"And what of you, sister of Lancelot? Might you have any lessons you want to teach me?" He gives me a disgusting leer. "I promise I'd be a very good pupil."
Um, ew? Is he seriously hitting on me?
"No offense, Mordy," I start, wanting to let him down easily. He is the heir apparent, after all. Gotta play nice. I mentally try to summon all the "Ten Ways to Reject a Guy in a Nice Way" articles I've read over the years. Problem is, I usually skipped those articles and went straight to the more pertinent "Ten Ways to Survive Being Rejected in a Nice Way" ones. "But I'm not interested in starting a relationship right now. It's not you," I add hastily, lest he get offended. "It's me."
He sighs, deeply and dramatically. As if he's been pining for me all his life, not the last ten minutes. "Have you already given your heart to another, then?"
I have to think for a moment on how to answer that one. If I say yes, he's bound to follow up with a "who" question. If I say no, he's going to want to know what's wrong with him. I'm doomed.
"Actually, yes," I lie, making my decision. "A lover back in, um,"—where was I supposed to have come from again?—"Little Britain. We are engaged to be wed."
"I see." Mordred looks disappointed but like he's buying it. He gets up from the table. "Please excuse me." Evidently, now that I'm taken, I'm not worth talking to. Typical. He walks over to the other end of the table to where his mother sits stuffing her face.
Arthur leans over to me, having overheard the convo between Mordred and me. "I did not know you were betrothed, Kat. Who is the lucky fellow?"
Oh, great. I know I'm going to regret this. "A fine gentleman," I say, digging my grave a little deeper. "Named Henry. Henry…Cavill." Hey, if I'm going to score a fake fiancé, he might as well be Superman, right?
"It is lovely to hear about two young people in love," Arthur says with a sigh. "I do not know if Queen Guenevere will ever forgive me for what has transpired today."
I give him a rueful smile. "She will," I assure him. "It just takes time."
"She was but a young girl when we were first wed," Arthur says, staring at his plate and picking at a chicken bone with his dagger. "So sweet. So shy. So very beautiful." He sets the knife down on the table. "I fell in love with her the minute I laid eyes on her."
Well, that's interesting. Arthur loves her. And I can tell he's being totally honest. His wistful eyes give it away.
"You must understand, Lady Kat, the incident with Morgause happened many, many years before I even met my Guenevere. And while many a king might find it pleasing to take on a lover, since I married the queen, I have never lain with anyone else. I love her with all my heart and soul. She is the sunshine in my otherwise dark and tormented life. She gives me the courage and will to rule Camelot. Without her, I am nothing."
I raise an eyebrow at the declaration of love. Does Guenevere have any idea he feels this way? If she does, she hasn't let on to me about it. Then again, men can be so closemouthed. I'm willing to bet twenty bucks he hasn't told her any of this.
"Does Guenevere know?"
"Pardon?" Arthur cocks his head.
"The stuff you're telling me. Do you ever say that to Guen?"
Arthur absently rubs his beard with his thumb and forefinger, lost in thought. "Unfortunately, I do not believe I have declared my love to her for some time now," he says, his voice sorrowful. "At times, being high king causes me to be somewhat remiss in my husbandly duties."
"Don't beat yourself up about it," I say, playing shrink. "Sometimes when you're married for a long time, your career can get in the way. You get busy. You stop hanging out together. You begin to live separate lives." Man, I sound like a self-help book. "But it's never too late. Well, I mean, sometimes it is, but in your case I bet it isn't. Guen just needs some TLC right now. Uh, that's tender loving care." I pat him on the arm. "Why don't you go tell her how you feel?"
"You are right. I must speak with her," Arthur agrees. "Immediately. Where is she?"
Which brings us back to the real question. "Last I saw, she was in her bedroom."
Arthur nods. "Page," he calls to one of the young boy servants. "Attend to the queen's chambers, and ask her if she will join me."
Probably would have been a lot better if he went himself, but hey, at least he's making some sort of effort. I hope Guen will appreciate it. If she's not busy banging Lance, that is. Jealous worry creeps back into the pit of my empty stomach. I suck down a goblet of wine and try not to think about it.
