Problem was, he was probably right.
Chapter 2
The battlefield stretched out before him, its wildflower-strewn turf now drenched in the blood of the fallen. Though ’twould be easy to retreat to the safety of the dense forest at his back, the brave solider pressed on through the mire. The black knight to blame for this carnage still rode and there could be no rest for our hero until his enemy had been cast down and evil vanquished from the land once and for all.
The black knight and his men had succeeded in killing many that day, but the boy knew his adversary was no invincible god. No sorcerer with magical powers of regeneration. Under his coal black armor he was mortal, just like the young knight himself. And if cut, he would bleed and bleed well.
A horse’s neigh from behind snapped him to attention. He urged his own steed around, his eyes falling upon a tall, still figure astride a well-armored horse. He drew in a shaky breath as he recognized the twisted mark on the other man’s tabard.
The black knight. His sworn enemy.
The young solider gripped his shield tightly across his body while scrambling to unsheathe his sword. The black knight seemed to consider him for a moment, then started to laugh.
“Say your last words,” his enemy declared. “And may the gods have mercy on you, for I shall not.”
He charged, striking at the young solider with all his might. Their swords met with a loud clang, sparks flying between them. Then the blades slid away as the horses passed one another, and the boy readied himself for another round. He watched the knight come at him again, praying for some opening. Some small mistake that would offer him an advantage over his much older and experienced foe.
Instead the black knight’s blade came crashing down on him, the force of the blow knocking him from his horse. As he fell to the ground, his sword slipped from his hand, leaving him unprotected and exposed. As he scrambled to his feet, the black knight laughed again.
And went in for the final kill.
“You're dead! I win again!”
Fifteen-year-old Arthur of Gal groaned as he dropped his sword and shield to the ground and held up his hands in surrender as the evil knight in question, also known as Princess Guinevere, tapped his tunic with the point of her practice blade.
“A lucky break,” he insisted, knocking the dull blade away with his hand and scrambling to pick up his own sword and shield.
“Please,” scoffed Guinevere. “Evil knight is three for three now.” She danced a little victory dance, her golden curls bouncing off her shoulders. “Methinks our mighty hero needs a little more practice.”
“Well, methinks he'd get some if he wasn't always stuck in the kitchen, washing the evil knight's dishes all the time,” Arthur retorted playfully. He grabbed his sword and swung.
Guinevere rolled her eyes, parrying his blade with an easy stroke of her own. “Trust me, this evil knight would rather be doing anything than dirtying dishes at one of those infernally boring banquets of your foster father's.” She leapt forward, charging Arthur. He raised his shield to block her blow. “You should have seen all the nobles my father tried to foist on me during last night's dinner. I think he's picking ugly ones on purpose now, as punishment for my managing to scare off half of England's noblemen.”
Arthur laughed, circling her with wary steps, pinning her sky blue eyes with his own, daring her to make a move. “Maybe you should just marry me,” he teased. “Then your problems would be over.”
Their old joke brought a blush to her face—enough to fluster her and give him a momentary advantage. Arthur charged forward, slamming his sword against her own, knocking it from her grasp. Then he threw his own weapons to the side and leapt onto her, pushing her to the ground. They tangled in a mess of limbs, both laughing hysterically.
“I win!” crowed Arthur. “At last the mighty hero has felled the evil black knight.”
But as he raised his hands in a victory salute, Guinevere managed to flip him over, straddling him. She looked down with a sly smile.
“A little early for a victory celebration?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. He squirmed involuntarily as he felt his own face heat.
“All right, all right,” he replied, forcing down his blush with false bravado. “You win. I'll let you kiss me, if you're that desperate to do so.”
She groaned and rolled off of him, falling back into the dirt, her skirts hitching unladylike above her ankles. Arthur gulped hard, forcing himself to be chivalrous and look away. She didn't make it easy. He wondered what she would do if he really did try to kiss her. Just leaned over casually and pressed his lips against her—
“Guinevere!” A man's voice suddenly rang through the forest. “Where are you, my love?”
