What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go? Back to the castle? No, there I was a prisoner. But where else? It'll be dark in a few hours, and I don't have a place to sleep. The guards said it's dangerous for a woman out here alone. What if some bad guy comes and—
"Well, well, well. What have we here?"
Speak of the devil. I look up—way up—at the hugest black horse I have ever seen. Astride the horse is a virtual giant in coal-black armor. He lifts his helmet off his head, revealing an ugly, battle-scarred face, more hideous than the Elephant Man's. His eyes are cold, calculating, with a cruel mouth twisted in an evil smile. Oh no. This is not good.
I glance around, desperately trying to assess my situation and develop an escape plan, but find myself surrounded. At least twenty men on horseback circle the glade, all watching me with lecherous eyes. Somehow I get the impression that these are not any of Arthur's loyal Knights of the Round Table, but renegades out for blood. My blood.
I try to stand up, to run, but trip over a sunken root and fall flat on my face. As I begin to rise, I feel a sharp metal point press against the back of my neck. I reach back to grab the offending object and instant heat burns my palm. I bring my arm forward to examine my hand. Blood seeps through a huge slice of skin—a battle wound garnered from grabbing onto what I suddenly realize is aimed at my neck.
A sword.
"Now, now, my pretty," the black knight coos with an evil chuckle. "I would be loath for you to run away and miss the party." He presses the point of the blade into my neck, and I stifle a cry as the steel pierces my skin. I can feel a trickle of hot blood drip down my back. Tears threaten my eyes again, but I refuse to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
Instead, I grit my teeth. "Party? I love parties," I manage to spit out. "Bring it on."
CHAPTER FOUR
Okay, if I'd known the so-called "party" was more than a day's trip on horseback, I never would have RSVP'd. You have no idea how uncomfortable it is to be hog-tied to a hairy beast and ride all day down a dusty trail. I'm filthy. I smell like horse poop and have long ago lost all feeling in my butt.
The never-ending trip's also given me never-ending time to think. And four hours later, I'm not any closer to figuring out what the hell has happened to me.
For one thing, the whole time we've ridden I've seen not one sign of twenty-first-century civilization. No planes have flown overhead. We've passed over no paved roads. Here and there we come across these little thatch-roofed huts in the forest, and every single one of them looks medieval. So I'm thinking my original theory of this all being one big reality show is out. It's too grand a scale to be fake. Too elaborate.
Okay, on to options two and three. Either I'm dreaming-slash-in-a-coma or the gypsy's spell really sent me back in time.
Since the whole time-travel idea is so out there, I temporarily decide to give the nightmare-slash-coma theory a turn. I imagine myself lying motionless in a hospital bed, my mother sitting patiently at my side, tears in her eyes, begging me to wake up. After all, I did get hit on the head with a sharp piece of wood. I do remember that.
However, if this is true and I'm really in a coma, I've got a major bone to pick with my subconscious. I mean, would it have been so wrong to go with a coma dream involving sandy white beaches and gorgeous, tanned waiters bringing an endless supply of margaritas to my lounge chair by the water? But no! My brain decides a mind trip to dirty, smelly medieval England would be a cool way to while away the unconscious hours.
Sigh. Well, since I'm here, I might as well play along, right? I mean, what else do I have to do? Though my dream kidnappers aren't being very cooperative. They refuse to tell me where we're going and also what will become of me when we get there. I do learn, from overhearing scraps of their conversations, that the black knight isn't only a knight but also a king named Lot. He and his cronies are from the Orkneys, which is apparently someplace far north. From their accents, I guess my imagination wants me to think they're Scottish, though it lacks the creativity to conjure up kilts, so I can't ask them if they're wearing anything under them to make conversation.
I do try to tell them about my great-grandmother on my father's side who was (or I guess "will be" in this case?) Scots-Canadian—making us practically kin—but they don't seem to care, and at this point they stop to gag me with a stained rag that is not at all hygienic. So help me, if it gives me a cold sore…
Oops, sorry. Brain fart. Can't catch cold sores from dream rags! Duh. But at certain moments the whole thing seems pretty darn real—tastes pretty darn real, too, and I almost forget it's all in my head.
