Cocktails in Camelot

by Marianne Mancusi

  "Aye." Lancelot nods. "So he is stuck, as you are so fond of saying, between a rock and a hard place."

  I think for a moment, then get an idea. "Hey, Arthur," I call out. "Why don't you try to go mediate with them?"

  The entire court turns and stares at me. As a woman, I'm supposed to keep my mouth shut in court. But obviously no one else is going to speak, and hey, if I have a good idea, why should my being of the fairer sex mean I have to keep it quiet?

  "What is it you propose, Lady Kat?" Arthur asks, accepting my break in protocol. After my single-handedly saving his marriage, he owes me a favor or two.

  "I think you should go talk to their leader and find out why they're breaking the peace. They've got to have some reas—"

  "Lady, go back to your embroidery and leave war talk to the men," Mordred interrupts. "There is no speaking to the Saxons. They are uncouth barbarians who care for nothing but violence."

  Did I mention what a pain in the neck Arthur's son turned out to be? He alternates from hitting on me to insulting me on a daily basis. Also, he's so eager to become king someday that he has an opinion on everything. And he riles up all the bored knights with his brazen "when I'm king of Britain" speeches behind King Arthur's back. He's a total thorn in his father's side.

  "Nay, my son, Lancelot's sister is right," Arthur says in my defense. I give Mordred a triumphant smile. He sneers at me. "Mayhap the Saxons have a reason to be breaking the peace."

  "They could be starving and have, like, no food for winter," I propose. "After all, they're stealing cattle, not murdering townsfolk."

  "True." Arthur nods. "The oracles have predicted a long winter. Perhaps they worry for their children."

  "May all their bairns die of starvation. I will make a necklace of their bones," Mordred says gallantly. The knights cheer.

  "Silence!" Arthur commands in a loud voice. That shuts them up. Arthur is, of course, still king, even though the knights aren't all into his peaceful ways. "Hear this," he says, addressing the courier. "Tell King Pellinore that I will raise an army of five hundred, along with my closest knight companions. We will camp on the borderlands, and I will request an audience with the Saxon leaders. I will attempt to learn the reason for the attacks. If they are unwilling to talk, then we will fight."

  More cheers from the peanut gallery. I know they're betting on the fact that the Saxons are uncivilized barbarians who have no idea how to talk peace. I hope Arthur will be able to prove them wrong by uniting the Britons and Saxons under one rule. I mean, it's got to happen at some point in history—how else would the whole WASP thing come to pass?

  After court breaks for intermission, I find Lancelot at the back of the room. He looks distressed.

  "Hey, Lance," I greet him. "What's wrong?"

  He frowns. "Mordred. That boy is trouble. He should never have been declared Arthur's heir. He is nothing like his father. May Arthur live forever—I cannot imagine Mordred taking the throne."

  "Yeah, he's a total jerk, huh?"

  "He riles up the younger knights against the king. It is treasonous. But Arthur will not hear it. He loves his son and is blind to his evil ways."

  "Well, at least Arthur won this round," I say, trying to sound optimistic.

  "True. Though you do know what this means, do you not?" Lancelot asks.

  I sigh. "You're going with them."

  "Aye. I am Arthur's first knight. I must stand by his side during negotiations."

  "Do you have to?" I don't mean to be selfish, but we have such little time together. "How long is this going to take?"

  "It could take months."

  "Months?" I cry. I'd been thinking days. "How many months? I'm only going to be here for, like, seven more."

  "I cannot predict. It depends on whether or not we go to war," Lancelot says, leading me down the hall.

  "Can I come?"

  "Nay. The king would never allow it."

  "This sucks," I pout. Lancelot opens the door to his chambers and ushers me inside. After he closes and locks the door, he takes me in his arms. I press my head against his solid chest. "I am so going to miss you."

  "Aye, my darling," he whispers. "No more than I will miss you."

  * * *

  The army and knights take off, leaving us womenfolk stuck at the castle. Merlin's here, too—he's too old to fight in a war and, according to Arthur, too valuable to risk losing. But the old magician spends the majority of time holed up in his tower, and we barely see him. At one point, I approach him to do magic tricks for the court—in an effort to help pass the time in an entertaining fashion, you understand. But he refuses me outright. You know, for an all-powerful wizard, he really comes across as an old fuddy-duddy.

