After one particularly long day, the door creaks open, and Morgause/Morgan appears. She's dressed in yet another black outfit, but this one looks pretty formal. She wears a long black veil as well, obscuring her ugly face. Behind her are two beefy-looking guards.
"Tonight is the night of winter solstice," she announces. "When the old ones sacrificed a virgin to ensure a fruitful season." Her mouth is covered by the veil, but I can almost hear her evil grin. "This year, you will be that sacrifice."
"Listen, Le Fay," I say, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. "I gotta tell you, I'm not a virgin. In fact, I've had sex with, um"—I do a quick finger count—"nine different guys." Wow, that sounds like I'm a total slut. But I will gladly claim to be the Whore of Babylon if it saves my skin.
"One so young as you has had that many lovers?" She sounds shocked.
"Hey! Look who's calling the kettle black," I say, a bit offended. "At least I don't sleep with family members."
"No matter," she says, quickly changing the subject. "I care not for the rigid rules of the old ones. Nor do I really believe the goddess will bless any crops. It is enough to see you die."
Darn. There goes that argument. I've got to get out of here—fast. I look around for a weapon and find only a cup of water left over from my lunch. I grab it and throw it at the witch in an irrational hope that the rules of Oz apply, and she'll suddenly start melting like the Wicked Witch of the West. Unfortunately for me, she gets wet but not a bit melty and now looks even more pissed.
Morgause/Morgan gestures to the guards, who proceed to throw me down on the bed. I try to kick them, but one grabs my legs, effectively pinning me down like a mental patient in four-point restraints.
"Let me go!" I cry. What a waste of breath. Like they're going to say, "Oh, okay, since you asked so nicely, sure, we'll stop obeying our evil queen's commands and set you free." Not a chance.
They pull my hands behind me, and one ties a slipknot around my wrists. Then they do the same to my feet until I'm hog-tied. They lift me up and carry me out of the room.
I'm going to die.
Tears blind my vision as they lead me down the steps and outside the tower into the woods.
I'm going to be sacrificed.
The sound of druid chanting fills the air. We come to a clearing, and the guards lay me down on what appears to be some sort of sacrificial altar. I look around. Men dressed in black cloaks surround me, still chanting an evil-sounding chant.
I'll never see my family again. My Lancelot.
"Please," I cry. "I'll do anything. Just let me go." I have no pride at this point and try begging for my life, knowing it's pointless. I have zero bargaining power. Nothing they'd want.
I'm going to die.
I look up. Morgan stands above me, holding a long silver knife high above my head. The veil has fallen back from her face, and she stares down at me with evil eyes, chanting loudly in some foreign language.
Lancelot. My love.
I close my eyes. Funny, but I'd rather not watch as the knife comes crashing down, splitting my throat in two. I pray to God that death will come quickly, that if there is a heaven, I could go there instead of some druid-sacrifice hell. I can barely breathe because I'm so paralyzed with fear.
Please, God. Someone. Save me. Please. Please, plea—
"We are under attack!"
The chanting suddenly stops, replaced by cries of pain, cutting into the night. I open my eyes, straining my neck to see what's going on from my prostrate position. Men in black cloaks run frantically about, and I see them fall one by one, screaming in agony.
My heart thuds in my chest. Am I being rescued? By whom?
"No! He will not save you," Morgan cries, raising the knife. But before she can bring it down, thus ending my life, she screams and falls forward, landing on top of me. I'm crushed by her bloody frame.
Bleh!
I squirm around, trying to get her off me. Blood—her blood—splashes onto my gown and face. It's like a scene from Friday the 13th. Totally gross. But, of course, much better than if it were, say, my blood.
Suddenly the witch's lifeless body is pushed aside, and I'm swept up in strong arms—arms I'd know anywhere.
"Lancelot!" I cry.
The helmeted knight looks down at me for a moment, nods, then mounts his warhorse, still holding me like a baby in his arms. He urges the horse forward, and together we gallop into the night. Behind us, I hear the druids screaming, but the horse easily out gallops their chase on foot.
After about ten minutes of high-speed horse riding, the knight slows his steed with a low-voiced command. The horse comes to a stop, and the knight slides off, pulling me down with him. He places me gently onto the ground and removes his helmet. I cry in joy to see the familiar black hair tumble from his helmet. Lancelot. I knew it was him! He pulls out a knife from his boots and cuts my bindings. As soon as I'm free, I fall into his outstretched arms, rejoicing in everything that is him: his hot breath against my cheek, his musky scent, his solid chest.