“Oh wind and earth, save us!” Guinevere groaned, sitting up and pulling the dead leaves from her hair. Arthur let out a frustrated breath. “It's Sir Agravaine again. The man's determined to make me his wife if it kills him.” She scrambled to her feet, giving Arthur a hand up. “Which it very well might,” she added wickedly. “Come on, let's leave this place before he finds us.”
She didn't have to tell Arthur twice. The two of them ran out of the apple orchard they'd been sword-fighting in, skirting the castle of his foster father, Sir Ector, and heading down toward the small village below. “I've been meaning to check on Sara and her children anyway,” Guinevere informed him. “And bring them leftovers from last night's banquet.” She held up a burlap sack, stuffed to the gills. “You want to come with me?”
An angel of mercy, dressed as a warrior princess. That was his Guin. “Absolutely,” Arthur replied. “After all, I promised Thom I'd give him another sword-fighting lesson,” he added, thinking about Sara's adorable six-year-old son.
“Oh excellent! Someone you might actually have a chance to beat!”
Arthur shoved her playfully and the two of them headed down the hill, toward Sara's thatched roof hut. Smoke curled from the chimney and it looked peaceful and cozy. Inside was anything but. Sara's husband had been jailed for not being able to afford his taxes and she had just given birth.
They reached the hut and Guinevere banged on the door. From inside they could hear a shuffling, a baby's cry, followed by a woman's voice. “Please go away,” she begged. “We haven't anything left.”
“Sara! It's me, Princess Guinevere!” the princess called through the door. “I've brought food!”
The door burst open and Sara popped her head out, a big smile on her face. “Well, why didn't you say so, lady?” she demanded cheerfully. “Come inside at once!”
The dirt-floored dwelling was crudely furnished, but well-kept all the same, revealing Sara's determined pride, despite her humble surroundings. Her children's faces were scrubbed clean and the rags they wore were expertly mended.
“The tax collectors came again yesterday,” Sara explained to Guinevere as the princess doled out thick loaves of crusty bread, setting them on the wooden table at the center of the hut. The children watched her with eager, hollow eyes. “What do they expect us to give, when the never-ending wars between the lords leave us with nothing but burnt fields and no seed? We scarce have a bite to eat ourselves after we give Sir Ector his due.”
“It's gotten terrible,” Guinevere replied, shaking her head as she went over to the cradle to coo at the new addition to the family. “All these tribal lords, fighting one another, all desperate to become high king. If only they could see what they were doing to their people.” She pulled the baby from her crib and nuzzled him to her cheek.
“I shan’t think they'd care much if they did know,” Sara said with a shrug. “The only thing that could possibly save us now is Merlin's promised hero. The one who will pull the sword from the stone.”
Arthur helped spread out the food, only half listening to the conversation. It was a story he'd heard a million times before. Of a legendary hero arriving and pulling the sword Excalibur from the stone that sat in Sir Ector's courtyard. Becoming king, and uniting all of England un
der his reign. It didn't seem all that likely to him. But that didn't stop the knights from trying. After the big tournament today, they'd be sure to have another go at it, though most of the knights had already tried and failed many times before. The blade was stuck fast and likely would be forever.
He felt a sudden tug at his tunic and looked down. A scrawny red-headed boy looked up at him with an excited gleam in his big blue eyes. “Sir Arthur!' he cried. He was missing his two front teeth. “You promised me a sword lesson.”
Arthur ruffled his head. “And you shall get one!” he assured the boy. “Let's go outside so we don't disturb the ladies' talk.” He shot Guinevere a wink. She waved him off cheerfully.
The two boys headed outside, and Arthur collected two long sticks, handing one to Thom. “You ready?” he asked.
Thom nodded and Arthur began his lesson. But he hadn't gotten very far before he heard two familiar voices on approach. He cringed. Quickly, he ushered Thom inside and then joined him, yanking the cottage door shut. He turned to Guin and Sara, his heart pattering nervously in his chest.
“Hide the food!” he cried. “Now!”
Sara and the children sprung into action, scurrying to find hiding spots in the tiny home. Guinevere looked at Arthur questioningly.
