Britt turned and waved, certain Sir Kay was watching her through a spyglass as he hadn’t sent a squad of guards after her, yet.
Britt finished her bread and smashed her face in the clover covered ground. “I am pathetic. I’m a college graduate living off the taxes of others. I never thought my future career path would involve impersonating a teenage boy-king.”
Britt would never be able to forgive the real Arthur for running off with a shepherdess. Since Arthur eloped and disappeared, Merlin was forced to cast a spell on the Sword in the Stone so that the next person who touched the sword and would be able to pull it out—meaning they had the qualities the sword was looking for—would be brought back through time to be crowned King of England.
Britt was the unfortunate candidate the sword chose.
She arrived, American, female, and older than Sir Kay—Arthur’s older foster brother—but Merlin had faith in his spell and decided to use Britt anyway. It worked at first, Britt could pass off as a tall but slender 15-year-old boy, and to Merlin’s delight Britt was extremely skilled in the art of swordsmanship thanks to her interest in Renaissance Mixed Martial Arts.
However, even with the rumor that Arthur/Britt had faerie blood, making her more elegant and beautiful than the average male, sooner or later Britt’s cover would be blown. (After all, it was only a matter of time before Britt’s knights demanded that she marry and produce an heir for the good of the kingdom.)
“I hate tradition,” Britt said.
“My Lord?”
Britt pushed herself off the ground and had Excalibur unsheathed in the blink of an eye.
A knight stood a stone’s throw away. He wasn’t one of Britt’s knights—Britt didn’t recognize the coat of arms painted on his shield. He wore a helm, obscuring his face, but he had the kind of armor most knights who fancied themselves chivalrous rode around in—serviceable but elaborately decorated.
“Can I help you?” Britt asked. A glance at Camelot confirmed her suspicions of Sir Kay and the spyglass, the gates were opening to let out a squad of mounted guards.
“I was only wondering if you were well,” the knight said. “You seem burdened.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Britt said, relaxing her stance but not sheathing Excalibur. “I’m no more burdened than any other man.”
“That’s hardly right, My Lord. As King you have a great many more burdens,” the knight objected.
Britt walked to Llamrei and patted the mare’s neck. “And how do you know me to be a king?”
“I have seen you before, My Lord. We met once in the woods when you found a lost girl, and I saw you when you first pulled the Sword from the Stone in London,” the knight said.
“I remember the girl,” Britt said. “She was the one who inspired me to build public bath houses in Camelot.”
“That is so, My Lord,” the knight said, bowing slightly at the waist.
“Whose courts are you part of?” Britt asked, glancing at the incoming soldiers. They set their pace at a canter and would be on Britt soon. Britt raised an arm and signaled that all was well. The soldiers slowed their mounts to a walk but kept coming.
“My father’s I suppose, but I have pledged my allegiance to none yet. Do you desire to run me off your lands?” the knight said.
“You aren’t stirring up trouble are you? Badgering my subjects, stealing food and such?” Britt asked, confident he would answer no. Her people would have let her know if recreant knights were terrorizing them. During the past fall the first, and only, knight who ever plagued her people refused to let anyone pass over a bridge. Britt arrived with an escort of knights two days after he set up camp. Sir Bedivere trounced the man in a joust before Britt beat the snot out of him in a swordfight. The knight repented and now worked as a guard under Sir Kay’s watchful eye, but all heard of the tale and Britt’s lands stayed curiously clear of rebel-rousers.
“No, My Lord. I travel with my cousins, performing deeds for the wellness of mankind,” the strange knight said.
“In that case I don’t care,” Britt said, nodding to her guards as they spread around her in a fan formation, not intruding on the conversation but drawing close enough to spring into action should the need arise.
“I thank you for your generosity, My Lord,” the knight said, pulling off his helm.
Britt was amused to see that he was handsome and young, falling somewhere between Gawain’s age of 18 and Kay’s age of 21. His black, curly hair was just a little shorter than Britt’s, falling almost to his shoulders. He had dreamy green eyes and thick lashes most women would kill for. His jaw line was curved and his facial features angular. Had he been American and from the twenty first century, Britt could have mistaken him for a celebrity.
Britt was delighted to see his face—and not because he was handsome, he was too young for her taste—but because of one very important fact.