  The next month is boring as hell. Because I have no job, I find myself with a lot of downtime. After all, being a lady-in-waiting isn't that demanding a career. It's a lot easier than being a magazine editor, anyway, which involves writing and interviewing and traveling. Ladies-in-waiting…well, they pretty much just wait, though for what, I've yet to figure out.

  So yep, winter in Camelot is no fun. First of all, there's no central heating, obviously, and the castle is always damp and freezing. It's also extremely boring. With the wind whipping up the snow, no one goes outside. Instead, they stay huddled together by the fireplace, content to embroider everything in sight and spend hours weaving boring tapestries. As if the walls aren't already tackily covered in them.

  There's not even anything to read. The ancient scrolls in the library are all written in Latin, and unfortunately, smarty-pants me took French as a foreign language in high school saying, "why should I study a dead language like Latin?"

  "Guen," I say on one particularly brutally boring day. "I can't stand it anymore. I'm going completely stir-crazy."

  "Aye," she says sympathetically, looking up from her embroidery. She must have embroidered every dress in the kingdom by this point and never seems to get bored with it. "The winters here are long, I know."

  "It's a beautiful day outside. I'm going riding."

  She looks shocked. "Kat, you know that you cannot. It is too dangerous."

  "I'm not afraid of a little snow. Besides, Dior has four-hoof drive." I laugh at my little joke, wishing that once in a while someone would get my humor.

  "I do not mean from the snow. The danger comes from the marauding bandits and enemies of the king. Do you not remember what happened the last time you went out alone? You were kidnapped. This time Lancelot will not be there to save you."

  Okay, while I don't love the idea of her implying I need a man to save me—I am a feminist after all!—at the same time, I also don't relish the idea of being attacked by bandits—marauding or otherwise. One kidnapping is quite enough, in my opinion, for a lifetime.

  I sigh. Guenevere gives me a sympathetic look. "If you must be outside," she amends, "Why not take a stroll in my walled garden? I know it's not very large, but at least you will have fresh air to breathe. And some time to yourself to think."

  I nod slowly. It's better than nothing, I suppose. And it'll at least get me out of the castle proper for a few precious moments. Maybe I can even build a snowman or something. (Yes, I am actually that bored.)

  So I bundle up in my best fur cloak and head out to the secret garden. No one's allowed out here except royalty, which means I'll have the place to myself. I close the door behind me and wander down the path. Soon I come to the center of the garden where I stop and look around.

  I have to admit, the scene is breathtaking—a total winter wonderland. The pure white snow blankets the garden, with no black dirt from cars to muck it up. Icicles drip from tree branches, looking like fairy magic wands. In delight, I start humming a Christmas carol, until some stupid invading bird starts squawking in protest over my admittedly bad singing voice.

  Just as I'm about to start on that snowman, a noise behind me makes me whirl around. My eyes widen as I see a small, stooped woman, dressed in peasant attire standing in the center of the g
arden looking around. Where the heck did she come from? Startled and confused, I stand still for a moment, staring at her. She looks vaguely familiar…

  It's then that I realize she's one of the cooks from the kitchen. Awesome. So much for my fortress of solitude. I wonder if it would be rude to remind her this is kind of a royals-only place—and she's definitely not on the list. Or maybe I just need to forget it and come back later. Why is she here anyway? Is she meeting some lover or something? One thing I have definitely learned about medieval times—privacy is at a premium.

  Then again, she could also be a thief. Maybe she's here to steal something. I should at least address her. See if she seems at all suspicious.

  "Hey there," I call out to her. "Can I help you?"

  She screeches in surprise—evidently she didn't expect anyone to be out here either. She turns to me, her face as white as a ghost. "M'lady," she says, "please do not tell Queen Guenevere I have entered her garden," she begs. "I am only looking for my daughter."

  "Your daughter?"