He drew in a breath. “Sir Agravaine and Sir Kay,” he said in explanation. “Looks like they found you after all.”
Sure enough, a moment later, the door splintered open and the two knights poked their heads inside. Sir Agravaine was in town for the big jousting tournament. A brutish knight from the Orkneys of the North who wasn't exactly known for his acts of chivalry.
“Well, well, Princess, so this is where you choose to spend your time?” Agravaine clucked, looking over the small cottage with disdain. “Down in the mud with the serfs?” His eyes locked on to Arthur, who stood protectively in front of the family and Guinevere, arms crossed over his chest. “And this as your only escort?” He gave Arthur a disdainful look. “I hardly think a scrawny little wart like him could properly serve and protect a royal princess like yourself.”
“Go away, Agravaine,” Arthur growled. “There's nothing for you here.”
“Oh I think I'll be the judge of that,” Agravaine replied dismissively. He started trolling through the cabinets.
“Please, Sir,” Sara begged, stepping in front of him. “We have nothing. Your fellow knights have already been here and taken it all.”
“Then you won't mind me searching around a bit,” Agravaine said with a mean-spirited grin. “Kay, help me!” The two knights started scouring the hut, haphazardly throwing plates and pots around.
Arthur glanced over at Guinevere, who was looking back at him with troubled eyes.
“What are we going to do?” she hissed under her breath.
“They're knights,” he whispered back. “There's nothing we can do.” Under the current laws of the land, the knights had every right to take what they needed as “supplies” for the war campaigns. And if Arthur made any move against them, he'd be arrested and likely burned at the stake. And while, at the moment, he wouldn't mind taking that risk to protect the poor innocent family—not to mention Guinevere herself—he knew it would do no good in the end. The knights would burn the cottage down anyway, just for spite.
He scowled. Sometimes he just felt so helpless.
“Hey, look here, Agravaine!” Sir Kay, Arthur's older foster brother called out. He was just as mean as Agravaine though not half as clever. He pulled out a long loaf of bread, hidden beneath the table. “Looks like the cow has been lying to us.” He pulled out a hunk of cheese. “Isn't this the same cheese we had at the banquet last night?”
“Where did you get this?” Agravaine demanded, grabbing Sara by the collar of her dress. She squealed in terror. “Did you steal it from your lord? You know what the punishment is for thievery, don't you?”
“Stop it!” A little voice suddenly rose above the din. Arthur realized Thom had stepped forward, his expression fierce. He glared at Agravaine. “Or Sir Arthur himself will strike you down.”
“Sir Arthur?” Agravaine repeated, looking amused. He released Sara and made a big show of scanning the room. “And who may I ask is Sir Arthur?”
Uh-oh. Arthur bit his lower lip nervously, ignoring Guinevere's questioning eyes. Please don't point me out. Please don't point me out.
The little boy pointed directly at him. “Why him of course,” he replied in an indignant voice.
Agravaine arched an eyebrow. “Did he now?” He left the boy and approached Arthur. “I wonder if Sir Arthur knows,” he continued, staring straight at him. “That it's a crime to impersonate a knight.”
“He's not . . . he's not imperson-tating,” Thom defended loyally. He looked at Arthur with confused eyes. “Tell him!”
Arthur wanted to. He really did. But instead he hung his head, feeling utterly useless. “You know we were just pretending, right, Thom? Remember I told you that?”
Thom nodded slowly, a look of disappointment clear on his face. “Oh. Right,” he said, taking a step backwards. “I forgot.” He stuck his thumb in his mouth and looked at Arthur mournfully.
“Now as I was saying,” Agravaine said, turning back to Sara. But Guinevere was too quick, leaping into his path, her blue eyes flashing fire.
“I stole the food,” she declared. “Take me away if you must. But leave these innocent people alone.”
Agravaine's lip curled. “For shame, Princess,” he sneered. “Your father ought to keep you on a tighter leash.” He shook his head, as if disappointed in her. “Luckily, it's only a temporary situation. Once we're wed I'll find a lovely ivory tower to stash you in. Then you'll be too busy bearing me sons to cause any more mischief.”