Of course, if for some strange reason this isn't a dream, then I'm royally screwed. I mean, imagine if it were a real scenario! Kidnapped by a bunch of scary-looking guys who force me to ride all day toward some unknown location in the middle of nowhere. Pretty scary. But I will my heart to stop pounding and my hands to stop shaking. After all, it's only a dream. It's gotta be!
The sun dips beneath the trees, and when we come to a clearing, King Lot decides it's a good spot to set up camp for the night. Oh, great. Camping. Why, brain, why? You know I hate camping!
I once dated a guy who was the real outdoors type. He insisted I would love camping if I gave it a try. Since he was way cute, I reluctantly agreed to a weekend trip to the Poconos. Well, after a romantic dinner of freeze-dried, "just add water" beef stew, a mosquito-bitten make-out session by a smoky fire that stung my eyes, and a night of sensual in-tent lovemaking, complete with rocks and roots gouging my back at every thrust, I had enough camping for a lifetime and demanded I be taken back to civilization immediately. Needless to say, my poison ivy lasted longer than our relationship.
"Isn't there a hotel or something nearby?" I ask hopefully, as one of the rogues removes my gag. They had hotels back then, right? I think hard, trying to conjure a dream hotel with my imagination. Who knows, maybe I have magic powers in my coma dream. Unfortunately, no hotels materialize out of thin air. (Did I mention that this dream really sucks?)
"An inn?" I suggest. "A tavern with rooms for rent, maybe? That way you could even get beer! Come on," I try to cajole. "You know you want a bed and a brew. It'll be so much better than sleeping on the ground. Maybe you'll even meet a nice serving wench and—"
"Och, the fine lady doesna want to lie on the forest floor," Lot says to his men, in a totally unwarranted poor-little-rich-girl tone.
"She can lie on me instead," one of the men suggests with a leer. I shoot him a dirty look. As if!
"Nay, the wee lass will be sleeping in my tent tonight," Lot corrects, sliding off his horse. "Though I canna guarantee she will get much rest,"
Catcalls and cheers from the gang, of course. I, on the other hand, swallow hard, my heart now thrumming madly in my chest as I suddenly get a good mental picture of what he plans to do with me. Let's just say, dream or no, I am so not going down that road. At least, not without a fight.
Two men drag me off the horse. As my legs hit the ground, they buckle, having lost circulation from the long trip on horseback. I fall with a thud, and pain shoots up my back. I bite my lip—this is no time to cry like a baby.
They pull me to my feet and drag me over to a tree, then sit me down, my back against the trunk, and wrap heavy corded ropes around my middle.
Big pavilion-like tents get set up, and a couple of men spark a roaring fire. I still haven't woken up. I try all my standard wake-up-from-bad-dreams tricks. I pinch myself, squeeze my eyes open and shut repeatedly, count to three, then four, then pinch myself harder, and go so far as to bang my head against the tree trunk. The masochistic wake-up tactics get more and more violent, but still I remain tied to a tree in jolly old England.
I'm starting to get more than a little uneasy at this point. What if it isn't a dream? The gypsy's words haunt me once again. What if…? No. That's crazy. It couldn't happen. Could it? And if it did, what do I do now?
I wish I had paid more attention in school, re
ad the ends of the Jules Verne and Mark Twain novels, instead of skimming the CliffsNotes and ending my reports with "if you want to know the exciting conclusion, read the book!" Then I'd at least have a clue as to how you get back to the twenty-first century if you have the unfortunate experience of being sent back in time. Now I realize the only back-in-time thing I ever saw the end of was Back to the Future, and Michael J. Fox's trip from the fifties back to the big-haired, acid-washed eighties required a DeLorean going eighty-eight miles an hour. Since cars won't be invented for about another millennium, I don't think I'll live long enough to try that tactic.
Wake up, Kat! Please, please wake up!
It's no use. I can't wake up. And as time passes, I'm getting more convinced that the reason why I can't wake up is because I'm not asleep. However it happened, whatever it is, it's too real to dismiss as a nightmare. I can smell. I can taste. I can feel, see, and hear. I'm really here.
Of course, accepting that fact means accepting the fact that I'm in pretty serious trouble. If I'm really here, then I'm really tied to a tree. I'm really going to get raped. And I'm really in serious danger of getting killed. Oh my God. This is horrible. How did I get here? And more important, how do I get back?
