She Who is King

1 | crafted of stone

England; 16 years later

THE FLINT scrapped against the rock, causing sparks to fly and the fire to finally burn. It had taken nearly fifteen tries, but I did it.

After making sure the gentle wind would not kill the growing sparks of the fire, I turned and began to slide the fish I had caught earlier onto the spit.

Sir Grummore- my guardian- was bone tired from drinking and gallivanting around the camp all day, and so it fell onto me, a lowly squire, to cook the meal.

He wasn't a bad person, really. He had told me of when he had spirited me away from the streets I had called home in my youth to his home, where he acted as a father figure.

When the red flames of the fire finally licked the dried leaves, the fire exploded with orange sparks and burning heat. I smiled softly at my victory before placing the spit over the fire and moving back a ways. I didn't want to risk being burnt.

I returned to the whetstone near my tiny tent, watching the fish out of the corner of my eye. Lord have mercy on my soul if I let our dinner burn.

I began to sharpen Sir Grummore's sword, running the blade along the sharpening stone. From the moment he had rescued me, Grummore had trained me to be his squire, because he did not want nor feel the need to train another boy squire just for the squire in question to run to Sir Ector.

And so Grummore's solution to his conundrum was to pick a tiny girl off of the corner of Winchester and disguise her as a boy so that there was no risk of another escaped squire.

That was me. A girl who acted as a boy.

Grummore must've heard me begin to sharpen his sword, because he emerged from his much larger tent and staggered to the whetstone.

"Lyra, are you positive the fish are not burning? And are you almost done with the blade? I need to eat soon." Grummore was clearly drunk, and I was almost surprised to hear my real name. My guardian rarely called me anything but 'boy' in public.

"You will get your food in due time, Sir. But the sword will need more than a mere three minutes of sharpening. Perhaps you should lie down, and I will bring your food to you."

"Aye, boy, that'll do. Make sure you knock before you open the door!" Grummore let out a childish giggle, one that looked awkward for a man of his great size, before turning back to his tent and ducking inside.

I sighed, but unfortunately I had to do this often. Grummore loved his beer a little too much, and he had plenty of access to the funds for his excursions.

I returned to the fire, abandoning the sword for now, and gently removed the spit onto a cooling rack of wood and leaves. I would wait for the fish to completely cool before giving any to Grummore in his current state.

I doubted he would have been drinking tonight if he wasn't worried about his turn to try and pull the famous sword from the stone tomorrow.

The sword was why I had been dragged halfway across the country. All the knights, noblemen, and peasant men were here to try their hand at relieving the sword from its stony confines in the churchyard across the street from the campgrounds.

The reason for this hurry to possess the sword was simple: the day of the king's death, the sword had appeared- buried to the hilt in a block of marble- with the inscription:

Who so pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is the rightwise born king of England.

Clearly, everyone who attended the Stone Tournament thought they were the born king of England. I, personally, believed that the king should be strong and wise, not weak and greedy, as many of the men who had flocked to the sword like geese to a breadcrumb.