlin suspiciously asked.
“Nothing,” Britt said, standing up. “You know, Merlin, I’m starting to think your magic might be all talk.”
“What?” Merlin squawked.
“You can’t break Morgause’s enchantment, and you can’t help me understand Gawain. It seems like there isn’t much you can do,” Britt said.
“You ungrateful pig-child. Of course I can do magic. Lots of magic! I brought you here didn’t I?” Merlin said.
Britt retreated to the door. “Whatever you say.”
“Britt,” Merlin said. “What are you going to do about Morgause?”
“Try to live with it I guess.”
“I told you, you could break her enchantment if you wish.”
“I highly doubt that. Good night, Merlin.”
“Good night.”
The following day found Britt in a very poor mood. After spending her nightly insomnia pacing hours pondering her available options, Britt concluded that if she ever wanted to understand young Gawain—whom history foretold as being one of her greatest knights—she would have to talk to Nymue.
“She’s going to have kittens when I tell her I need something after our pleasant discussion outside the castle,” Britt sighed, reaching down to pat Roen, her black horse.
“Did you say something, Milord?”
Britt groaned before twisting in the saddle. “No, I didn’t say anything of importance,” she reported to the six guards that followed her on horseback. “And I told you all I was only going to the forest of Arroy. I’ll be back to Camelot before dinner, your presence is entirely unnecessary.”
The captain of the guards shook his head. “Wouldn’t be right, Milord.”
Britt sighed and faced forward again. “It was worth a shot,” she muttered. She wasn’t looking forward to her guards observing what would predictably be Nymue’s absolute refusal.
The frightened sobs of a child jerked Britt from her musing. “What’s that?” she asked, turning in her saddle as she tried to discern what direction the cries were coming from.
“What is what, Milord?” the guard captain asked.
“That crying. Someone is crying, this way I think,” Britt said, directing Roen off the path.
“My Lord,” the guards protested as they followed Britt into the thick woods.
“Milord, these woods are charmed. It might not be a child you hear—it could be a goblin or spirit,” the guard captain said.
“I highly doubt that. If it is not a human it is probably the wind,” Britt said, ducking a branch.
Britt and her guards chased the sobs until they came to a small break in the trees. Sitting on a rock, crying her eyes out, was a ragged looking child. Snot was smeared across her face and she was covered in a layer of dirt. A basket of mushrooms rested near her bare feet, and she immediately silenced herself when she saw Britt and her guards.
“Hello,” Britt said, swinging off Roen. “What’s wrong? Are you lost?”