strolled back to Sir Damas’ party, aiming for the chestnut gelding she had ridden to the meadow—lent to her by Damas.
Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake had stalked towards each other and were busy arguing in the middle of the meadow.
“So what if your champion beat mine? All that means is that you were able to pay a better man to fill your shoes—coward,” Sir Outzlake said.
“I am a scholar—fighting was never my business. You are the warrior of the family, and yet you chose not to fight either!” Sir Damas said.
Britt tried unhooking her helm to get the spit out of her face, but wasn’t having much luck with it since she could only use one hand. When she finally got it so she could ease it off, something roared behind her—sounding like an enraged dragon.
Britt spun around—thinking Sir Outzlake had lost it and was going to kill his brother.
To her shock she found the other champion lunging at her—his sword extended.
Britt didn’t have enough time to react. She was stabbed—the tip of the champion’s sword wedging through the armor pieces delicately arranged on her shoulder.
Britt fell to her knees with the force of the blow—her helm toppling from her head. Pain exploded in her shoulder, and her legs twitched as she tried to make them work—what if this maniac tried to finish her off?! Excalibur’s scabbard would keep her from bleeding, but it couldn’t keep her heart pumping!
There was the thundering of hooves as horses galloped across the field.
“Lancelot you dishonorable, blackguard. What are you doing ?!”
“There! Your champion just laid an illegal blow upon my champion. Clearly I am in the right,” Sir Damas shouted.
“Sir Ywain!” Lady Vivenne shouted.
“…What?”
There was a scuffle and a knight appeared in Britt’s line of vision.
“Lancelot, what have you done ,” the knight uttered. He tossed his helmet aside, revealing a face Britt knew well: Bedivere.
“Sir Bedivere,” Britt said, licking her lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I could say the same, My Lord,” Bedivere said, his expression tight as he started to remove pieces of Britt’s armor.
“My what? ….LANCELOT!”
“That sounds like Ywain. The real one,” Britt said as Lady Vivenne knelt next to her, carrying a supply pack.
“It is Ywain—and Griflet,” Sir Bedivere said fumbling with the buckles of Britt’s borrowed breastplate.
“Then who did I fight?” Britt asked.
There was a roar and a clang as Ywain tackled someone.
“None other than Sir Lancelot,” Sir Bedivere said. “Though I’m not sure he’ll live to see the end of the day.”
Britt laughed and winced in pain.
“I have bandages, and some herbs to staunch the blood flow,” Lady Vivenne said, digging through her pack.
“Oh, where are my manners? Lady Vivenne, this is Sir Bedivere. Bedivere this is Lady Vivenne. She’s the little sister of the arguing idiots,” Britt said, carefully exhaling in an attempt to master her pain.
“A pleasure,” Sir Bedivere said, not paying attention.
“You know, you don’t have to hurry. I’m not going to bleed out. Although my shoulder does feel odd. Did Lancelot dislocate it?” Britt frowned.
“How was I to know my opponent was Arthur? He was wearing a full suit of armor!”
“You shouldn’t have been dishonorable as to attack a man from behind after you clearly lost!” Sir Griflet shouted.
There was another clang as someone else—Griflet probably—tackled Lancelot again.
Britt gasped in pain when Sir Bedivere jostled her as he tried to slide her plackart off.
Lady Vivenne swore most colorfully. “I’ve forgotten my vial of ground ivy. I’ll ride back to the castle—it’s only a few minutes away. I shan’t be long,” the girl said before scrambling away, leaving a cloud of dust.
“Bon Voyage,” Britt said, raising her good arm to swat the air away from her face. “I knew I was right to hate Lancelot. He’s such a slug.”
“I’m glad to see you
Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake had stalked towards each other and were busy arguing in the middle of the meadow.
“So what if your champion beat mine? All that means is that you were able to pay a better man to fill your shoes—coward,” Sir Outzlake said.
“I am a scholar—fighting was never my business. You are the warrior of the family, and yet you chose not to fight either!” Sir Damas said.
Britt tried unhooking her helm to get the spit out of her face, but wasn’t having much luck with it since she could only use one hand. When she finally got it so she could ease it off, something roared behind her—sounding like an enraged dragon.
Britt spun around—thinking Sir Outzlake had lost it and was going to kill his brother.
To her shock she found the other champion lunging at her—his sword extended.
Britt didn’t have enough time to react. She was stabbed—the tip of the champion’s sword wedging through the armor pieces delicately arranged on her shoulder.
Britt fell to her knees with the force of the blow—her helm toppling from her head. Pain exploded in her shoulder, and her legs twitched as she tried to make them work—what if this maniac tried to finish her off?! Excalibur’s scabbard would keep her from bleeding, but it couldn’t keep her heart pumping!
There was the thundering of hooves as horses galloped across the field.
“Lancelot you dishonorable, blackguard. What are you doing ?!”
“There! Your champion just laid an illegal blow upon my champion. Clearly I am in the right,” Sir Damas shouted.
“Sir Ywain!” Lady Vivenne shouted.
“…What?”
There was a scuffle and a knight appeared in Britt’s line of vision.
“Lancelot, what have you done ,” the knight uttered. He tossed his helmet aside, revealing a face Britt knew well: Bedivere.
“Sir Bedivere,” Britt said, licking her lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I could say the same, My Lord,” Bedivere said, his expression tight as he started to remove pieces of Britt’s armor.
“My what? ….LANCELOT!”
“That sounds like Ywain. The real one,” Britt said as Lady Vivenne knelt next to her, carrying a supply pack.
“It is Ywain—and Griflet,” Sir Bedivere said fumbling with the buckles of Britt’s borrowed breastplate.
“Then who did I fight?” Britt asked.
There was a roar and a clang as Ywain tackled someone.
“None other than Sir Lancelot,” Sir Bedivere said. “Though I’m not sure he’ll live to see the end of the day.”
Britt laughed and winced in pain.
“I have bandages, and some herbs to staunch the blood flow,” Lady Vivenne said, digging through her pack.
“Oh, where are my manners? Lady Vivenne, this is Sir Bedivere. Bedivere this is Lady Vivenne. She’s the little sister of the arguing idiots,” Britt said, carefully exhaling in an attempt to master her pain.
“A pleasure,” Sir Bedivere said, not paying attention.
“You know, you don’t have to hurry. I’m not going to bleed out. Although my shoulder does feel odd. Did Lancelot dislocate it?” Britt frowned.
“How was I to know my opponent was Arthur? He was wearing a full suit of armor!”
“You shouldn’t have been dishonorable as to attack a man from behind after you clearly lost!” Sir Griflet shouted.
There was another clang as someone else—Griflet probably—tackled Lancelot again.
Britt gasped in pain when Sir Bedivere jostled her as he tried to slide her plackart off.
Lady Vivenne swore most colorfully. “I’ve forgotten my vial of ground ivy. I’ll ride back to the castle—it’s only a few minutes away. I shan’t be long,” the girl said before scrambling away, leaving a cloud of dust.
“Bon Voyage,” Britt said, raising her good arm to swat the air away from her face. “I knew I was right to hate Lancelot. He’s such a slug.”
“I’m glad to see you
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