“Keep dreaming, Agravaine!” Guinevere declared. She glared at him defiantly and Arthur felt a thrill of pride seeing her bravery. Of course she, as a person of royal birth, could rightfully stand up to a knight. Though, as a woman, she probably wouldn't win. “You're a pig and a shame to knights everywhere. I'll never marry you.”
“That's sweet, Princess, but I don't think you have a choice. You're nothing more than a mare on market day, to be sold to the highest bidder. And I, my darling, am bound to be the highest bidder on an insolent wretch like you.”
Guinevere squeezed her hands into fists, fury on her face. She stepped forward, staring up at Agravaine with hatred in her eyes. “Why you . . . “
“Gods above, come on, Agravaine,” interjected Kay in a whiny voice. “This is boring. Let's go to the tavern.”
Agravaine shot Guin one last threatening look, then turned to his friend. “Oh, very well,” he agreed. “If you insist.” He turned back to give Guinevere one more sly smile. “I'll see you at the tournament, m'lady,” he requested. “Where you will watch me pull the sword from the stone and be crowned king of all England.”
“I can't wait,” Guinevere muttered under her breath.
And with that, the two knights exited the cottage, mounted their horses, and headed down the field toward the village below. Guinevere breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh Lady, Lady,” cried Sara, running to her and bowing at her feet. “Thank you for your kindness. They would have taken me away and burned the house down had you not stepped in.”
Thom turned to Arthur, looking up at him with sad eyes. “I don't understand,” he said, scowling. “Why can't you be a knight? You're better than all the others!”
Arthur gave him a rueful look. “Because I'm not a noble,” he replied. “I'm a commoner, just like you. And the rule is, you have to be of noble birth to become a knight.” Or to marry a princess like Guinevere, he added to himself, giving a longing look in his friend's direction. If only he really could save her from a brute like Agravaine.
“Well, that's a stupid rule,” Thom said with a scowl. “If I were king I'd make you a knight and my mom a princess and we'd all live happily ever after.”
Arthur ruffled his head fondly. “I'd think you'd make a ve
ry good king, Thom,” he replied. “A very good king.”
But he knew in his heart the chances of all that happening—of any of them living happily ever after—were about as likely as Arthur pulling the sword from the stone himself.
Chapter 3
Back in the twenty-first century, Stuart Mallory stared down at his cell phone in dismay. What had just happened? All he'd had to do was utter eight simple words. “Will you go to the dance with me?” Was that so freaking hard? Evidently so, since he'd somehow managed to make the girl he loved hang up on him instead.
Smooth, Stu. Real Smooth.
He had to admit, when she'd first mentioned the dance about a month ago, he'd been surprised. Sophie had never struck him as the fancy dress-up type. But she'd seemed so excited and his stepbrother had told him all girls secretly loved going to dances. And they all wanted to be asked to go by a boy. He figured it was his perfect opportunity at last.
But he should have known. After all, Sophie wasn't like all girls. She was smart and artsy and independent—not like one of the mindless cheerleaders Lucas always chased after. He should have known someone as cool as her wasn't going to be into some lame school function like a dance. What had he been thinking?
Only that it would be the best night ever, if she, for some unfathomable reason, had actually said yes.
He'd had it all planned out so perfectly. They'd defeat Morgan Le Fay and beat the game, then he'd casually suggest a real life celebration. He'd buy her one of those wrist flower things and get his stepmom to drive them there. (Okay, so the old minivan wasn't the most romantic mode of transportation, but beggars couldn't be choosers.)
Once they'd arrived, he'd lead her out onto the dance floor as the DJ played a slow song. He'd place his hands gently on her waist and she'd wrap her arms around his neck. And then, as they swayed to the music, she'd look up into his eyes for the very first time, suddenly realizing that her best friend—the one her mom used to babysit back during the GI Joe versus Barbie days—was actually the guy she was madly in love with. And then she'd let him kiss her. A lot. And when they were done, she'd open those big blue eyes of hers and say . . .