A few minutes later the page returns—alone. The king rises from his seat. "Why do you return without the queen?" he demands.
The page bites at his lower lip, not looking like he enjoys his role as bearer of bad tidings to the king.
"The queen is not in her solar, milord," he says in a trembling voice.
"Well, then, perhaps she is taking a walk," Arthur reasons. "Go and look for her in her gardens."
"The thing is, milord," the page says, still stammering, "the queen's maid has informed me that the queen has left Camelot altogether." He swallows hard. "Promising never to return."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hang on, Kat. No need to panic. Just because Guenevere's gone doesn't mean Lancelot went with her.
"She's taken Lancelot with her," the page adds helpfully.
Okay, panic time. "Bastard!"
Oops. Did I say that out loud? The entire court turns and stares at me, then at Mordred.
"No, not him," I correct, annoyed. "Lancelot. And, uh, not in the literal sense."
Man, Nimue was right about keeping the guy on a short leash. I give him time off to go visit the queen for one teensy-weensy afternoon, and now they've both run away from home.
I clench my fists at my sides. How can he do this to me? Such a scumbag. Such a typical man. One minute he's all, "Oh, my darling, my darling," and the next he takes off with Arthur's wife. I am so going to kill him when I see him again.
"Lady Kat, have you information regarding this disappearance?" Arthur demands. Gone is the sweet Guen-lover. He's back in high-king mode. And he looks pissed. To give him credit, it must be pretty darned embarrassing to find out in front of the whole kingdom that your wife ran off with your number one knight.
"You've got to be kidding me," I retort, a little insulted. "You think I'd allow her to run away?" Or let Lancelot accompany her? I think but don't say.
Arthur nods thoughtfully. "Aye, I would think that you would have more sense than to let her go. However, the same might be said about Sir Lancelot. He is loyal to her to a fault and at times forgets that I am his king." He rises from his seat. "Guards, summon the knights. Saddle my steed. I want the entire country scoured if need be. Leave no stone unturned. My wife and Lancelot must be found." The hall erupts into action. When the king speaks, people listen, let me tell you.
But this kind of random looking doesn't really appeal to me. I need more information before I lead my own search party. After all, the kingdom of Camelot's at stake here, not to mention my all-inclusive first-class ticket back to the twenty-first century. I must find the queen and her knight before they do any relationship consummating.
Without bothering to excuse myself, I pull up my skirts and run to Guenevere's chambers as fast as my medieval slippers will carry me, (Which is admittedly faster than my Manolos would have, given the absence of the three-inch spiked heels.)
The door to the queen's apartments, luckily, is already open, saving me the trouble of having to slam my body against it this time. I burst in to find the same maid who had barred my entrance before, sitting quietly in a chair doing needlework.
"Wh-where is she?" I demand, bending over to rest my hands on my thighs—an attempt to catch my breath from the sprint. Being sick has done nothing for my stamina. I should start jogging around the castle or something.
The maid lifts her eyes and studies me seriously. "Where is whom?"
Oh, so she wants to play games, does she? I'll introduce her to one the cops play in the twenty-first centur
y. We call it interrogation.
I reach down and grab her by the neckline of her dress, yanking her to her feet. She drops her needlework and squeals in protest.
"I demand that you let me go!" she says, clawing at my hands.
I smile what I hope looks like a crazy, sadistic grin. "Not until you tell me where the queen is."
"Never." She purses her lips together in defiance.
Okay, now what? I can't really hurt her. Well, technically I can, but look at all the trouble I got in last time, when I inadvertently helped kill King Lot. And he was a bad guy.
Time for plan B. I let go of her and nod my head.
"Very good."
"I beg your pardon?" the young maid questions, squinting at me in confusion.
"Guenevere said you were loyal to her. Guess she was right," I explain in my most businesslike tone. "She sent me to test you. To make sure you would not, even under threat to your life, tell anyone where she's gone."
The idiot maid beams, her brown eyes alight with joy at the compliment.
