A King Arthur and Her Knights Novel

Enthroned

By: K. M. Shea

Chapter 1

Sword in the Stone

King Arthur is a legendary British king and hero. His historical existence and role is widely debated, but he is said to have been crowned at age fifteen on the day of Pentecost. The day of his crowning ceremony, he selected Merlin as his counselor, Sir Ulfius as his chamberlain, Sir Bodwain as his constable, his foster brother Sir Kay as seneschal, and Sir Bedivere as marshal.

“Britt!”

Although the stories and events linked to Arthur vary widely, most Arthurian stories include: the wizard Merlin, UtherPendragon as Arthur’s father, the sword Excalibur, and Arthur’s wife Guinevere.

“Britt, come on. Pose for a picture.”

Britt ripped her eyes from the travel guidebook’s blurb to address her friends. “No thanks. Commemorative graveyard photos aren’t my thing.”

Lyssa—Britt’s long-time friend and currently one of her three traveling companions—placed her hands on her hips. “We’re not taking photos of the cemetery. We’re posing with this sword. It’s very knightly, I’ll have you know! Now stuff it and pose. You’re the fencer; this shot was made for you.”

Britt slapped the guidebook shut and threw it into her backpack. “I am not a fencer.”

“Sorry, Britt. She meant that you’re into Historical European Martial Arts,” Amber, the peace-keeper of the bunch, said as she took a photo of Lyssa—who was pantomiming pulling a rust-covered sword from what looked like a mutated anvil.

“The point is you’re the one that knows all about sword fighting. It’s only right that you pose with the sword,” Lyssa said, brushing her palms together to rid herself of the grit the sword left on her hand.

Britt—still not totally willing—twisted around to look at the cathedral behind which the lonesome cemetery was nestled. “Lyssa, why did you want to come here? I didn’t think anything of importance in King Arthur lore happened in London. I thought we were supposed to go see the Sherlock Holmes museum at 221b Baker Streettoday.”

“That’s not true. Arthur was crowned in London before he founded Camelot. And stop worrying; we’ll have plenty of time to see Holmes, my dear Watson,” Lyssa said, patting Britt on the back. “Grace, you’re up.”

Grace—the last member of their English Book Sightseeing Extravaganza—stepped up to the sword and placed her foot on the stone before wrapping her hand around the hilt. “Cheese,” she said with a big, toothy smile.

Amber took the photo before offering Britt an apologetic smile. “Tomorrow, we leave for Bath. That will be fun for you—Jane Austen novels galore. Which ones take place there, again?”

“Northanger Abbey starts there, yeah, and half of Persuasion is set there,” Britt said before returning the smile. “But I can’t wait to tour Beatrix Potter’s farm.”

“Hilltop, right?” Grace asked, zigzagging around a gravestone.

“Britt.” Lyssa pulled her eyebrows together. “Stop stalling, and pose for a stinkin’ picture. It’s a sword in a freaking stone. The photo op is priceless! Way better than the fake one at Disneyworld.”

Britt stabbed a finger at the corroded weapon. “I’m not touching that. It’s rusted and gross. I bet it’s infected with whatever gives you tetanus.”

“Britt!”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Britt grumbled. She hitched her backpack farther up her shoulders before approaching the weapon. “After this, can we eat?” she asked, turning to face Amber after stationing herself behind the sword. “How about some fish and chips?” She reached out to touch the sword. The moment Britt’s fingertips brushed the rough rust, a pillar of light, almost like a spotlight, shot out of the cloudy London sky and enveloped Britt. There was harp music and sparkles that fell like snowflakes before Britt was shocked.

The sword felt like harnessed lightning, like a high voltage taser. It made Britt shake uncontrollably, but she couldn’t let go. Her hand wouldn’t release the sword. Her arm surged with electricity and pain; the world went white, and then all was black.

“Yes, this is the future King we’ve been waiting for. Sir Ector, congratulations. You are the proud new father of a foundling.”

Britt ached. Every particle of her being tingled, and her eyes were heavy and gritty. She tried to form words but was only able to utter garbled nonsense. “GyuuuLysssa, hwatejuuuu.”

“…This is our future King?”

“Yes. He sounds stupid, but it’s best not to judge him yet. Time travel makes even the most eloquent minds slow, I would think.”

Britt managed to roll her eyes open, which allowed her to discover that she was flat on her front, surrounded by shriveled weeds. Britt spat dead grass out of her mouth and rolled over. She was going to killLyssa. A priceless photo op? HAH!

When Britt rocked to a stop, she found herself blinking up at a man. He had pale blonde hair, but his eyes were a dazzling shade of blue. He was drowning in a watery gray robe topped with a cloak that reminded Britt of cold water. It was definitely a cloak, not a jacket. It was practically a dress, as it fell past his knees. The man caught Britt’s gaze and smiled—a gesture so handsome, it momentarily made Britt forget about his ridiculous outfit. “Greetings, new ruler of Britain.”