Don't even go there, Kat. Just chill out.
Two of the men return to the camp carrying several dead rabbits by the ears. Perhaps it's the thought of my impending doom, but I'm feeling oddly sentimental all of a sudden. I can't help but think back fondly on my bunny, Thumper, that I had growing up. He was litter-box trained and everything. Used to hop around my room and beg for carrots…
I shake my head. What am I thinking? I've got to focus on my situation, not childhood pets. What do I do? How do I escape? Maybe I can slip out while they're sleeping. Problem is, that's a time period that will occur after the disgusting king has had his way with me—a scenario I'd like to avoid if at all possible.
They gut, skin, and skewer the rabbits with long sticks and hold them over the roaring fire. Disgusting. But suddenly the smell of cooked meat permeates the air, and I breathe in. I'm starving. Forget Thumper—if they offer me roasted bunny, I'm eating. In fact, at this point I'd gladly eat a whole loaf of white bread or a big baked potato, Atkins be damned. After all, what difference does gaining ten pounds make if cameras haven't been invented to add ten more? Unfortunately, it appears they're planning on being less than generous with the rations. Jerks.
"Hey!" I cry. "How about some food over here?"
"Ah, the lass wants to put something in her mouth," one of the men says with a laugh.
"I'll gladly give her something to suck on," says another, hands on hips and thrusting his groin in the air. "Ye think the wee lass would like a large piece of Orkney meat, perchance?" The rogues roar with laughter. I shake my head in disgust. Men. From the same planet Mars now as they are in the twenty-first century.
"Well, we all know your mother does," I retort, a rather halfhearted attempt at a "your mother" joke.
The man's face darkens. He strides over to the tree and actually hits me! I flinch as pain shoots through my already-sore body but refuse to give him the satisfaction of letting him know. "You shall leave me mother out of this," he growls. "A finer woman never walked the earth."
Gotta love it. "Your mother" insults are apparently timeless. Still, so's a punch in the face. I bite my lip, trying not to cry as pain throbs behind my cheek. Bastard.
As they get drunker and drunker, the men's laughter, tales, and songs get louder and louder. Turns out they don't need to go to a bar because they evidently carry their very own porto-tavern on one of the pack mules. Well, the poor beast will have a lighter load tomorrow, that's for sure.
For a little while, I hold on to the vain hope that King Lot may actually drink himself to oblivion before getting me alone in the tent. But soon he stretches his arms above his head and announces his retirement for the evening. The men cheer and whistle and make disgusting remarks not suitable to repeat as he walks over, unties me, and drags me into the tent. I try kicking and screaming, but he's too strong.
"D'ya see this dagger?" he asks as he shoves me to the ground inside the tent. The glint of metal reflects the light of a lone candle. I nod, trying not to quiver with fear. I don't want him to know I'm petrified. "Try to escape and ye'll feel it as well."
"What do you want with me?" I ask, pulling my knees to my chest and huddling against the wall of the tent. He takes a seat on the floor and begins whittling a piece of wood with the knife. I swallow hard and try to control my breathing. I'll certainly never be able to fight my way out of this one. My only chance is to stall for time. I remember a friend telling me about when her ex-boyfriend used to show up at her house drunk, demanding sex. If she blabbed on long enough, he'd usually pass out before making his move. Lot doesn't look too far from the passing out stage, so maybe…
"So," I say, forcing my voice to stay calm and confident. Like I'm trapped in tents with medieval knights all the time, and he doesn't frighten me a bit. "Are you going to take me back to your black castle and make me your captive queen or something?" Okay, not very stimulating conversation, but it's a start.
He laughs, totally taking the bait. Even sets the knife down, to my relief. "I already have a queen. Queen Morgause. Arthur's half sister."
"Maybe you shouldn't cheat on her with me then," I suggest, not very hopeful that fidelity means anything to a man like this.
"Aye, but my queen is no longer good for rutting," he explains with a chuckle. "She has borne four sons. Five, if you count—" He stops abruptly, then changes the subject away from the fifth kid. Hmm. Wonder what that's about. "Now a man could get lost in her ample flanks."
"Huh?" I scrunch my eyes. "You mean she's gotten fat?"
