“Britt?”
Britt turned her head to the side and swatted a bug away from her face. Her eyes flew open when Merlin grasped her chin.
“I will admit defeat. Were you clothed like a lass and kitted up you would be the most beautiful woman in England,” Merlin said, his eyes held Britt’s like hypnotic magnets. There was something in his expression that Britt hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t love—Britt shuddered to picture what love would look like on the young wizard—but there was honesty and truthfulness mixed with some kind of affection in his eyes.
Britt smiled as Merlin’s hand slid along her jaw line. “It’s not like you to exaggerate,” she said.
“You still don’t know how powerful your smiles are, do you?”
“My what?”
“Nothing,” Merlin said, removing his hand from her face like she was a hot coal. “Enjoy your doze. When you come in for dinner you will have to accept Lancelot’s oath of loyalty.”
“Must I?”
“You must.”
Britt grumbled as Merlin lurched forward. “Wait, you aren’t going to stay with me?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Do you have work to do?”
“Nothing dreadfully important. What, did another lass find out your secret?”
“No, we just haven’t talked much since, well, I suppose since the plague of Lancelot descended upon us.”
“You’re right, but I was told you were up all last night pacing. You should sleep while you can,” Merlin said.
“That’s true,” Britt said, muffling a yawn with her hand.
Merlin shook his head and settled back into the hay. “I will stay until you sleep,” he decided.
“Thank you, I appreciate the company.”
“All you appreciate is my presence and the fact that it means your guards will stand more than a horse’s length from you.”
“That too.”
Merlin laughed. “Pleasant dreams, lass.”
Britt murmured a reply before she took another deep breath and shut her eyes.
Next to her Merlin tapped two pieces of straw together as he looked out at the farmland surrounding Camelot.
At the midnight watch Lancelot stood on a castle wall, staring intently at the bright spot of wall across Camelot. He could see King Arthur on the castle walkway—his guards standing at attention. The young king was practicing with his famed sword, which glimmered in the moonlight.
Lancelot’s green eyes traced King Arthur’s movements as he thoughtfully rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “He does this every night?” Lancelot asked his cousins, never removing his gaze from the king.
“Just about, according to what the servants say,” Lionel said.
“He’s a popular one,” Bors, Lancelot’s younger cousin, said as he cleaned his fingernails with a dagger. “Could hardly get anyone to shut up about him whilst you were gone.”
“He is unlike anyone I’ve met before,” Lancelot said, tapping his sword and narrowing his eyes.
“So?”
“I do not think of that as a good thing,” Lancelot said, finally dragging his eyes away from the young monarch.
Lionel shrugged. “Mayhap you are over thinking him. He’s a ruddy saint if half the reports of him are correct.”
“That may be so, but I’ve never had much use for saints,” Lancelot said.
“So why did you pledge yourself to him then?” Bors asked.
“For the adventure. Things are changing because of him. I would rather be around when there’s a good fight to be had than to miss it by being stuffed back in a tower at home,” Lancelot said.
“Ah, your father called you back home, then?”
“Yes. But he won’t complain if I tell him I am staying at Camelot. Besides, I’m an opportunist. It will be interesting to see what I can make of young Arthur,” Lancelot said, his smile slanted mockingly.
“Step carefully, cousin,” Bors warned. “He has powerful allies.”
“Aren’t you just miffed he is even more popular with the ladies than you?” Lionel laughed.
Lancelot gave him a withering glare.
“Just saying,” Lionel shrugged.
“Whatever the reason, I will stand with Arthur. For now,” Lancelot decided, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
“We’ll stand with you then,” Lionel said.
“Bors?” Lancelot asked in the silence.
“He’s a good man,” Bors finally said.
Lancelot chuckled and looked back at the pacing figure. “We shall see about that.”
Of Lancelot and Guinevere