Britt fell out of her smile-stricken trance. “What?”

The man’s brow momentarily wrinkled. “You are of the female persuasion,” he said, staring at Britt’s chest.

“Yeah? Are we rare in these parts or something?” Britt winced as she eased herself upright. Lyssa, Amber, and Grace were nowhere to be seen. “Have you seen three other girls around here?” She frowned as she fished a dead leaf out of her blonde hair and peered around the graveyard. It was much smaller and much newer than she remembered. Maybe getting shocked had affected her eyesight?

“A woman as our king?” said a man. He stood behind the cloaked hottie, next to a shorter, stocky man. Calling the speaker a man was perhaps stretching it—he was certainly younger than twenty. Both of the onlookers wore warm cloaks that almost completely obscured their knee-length tunics and the belts strapped around their waists.

Britt stared until the young man grew uncomfortable and looked away.

The cloaked hottie kneeled at Britt’s side, studying her with great intensity. “The sword brought her here, which means she is meant to be our king.”

Britt cautiously looked back and forth between the three men. The way they casually tossed around the word “king” had Britt’s hackles raised. Had she been kidnapped by some bizarre renaissance fair cult?

The stout, older man shifted. “Very well. She’s our King then. Only a fool fights Merlin’s word,” he said to his young companion.

“Wait, Merlin?” Britt said. She cast her eyes at the cloaked hottie before glancing at the sword—which had not a speck of rust on it and actually glowed gold, although it was still stabbed into the anvil. “I see what’s going on here. Very funny, Lyssa. It’s cute, but you should have paid for this experience for yourself. I don’t give two hoots for King Arthur and his knights,” Britt said as she heaved herself into a standing position. She shivered and brushed her bare arms. The temperature must have dropped while she was out of it. Before the sword photo, Britt was comfortable in a t-shirt. Now she was growing jealous of the warm cloaks the renaissance actors had.

“Lyssa?” the young man in the tunic asked.

“Merlin” stood and shooed the gawkers away. “Allow me to enlighten her to our…herm…problem. It will be easier to explain without an audience.”

The stout man nodded and started off through the graveyard, his gait stiff but strong. The younger man leaned back on his heels.

“Merlin” smiled and pushed his cloak aside to place an arm on the young man’s shoulders. “If you would be so kind, Kay. I know this ordeal has been upsetting for you, but things will turn out. Perhaps even better than I estimated with the original Arthur. Why don’t you go polish your armor? You want to look good for the glorious event, yes? Of course you do. Good day,” Merlin said, escorting the young man—Kay—to the graveyard gate. He pushed him through the border of the cemetery and watched him leave before he spun on his heels and locked his searing eyes on Britt. “Now, then. What is your name, lass?”

“Britt Arthurs.” Britt shivered as she peered behind a gravestone. “Lyssa, Grace? Come on, Amber, help me out here,” she said as she walked through the cemetery.

“You have two names?” “Merlin” asked, strolling behind Britt.

“What? Oh. Britt is my first name; Arthurs is my last name,” Britt said when she finished exploring the back area of the cemetery. “So, who put you up to this? Lyssa? It must have been Lyssa.”

“I do not know this Lyssa of whom you speak. I assume she is a companion of yours, in which case, I can assure you she is neither here, nor is she aware of this dire situation in which you have found us.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Britt Arthurs—the heavens must have selected you, for I cannot believe it is mere coincidence that you also bear the name Arthur—you placed your hand on the Sword in the Stone, and it recognized you as its master and brought you back through time—very far in time might I add, based on your irregular clothes—to be crowned King of Britain,” “Merlin” said, twitching his shoulders back as he drizzled his words like honey.

Britt nodded very slowly. “Lyssa, I hate you!” She turned from “Merlin” to shout at the gravestones.

“Won’t you at least listen to my story?” “Merlin” asked as he strolled up to the sword.

Britt exhaled to warm her chattering teeth. This wasn’t getting her anywhere, and Grace was going to be ticked if they didn’t make it to the Sherlock Holmes museum. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“Some years ago, UtherPendragon, son of Constantine II, King of Britannia, was crowned King after both of his brothers were killed. He fell in love with Igraine—the wife of his enemy, Gorlois. He sought my help in winning her over which I—ahh—did. A child was conceived between the two of them, a male who was to become his father’s heir. In exchange for my help, I was given the child to raise. I took him from the palace and placed him under the care of Sir Ector, who became his foster father. He was raised as if he were Sir Ector’s own son, along with Kay, Sir Ector’s real son. The boy, whose name was Arthur, was never informed of his parentage, however—.”