  "She is only two summers old and has wandered off. I have searched high and low in the castle and cannot find her. I thought perhaps she could have snuck out here." Her voice cracks with worry, and my heart goes out to her.

  "I'm sure Guenevere won't mind. What does she look like?"

  "Fair of face and skin. Blue eyes. A sweet lass with a gentle laugh."

  "Blonde, blue-eyed, good laugh. Okay. And where was she last seen?"

  She pauses, looking worried. "A manservant told me he saw her slip into the tunnels. I had come out here, praying it was not true." She looks around. "But I see her not. So I suppose it must be."

  I cock my head in question. "Tunnels?"

  "Under the castle. There is a labyrinth of tunnels." Her chin wobbles. "If she truly has gone below ground, we may never find her again."

  "I'm sure that's not true," I say, my heart going out to her and the look of terror on her face. "Here, why don't we go look for her together?" At least that will give me something to do to pass the time. Something more worthwhile than building a snowman anyway.

  She nods, looking relieved. "If you're sure it is no trouble…"

  "It's no trouble," I insist, suddenly feeling rather magnanimous. Why, if I were a ruler of Medieval Britain, I'd be the one who helped all the peasants. The people would love me. I'd be known throughout the land as Katherine the Generous.

  I follow her out of the garden and down a long passageway until we come to a door I hadn't noticed before now. It opens with a large creak, sure enough revealing a staircase, descending into the darkness.

  Like very, very dark darkness.

  "Uh," I stammer. "Do you have a candle or something?"

  She nods and takes off, returning a moment later with a lit candle. I take it from her, still feeling a little doubtful, but then I catch the look on her face again. Okay, fine. Katherine the Generous. Let's get to being generous.

  I step down into the darkness, and the stairs creak under me. The woman follows close at my heel. I turn to her.

  "What's the child's name?" I ask.

  "What?"

  "The child's name," I repeat, a weird shiver tripping down my back. "You know, your daughter."

  "Oh! Her name is… Her name is Sarah."

  The hesitation in her voice causes me to pause. My heart thumps uneasily in my chest, and suddenly, I'm getting a very bad feeling about this. "You know, maybe I should go get the guard to help us," I say, heading back up the stairs. "Like you said, there are a ton of tunnels. We're going to need a lot more assistance if we're going to—"

  But I never finish what I'm going to say. And I never reach the door. Because at that moment, something large slams against the back of my head, and I crumple to the ground.

  "Oh yes," I hear a strangely familiar voice cackle before I pass out. "Actually, I think I've got it from here, thank you very much."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I wake up sometime later with a splitting headache beating a painful rhythm at the back of my brain. I look around. I'm on a straw cot in a small, circular room. It looks a lot like my original room in Camelot—the tower—but it's not. I climb out of bed, realizing someone has changed me out of what I was wearing earlier. I'd be pissed off at this, except they've replaced the clothing with a black silk gown. Finally, back in black! Oh, dark color, I've missed you so.

  But enough about fashion. We've got much bigger problems here. I walk over to the door and pull.

  It's locked.

  Oh, who's kidnapped me now? This sucks. I can't believe this is the third freaking time I've been held against my will. Being a girl in the Middle Ages sure isn't very safe. And this time, there will be no Lancelot to rescue me, since he's off fighting the Saxons. Not good.

  Why, oh why, did I have to stick my neck out for that cook? She looked so helpless, so worried. But clearly it was all an act. And me, being bored and so very generous, fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

  The door opens, and a very large, rather familiar-looking woman walks in, shutting the door behind her. She must weigh about three hundred pounds, and is dressed entirely in black. On her head is a huge, gaudy tiara with tacky colored gemstones. It's like she's worried that someone might mistake her for a person other than a queen and is trying to overcompensate for something.

  "Madam," I say, attempting to be polite, "where am I?"

  She smiles—not the nice, kind smile that one would hope for, but more of a sickly, evil-looking smile. "The name of this place matters not. Only know this: you are my prisoner, and you will be sacrificed for your sins on the night of winter solstice."

  "What?" I cry, horrified. "You've got to be kidding me!" She wants to sacrifice me? Like, really? Did they even do that back then? And what the hell "sins" have I committed?