"What's your name, miss?" I query, straightening her neckline for her.
"Ina, milady. I have been with the queen since she first came to the palace. And I would rather die than let anything happen to her."
"Yes, yes. Of course," I say in an absent voice. I study her thoughtfully for a moment. "Though you gotta wonder: if you two are that tight—that close, I mean—then why didn't she take you with her?"
Ina looks slightly offended. "She would have, lady. But Lancelot—" She stops, probably wondering if she's revealing too much.
"Yeah, I hear you. I know how those knights can be," I say, not missing a beat. Damn it, where did they go, and what are they up to? I mean, if Lancelot's supposed to be, like, my boyfriend, why wouldn't he at least give me a heads-up before going away on a "business trip"?
"Oh, no, milady. Nothing against Lancelot," Ina hastens to explain. "He likes me."
"Yeah, yeah. Of course he does."
"He simply said that I was not needed, since Guenevere already has servants residing at Camelot Cottage. Therefore, I should stay here to tell whoever comes calling that the queen has left."
"I see." Bingo! I can barely restrain from hugging her. After all, I'm supposed to already know this information.
"However, they promised they will send for me when they are settled in." She sniffs, tears welling up in her eyes. "I miss her already."
Hmm… Now that I know where they are, what should I do? Go after them? How will I find my way? I obviously can't Google Maps it this time.
An idea does one of those lightbulb things above my head. Seriously, sometimes I'm such a genius, I can't stand it.
"Cheer up, Ina. That's why I'm here."
"I beg pardon?"
"Yeah, they told me to come collect you on my way to the cottage. Guess Guenevere couldn't bear to have you gone. So pack your bag, and let's be off."
"Oh, milady!" Ina's eyes shine through her tears, making me feel a little guilty about my deception. But desperate times and all that. "I shall pack at once."
"Cool. After you pack, can you hook us up with some transpo—I mean, can you acquire some horses for the journey? You do know the way to the cottage, don't you?"
Ina's face falls. "I am sorry, milady. I do not."
Sigh. So much for that plan.
"But my brother, who lives in the village, does," she adds helpfully. "He could be our guide."
Whoo-hoo!
"Great, Ina. You arrange it all and come to my room when you're ready. Third door down to the left. I'll be waiting." I pause. "And Ina, I don't have to remind you to keep this all on the down-low—er, to keep quiet, that is." Man, talking medieval is exhausting.
She nods enthusiastically, and I turn to walk out into the hallway and head for my suite. I hope Ina will be quick about it. I've got to get to Camelot Cottage soon, before something bad happens.
I need to get there before Guenevere and Lancelot start falling in love.
* * *
Ina's brother, a short, dumpy-looking dude with stringy black hair, does a decent job of leading us to Camelot Cottage. We get lost only once. Despite my pleadings, he refuses to ask for directions. Guess that annoying male trait goes back a ways. But to give him some credit, he does eventually find the trail again, and about an hour later, we cut through a clearing and find the cottage.
Cottage is really a misnomer for this place. It's more like a Mini-Me of Camelot the castle: white stone walls, small turrets waving dragon flags. It's even got its own little moat around it. Cute.
I have to say this Camelot Cottage looks nothing like the same-named Catskills establishment I once stayed at. Despite its adorable name, the New York one turned out to be nothing more than a no-tell motel, like dozens of others on the street. The lumpy bed even had one of those cheesy vibrating things. Since it rained most of that vacation, my boyfriend and I went through a lot of quarters.
There had better not be any bed vibrating taking place in this Camelot Cottage.
I climb off my horse and race to the front door. Will I catch them in the act? My heart squeezes, and I realize my hands are shaking. I pray that I'm wrong, but how can I be? The heartbroken queen took off with her favorite knight— the one, lest I forget, destined to fall in love with her. What else are they going to be doing? Playing Cards Against Humanity?
I push open the door and burst inside. As my eyes adjust to the darker room, I scan the scene—a cozy little space with simple wooden furniture and a roaring fire in its stone fireplace. The queen is at the far end, seated by the fireplace, staring into the flames. Lancelot is nowhere to be seen.
