She left the graveyard with a spring in her step, whistling in time with the horns from the jousting tournament that bathed London in noise. Britt carried the sword in her arms, her mind attentive as she found her way back to the tournament.
The tents that peppered the field were within eyesight when Britt was knocked to the ground. Someone in boots kicked her in the back of the knees before smashing her between the shoulder blades, sending her flying. The sword slipped from her grasp and fell on the dirt road with a clang.
Britt sat up and glared at two drunken men dressed in dirt crusted chainmail. (The tournament’s first losers, apparently.)
“WatCH where yAR goIN’,” one drunkard laughed, his words accented with hiccups.
His companion had the high pitched laugh of a squealing Chihuahua. “Dunce,” he said, spit flying from his mouth as he and the hiccuper stumbled away.
Britt started to boost herself off the ground, but she startled and jumped some feet away when someone placed a hand on her shoulder.
It was a knight, a different one. This one was far more impressive and polished in his shining armor, which was adorned in white and blue. His mount, a dapple gray horse, snorted and pawed the ground behind him. “Steady there, boy. I mean you no harm,” the knight said.
Britt dusted herself off as she eyed the stranger. He seemed more the kind of knight who fancied himself chivalrous than a recreant knight, but his helm completely obscured his face. “Sorry sir,” Britt said, discreetly straightening the doublet under her tunic.
The knight bent over and retrieved the sword that was previously in the stone, setting Britt’s hackles up. The knight hefted it before offering it to Britt, hilt first. “That is a fine sword you have there.”
“Thank you, sir. If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Britt said, taking the sword before backing away from him. She bobbed a bow once or twice for good measure—Merlin didn’t have enough time to give her a medieval manners lessons before the tournament—before she ran, hoping to lose herself in the tournament crowd before the knight thought further of the quality of her sword. (Merlin would be ticked if someone stole the sword.)
Britt reached the safety of the jousting field with no further complications. She found Sir Kay with his horse, hiding behind his tent.
“Got it,” Britt said, offering Sir Kay the sheathed sword.
Sir Kay leaned forward and inspected the hilt. “Well done, My Lord,” he bowed.
Britt waited, but her ‘foster brother’ did nothing more. “Aren’t you supposed to take it to your father?” she asked.
Sir Kay twisted his mouth—making his mustache flatten like a unibrow. “We’ll go together,” he said, tying up his horse.
“That isn’t what Merlin wanted, though. He thought we would catch more attention if you make a big scene and then Sir Ector makes an even bigger scene looking for me,” Britt said.
“A pox on Merlin, I’m not taking the Sword in the Stone from my future King,” Sir Kay grunted before he marched off.
Britt paused, deliberating on his words, before she shrugged and hurried after him, still carrying the sword.
Sir Ector was stationed just outside the tent, pulling on an ear. His forehead wrinkled when he saw both Sir Kay and Britt, but he took it in stride. “What’s the matter sons?” he asked.
“Arthur’s gone and brought me a sword that isn’t mine,” Sir Kay said.
Britt looked questioningly at the tall man. That wasn’t what Merlin had instructed him to say at all. Hissing captured Britt’s attention, and she looked around. Merlin was some feet away, glaring at Sir Kay and twisting the sleeves of his robe in smoldering anger.
“Well, boy? What do you have to say for yourself?” Sir Ector asked, stroking his beard.
Britt snapped to attention, thrusting the sword in front of her. “The inn wasn’t open. I took the first sword I could find, sir.”
“Let me take a look at it…What, what? W-why, this is the sword in the stone!” Sir Ector said, his eyes popped with what Britt suspected was not completely faked awe. “Arthur, you pulled this?”
“I, the inn… Kay needed a sword,” Britt said, digging her foot in the slushy muck of the field in an attempt to look regretful.
“How did you get it? No one can pull the sword from the stone!” Sir Ector said.
“The sword in the stone?” boomed one of Merlin’s carefully placed cohort knights—Sir Bodwain if Britt remembered correctly. “Impossible!”
“But it is,” Sir Ector said, wagging a finger at Britt and the sword. “The boy pulled it!”
“He can’t have,” Sir Bodwain said.
“Enough,” Merlin said, entering the fray with his hood pulled up, his hypnotizing eyes glowing in the shadows of his hood. “You there, send your squire ahead to St. Paul’s cathedral and inform the archbishop. If this boy pulled the sword once, he can pull it again,” Merlin ordered, sticking his craggy nose in Sir Bodwain’s direction.