  "Do not play innocent with me, Katherine du Lac. I know exactly what you did. I put a truth spell on Lamorak, and he told me everything."

  "Who the hell is Lamorak?" I ask, then remember. Lamorak was the knight Lancelot sent to tell Queen Morgause that her husband was…

  Uh-oh.

  "You're Queen Morgause," I say, putting two and two together. I realize I should have remembered her from when she brought Mordred in to see Arthur. But that day I was more interested in checking out incest boy than his mother.

  "Some call me that. Others use my faerie name, Morgan Le Fay." She laughs—make that an evil cackle.

  Oh, this is not good. I'm held captive by Morgan Le Fay, uber-bad witch in all the King Arthur stories. Worse, she seems to believe I killed her husband. Which, technically, could be argued was a complete accident.

  My heart is beating wildly with fear, but I try to play it cool. Maybe I can negotiate—talk her out of it.

  "Look, I'm sorry about your husband's death. But it was a total accident. You can't go by what Lamorak says. He didn't even see it. He came by after Lot was already dead." She's not looking any more convinced, so I decide to try another tactic. "Besides," I say, "I don't know why you'd be all worked up over the incident. Really, I did you a favor. You should have heard what he was saying about you behind your back."

  Morgause or Morgan or whatever it is she wants to be called narrows her eyes. "And what might that be?"

  Ah, caught her interest. "Oh, he was saying all this stuff about how you were no good in bed anymore since you'd gotten, er…" Wait—am I going to insult her more by saying this? "Since you've, um…"

  "Gotten fat as a pregnant pig?" Morgause/Morgan asks.

  A bit relieved, I nod. "I don't think he used those words exactly."

  "Lot was a tyrant of a king and a horrible husband," the witch admits. "In fact, truth be told, I loved him not. Still, he kept me in fine jewels and allowed me to run his kingdom while he was off raiding and raping. Without him, I must relinquish power to one of my sons—brats, loyal to Arthur, the lot of them. The independent kingdom of Orkney will now become nothing but another one of Arthur's provinces. So in my thinking, your action
s are responsible for the demise of a kingdom. And therefore, I believe you should pay."

  "Don't you think Arthur will be a little pissed if he finds out you killed me?" I ask, trying to stay brave. "After all, I'm Lancelot's sister."

  "He will not know what happened to you. Nor will anyone at Camelot. For all they know, you have been eaten by wolves."

  * * *

  This sucks the big one. I still can't believe that I'm freaking captured for the third time since I've been in Camelot. I mean, really, that seems a little excessive, don't you think? Of course, this time, things are much, much worse, 'cause, like, no one has any idea where I am, and also there's that whole I'm going to sacrifice you to the goddess thing, which is clearly bad.

  What will Lancelot think when he comes back from the peacekeeping to find out that I disappeared without a trace? Will he go out and look for me? By then, it will be way too late. I'll be dead—sacrificed to some pagan-goddess type. Will he mourn me? Find comfort in the arms of Guenevere? How long will it take him to get over me?

  I toss and turn in bed night after night, unable to find comfort in sleep. When I do manage to shut my eyes for a few hours, I have fitful, longing dreams for Lance—being in his arms, having him whisper his love, only to be torn from his embrace with violent force. When I wake up, I ache for him. It's such a weird, un-Kat-like feeling. Maybe it's because I'm pretty vulnerable right now—being this close to death and all.

  I wonder if Lance is having the same kinds of thoughts and dreams as I am. When he's guarding Arthur from the Saxons, is he wishing he were back at Camelot, where he believes me to be? How much of his day is spent thinking about me?

  I feel totally pathetic for wondering, but I can't help it. There's a lot of downtime being locked in a tower. There's absolutely nothing to do. I'm actually wishing I had some of that awful Camelot embroidery to work on. At this point, having a needle and thread would rate right up there with going on a free Neiman Marcus shopping spree. I mean, I can be in fear of my life only so many hours of the day. The other twenty-three and a half I'm going out of my mind with inactivity. My kingdom for a Facebook feed.