"I have seen smaller cows grazing in the fields." Lot sighs. "But you," he says, turning to me with a lusty eye. "Ye're ripe for the plucking, you are. Fair and sweet."
"Sweet? Dude, have you had your nose checked lately? I smell like crap right now. I haven't bathed in, like, two days."
Lot shrugs, putting down the knife and wood and crawling closer until his face is inches from mine. My breath hitches in fear. He rakes a grimy hand over my hair, and I shudder, suddenly realizing why he doesn't think I smell. He positively reeks.
"Ye're a pretty one, ye are," he says in what he must think is a sexy tone. As if at this point, after taking me hostage and making me ride all day tied to a horse, he actually thinks he can turn me on with a little foreplay. Puh-leeze! I ponder kicking him where it counts, but the dagger lying next to him prompts me to behave. This guy is psycho, and I really don't want to piss him off until I'm sure I can get away.
Come on, Kat. Think.
"So let me get this straight," I say, trying again to talk my way out of this inept scene of seduction. Maybe I can make him feel guilty or something. "Your wife is stuck at home with four boys, and you're out in the woods screwing other chicks 'cause she gained a little weight? That's a little shallow, don't you think?"
He scowls but, to my nose's relief, sits back. "They are not four boys but knights full-grown. Gawain, Agravine, Garheis, and my youngest, Gareth. Strapping, strong lads, all of 'em." He flexes his own huge muscled arms for emphasis. I have to grudgingly admit he does have a good body. Maybe—if he took a yearlong bath, shaved his beard, got a haircut, and made friends with a dentist—just maybe he could be a halfway decent-looking guy. Kind of looks like a hairy Vin Diesel. Of course, it goes without saying that he'd also have to work on his personality and his way with women.
Okay, face it, Kat—he's a lost cause.
"But they didna stay home with me wife. Nay, they joined up with that bastard Arthur and vowed their allegiance to him. Denounced their own liege lord." He pauses, then adds in a hurt tone, "And their da."
I almost feel bad for the guy, but I can also see why the kids wouldn't want to stick around. I don't know what Lot's kingdom looks like—it could be quite charming—but if his band of knights are any indication
, I wouldn't live there for all the purses in Prada. With a dad like Lot, the poor kids probably flew the coop the moment they turned eighteen, if not sooner.
Still, maybe sympathizing with him will get his mind off the task at hand. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Kids can be so cruel," I coo.
"No matter," Lot says, picking his fingernails with the knife. "Now that I have you, that is."
"Huh?"
"By the look of yer clothes, ye be a fine lady. Arthur will pay dearly for yer return."
"Actually—"
"Ye, my lady, are the pawn. 'Tis simple. Arthur sends back me boys, which are rightfully mine by blood, and I will give him back his fine lady."
Is that his big plan? Oh, man, he's going to be pissed when he finds out who I am. I clear my throat. "I really hate to burst your bubble, Lotty, but I'm not even from Camelot."
Lot's face darkens. "You what?"
"They held me prisoner. Thought I was a Saxon, whatever that is. Which I'm not, by the way. But as far as coughing up four knights for my return? I doubt you'll even get one." I sigh. "You know, you should have asked me while we were closer to the castle. Would have saved you a lot of time and effort in the long run. Then you could have found some other lady running around the woods. Now you've wasted, like, a whole day dragging me out here when I'm not even the one you want."
Lot glares at me, his face beet red with anger. "You tricked me."
Tricked him? Yeah, right. What, was I wearing a sign on my back saying, Kidnap Me, Hold Me For Ransom, And You'll Get Your Kids Back? Funny, I don't think so.
"I didn't trick you. You assumed. And you know what assuming does, don't you? It makes an ass out of you and me."
Lot's body stiffens with rage. "Are ye calling me an arse, woman?"
I know I should shut up—any normal sane person would shut up now—but I'm on a roll. "If the Manolo fits…"
Smack! His hand makes contact with my face, and I realize my big mouth has now gotten me into a lot of trouble. Now, not only have I completely antagonized him, I've also announced, in not so many words, that I'm as disposable as a Bic razor. Fear-induced adrenaline pumps through my body. I've pushed him too far. Now he'll probably kill me after the raping. Stupid, Kat. Very, very stupid!
Cocktails in Camelot Page 5