“I know how the story goes. Sir Ector and Kay didn’t know either, but one day they were in London, and Arthur pulled the sword from the stone while searching for a replacement sword for his brother, and he was crowned King of Britain,” Britt interrupted, tapping her nails on an icy headstone.

“No, actually. Sir Ector and Kay knew all along who Arthur was. I separated Arthur from his parents because Uther was a warmonger who was likely to die at a young age, and I wished to see all of Britain united under Arthur’s ruling. I knew Sir Ector would be an excellent advisor, and Kay would be raised to be Arthur’s seneschal. After all, who would make a better seneschal than your brother who won’t inherit the throne if you are killed?”

Britt settled in, intrigued by the new aspect of the story. “I see, that does make sense. Please continue.”

“I had plans for Arthur to learn his parentage and pull the sword from the stone when he was old enough. This year, Arthur turned fifteen, and I judged the time had arrived. But before I could inform the lad of his birthright…” Merlin the Young and Handsome looked to his feet and muttered.

“Yes?” Britt asked.

“Merlin” sighed, losing several inches of stature. “He ran off with a shepherdess over the summer months. We haven’t received any word of him, and I don’t think we will. Not in time, at least.”

“What do you mean? In time for what?” Britt said.

“Britain will unite under Arthur’s rule because it is finally ready for a true King. I have spent years gathering knights and powerful lords who agree with my thinking. Britain will not survive if our lands remain splintered with as many rulers as there are lakes or trees. We need one King, and my compatriots agree with me. But…if the King does not appear this winter—which is what we have been preparing for, for years—I am not certain the opportunity will arise again in this century. Simply put, this is our one chance, and Arthur has ruined it by running off. I crafted the spell that holds the sword in the stone for him. No one else alive can pull it.”

“So, in your ‘story,’ where do I fit into this? I’m not Arthur. I can’t help you,” Britt said, stooping to reclaim her backpack, which had dropped in the same patch of weeds she had woken up in. It was time to find Lyssa and Amber and go.

“Merlin” watched her with calculating eyes. “That is where you are mistaken. After it became apparent that Arthur would not be returning, I cast a second spell on the sword. There is a law regarding this sword—which I tied into the spell,” Merlin said, fondly resting a hand on the sparkling sword. “‘Whoso pulls this sword from the stone shall be crowned King of Britain,’” Merlin quoted. “It never gives a deadline to the proclamation. My second spell was designed to withstand time and to bring the first person who touched the sword and would be able to pull it out back in time.”

Britt stared at the actor, unimpressed.

“Time travel spells are very difficult. It took months to craft, but obviously it worked because you are here.”

“That is a load of crap. Time travel? I’m sorry, even for the sake of our vacation, I’m not willing to buy that. Lyssa, Grace, come on. We weren’t supposed to do anything King Arthur themed today. You promised! I’m cold, and I want to go to the Holmes museum.” Britt’s voice echoed in the quiet graveyard.

“Merlin” rustled his cloak like a ruffled bird fixing its feathers. “I’m sorry. I fail to see the cause of your hesitation.”

“Hesitation? Buddy, you’re looking at solid refusal. For starters, you have got to be the worst Merlin actor ever. You’re like, wearing Gandalf’s robe and cloak from Lord of the Rings—which works, I guess—but you can’t be much older than I am. Are you even thirty? Everyone knows Merlin is as old as dirt.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “It’s not my fault Uther wouldn’t listen to me without a fake white beard. I don’t know what sort of brutish land you come from—who has ever heard of a woman wearing leggings?—but appearances are important here. No one is going to listen to a fourteen-year-old boy wizard. Magic is all about deceiving the eyes to reveal the truth, which is what I did.”

Britt hitched her backpack over her shoulders. “You obviously have a complex. But this will not work anyway. There’s no way I could be your King because I’m not British. I’m American, a tourist. Plus, I’m not a guy,” Britt said before turning around. “Amber, I’m leaving. Do you want to come with?”

“Yes, well the law doesn’t say ‘whatever Anglo male pulls the sword from the stone’ does it? Your gender and homeland mean nothing to me. The only thing that matters is that you can pull the sword from the stone!” Merlin snapped.

“There’s no way I can pull it!”

“Prove it!”

“Fine!”

Britt stalked up to the gleaming weapon and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. She was elated when there was no shock of electricity, but irked as the grinding of metal against metal tickled her ears when she pulled the sword free from the anvil.

Britt stared at the sword, which was well made—historically accurate even. “This means nothing,” Britt said, stabbing the sword back in the “stone” as Merlin smirked. “Clearly it’s rigged. I’m outta here.” Britt marched across the cemetery, heading for the gate.

Merlin stopped smiling and lurched after her. “Where are you going?” he hissed, grabbing her wrist. “Are you mad? If someone sees you dressed like this, they’ll burn you as a witch.”