Being King Arthur's daughter is not as good as it sounds.
Sixteen-year-old Melora has struggled to find her place ever since her brother was trampled to death in a hunting accident. Her father raised her to be a warrior, but Melora isn't allowed to...
"She's a lovely girl," ventured Horace, his bright eyes scanning the sullen face of his master, "but you shouldn't stare at her so. Her glances aren't as kindly."
Orlando scowled. "I wasn't staring because she was pretty. She's tall and grim, her nose is too long and her hair is very red. You know, I don't think she likes me." He wondered if she ever smiled.
Horace guffawed, which resulted in Orlando tossing the scroll at his head. "Say what you will, but I've known too many young men to think otherwise." His laughter trailed out the door followed by Orlando's boot, which thudded into the wood with a startling report.
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A dreamless sleep made Melora more cheerful on rising. The sun was just fingering her window and the metallic clangs of practice swords heralded the afternoon's sport. Melora slipped out of bed and scrubbed her face with the icy water from her basin. Washing complete, she leaned against the cool stone ledge of her window. She spotted Gawain across the yard, his hair aflame with morning sun.
Below her, a lone swordsman walked to a trampled square of grass and pulled out his sword. He balanced on his toes like a cat, striking straw dummies with sure, swift movements. Craning her neck, Melora saw he was one of the swarthy Mediterranean folk, but not Mador. Melora had witnessed Mador's brutal hacking during competitions and would recognize it anywhere.
This was a Thessalian, she decided, of rank to know swordsmanship, so Orlando? His elegant blows would be crushed by one of the many knights in the tourney. They'd slice through Orlando's guard as they might a pudding. For that matter, they might cut through his head.
Melora went to the chest at the head of her mattress, where she kept Amhar's first sword and armor. He'd been a boy of fourteen at the time and quickly outgrown the armor, carelessly leaving it to his eager younger sister. Melora opened the chest and inhaled the musty scent of leather, the sharp odor of metal, and the oily tang of the grease preserving each precious item.
Their mother had hated how Amhar dressed young Melora up like a knight, sparring with her on the very square below Melora's window. When the queen protested to Arthur, the king had laughed and said to let them be. After Amhar's passing, the king continued Melora's lessons. Still, it had been a year since Melora had dared to don the armor. Gwynevere hadn't liked it then, and she surely wouldn't now that Melora was a marriageable sixteen.
Melora slithered out of her dress and pulled breeches and a loose undershirt out of the chest. Next came a quilted vest, and then a stiff leather jerkin that laced on the sides. Melora gasped as the jerkin squeezed her chest and focused on breathing. She'd grown since she last put these clothes on. Still, it was so tight no one could mistake her for a girl.
Melora slipped a coarse brown surcoat over her jerkin, leaving Amhar's silk blue one in the bottom of the trunk. The blue had matched his eyes, and Melora couldn't look at it. She pulled out the braces, greaves, sword, belt, and helmet and let the lid slam shut.