"Where's Lancelot?" I demand. Guenevere whirls around, startled. Her face breaks into a huge smile.
"Kat!" She jumps from her seat and runs over, throwing her arms around me in a big hug. "How ever did you find me? I'm so glad you did. I did not mean to run off and not tell you, of all people, where I was to go. But I fear 'twas a rash decision, and there was no time. I meant to send a messenger at first light. Really, I did."
She's happy to see me? She's been fornicating with my boyfriend, and she gives me this kind of welcome? I bite at my lower lip and repeat my question: "Uh, where's Lance?"
She beams. I try to discern whether it's an innocent beam or a you mean the man who just made love to me? one. "He's out hunting for dinner and should be back very soon. You will stay for dinner, will you not?" she asks.
"Uh, yeah, sure," I mutter. "Oh, your servant Ina's outside, by the way."
Guenevere's face lights up again. "Really? Oh, Kat, you are too wonderful to bring her here. There is a caretaker who could serve me, but she is old and half-blind—nothing like my wonderful little Ina. I must go out to greet her at once." The queen brushes past me in her haste to go see her maid friend.
Left alone in the cottage, I immediately start my sex investigation. Of course, I can't look for used condoms in the trash or anything like I would have back in my own time, but there's got to be some evidence of the dirty deed around.
I find a bedroom and start my search there. The bed's made—a good sign. Still, the furs could have been smoothed over afterward. I pull down the covers and take a sniff. No hint of Lancelot's patchouli scent—just a musty, old smell. No one's slept here for a while. I look for abandoned clothing on the floor. Nope.
Maybe they haven't had a chance yet. But are they planning to? That, as Hamlet might say, is the question. Still, Guenevere did seem pretty happy to see me. Would she be that overjoyed if she were planning a lovers' tryst with my boyfriend? After all, she knows we're a couple.
Do I have this all wrong? Hope surges through me. Oh, please, please let me be wrong.
"What are you doing here?"
I whirl around and smack into the hard chest of Lancelot. I look up, right into his puzzled blue eyes. He looks so good. I can't believe I've actually missed him in the short time he's been gone. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him senseless.<
br />
I shake my head clear. There will be no make-out sessions scheduled until he comes up with a damn good explanation as to why he took off with the queen to a remote cabin in the woods. And his answer had better be good.
"The real question would be: what are you doing here?" I demand, hands on hips, trying not to care so much. This is why I never get into serious relationships. I hate this powerless, desperate feeling. I take a step back, trying to stop the electricity that crackles between us.
He sighs, scratching his chin. "I am sorry about that. I had no choice."
No choice? There's always a choice. "You could have at least told me you were going."
"I tried," he says, and I can't help noticing how tired his eyes look, crinkling at the corners. "Your maid, Elen, told me you were sleeping and were not to be disturbed. She is rather firm, that one. When I tried to protest, she threatened to call a guard. Because of the queen's situation, I could not draw more attention to myself."
I frown. "I am so firing her when I get back."
"My darling," he says, stepping toward me and reaching up to stroke my head with his hand. I pull away, taking another step back. He sighs and withdraws his hand, a defeated look on his face. "I am sorry my leaving troubled you so. I would have been back for you as soon as the queen settled in."
"Yeah, but why'd you have to go in the first place?" I ask sulkily, flopping down on the bed.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "'Tis my job, woman. I told you before. This is the very reason Arthur asks that his knights stay celibate and loyal to the order." He's pacing now, staring at the floor.
"What, so they can run off with his wife?" I'm being difficult, but I don't care. I'm mad. Mad at him for being loyal to the queen. Mad at myself for being mad that he is.
"Kat, listen to me." He kneels at my feet, taking my hand in his. "I care for you deeply. But my position requires I be loyal to my queen above all."
"And what position might that be?" I ask, ripping my hand away. "Doggy style? Missionary? Oh, wait, you're more of a standing-up-against-a-tree kind of guy. Does Guenny like that one?"
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