"Oh, Lancelot," I sob, unable to hold back the tears. "I thought I was going to die. They were going to kill me. She knew I killed her husband, Lot, and she said—"
"Hush, my darling," Lancelot whispers, his words tickling my earlobe. "She is dead. And you are safe."
"How did you find me?" I ask, pulling away to meet his beautiful eyes. I see that he, too, is crying. I reach up to brush a tear from his stubbled cheek. "I thought you were negotiating with the Saxons."
"Aye," he says softly, running a hand through my hair. His touch gives me the chills. It's been too long since I felt him. And I honestly thought I never would again. "'Twas a strange course of events that brought me to you." He leans in to kiss me on the cheek. "We were camped out on a hilltop, waiting for negotiations to begin. Things were uneasy, and Arthur had told us to stand guard—the Saxons could reject our treaty of peace and attack at any moment. I drew last watch, and they bade me sleep till 'twas time to take my post. I went to my pavilion, thinking of nothing but how I missed you. How I longed to touch you again. To hear your sweet voice in mine ear. To ride and talk and make love."
I sigh contently. He did miss me. How could I have doubted it?
"I fell asleep soon after, thoughts of you still occupying my mind. That is when the nightmares began to take hold. Ugly visions of you, collapsing on a snowy ground. You, locked in a tower. You, sacrificed on that altar." He shudders as he remembers. "Then I opened my eyes and saw Nimue standing before me, as clear as you are here now. I knew not if I still dreamed or had awakened.
"She told me you were in grave danger and that if I loved you, I must go to the Forest Perilous immediately, or I should never see you living again." He swallows hard. "I woke soon after and did not know what to do. 'Twas coming on the time of my watch. And the next day I was to stand by Arthur's side as he conducted the negotiations. I was at a loss, truly. Should I disobey the king, my liege, for a vision? What if 'twas nothing but an ill dream, brought on by foul rations?"
"You chose me," I whisper in wonderment. The workaholic, the one who insists the king comes first, obviously decided to abandon his lord and come rescue me—even though he wasn't even positive that I needed any rescuing. I'm touched. No, that's too small a word for what I feel. I'm honored. Even that does not describe the depth of my feelings.
"I chose you," he agrees, leaning forward to kiss me softly on the lips. "I will always choose you."
If this were a movie, this is where the music would swell. This is the "We'll always have Paris" in Casablanca, the "Okay" in The Fault in Our Stars and a thousand other cheesy movie one-liners that always make me burst into tears over the power of love that, until this moment, I thought existed only in Hollywood's imagination. But now, as I feel like my heart has grown three sizes (like the Grinch after he heard all the Whos down in Whoville singing that annoying Christmas song even though they didn't get any presents), I realize that true love really does exist. And that I feel it for
Lancelot.
"I love you, Lancelot," I murmur.
I'm saying it first. I never say it first. It's too much of a risk of getting hurt. I would normally rather die than have a guy stammer and stutter after I open up my heart. But now I can't help it. I think if I didn't say it, my new big heart would have burst.
He pulls me close, burying his face in my neck. "Kat, my darling. I am truly honored to hear those words. I have waited so long to say them myself. I was afraid you would think me rash to declare my feelings for someone I knew not long. But I am deeply and utterly in love with you. I cannot even remember how I once lived an empty, lonely life before you came into it, and dare not think of a future without you by my side."
He loves me! He loves me! I want to dance and sing and spout poetry—I'm so excited. Instead I kiss him. Long. Hard. Passionately. Wanting to eat him alive. He loves me. He truly, truly loves me. He risked everything to save me.
The thought sobers me for a moment, and I pull away from our kiss. "Will you be in trouble?" I ask, a little worried. "Is Arthur going to be all pissed at you for abandoning him?"
He frowns. "I should think so. My act was one of treason. But the king is a kind, just man. When he hears that I acted only to protect my sister, I see not how he could fault me for my actions."
"You've got a point. And I'll back you up."
"However, I must tell you, my love—even were it that I am stripped of my very knighthood, 'twould have been worth it to save the life of my true love."
"Your true love. I like the sound of that." I grin and kiss him again. Arthur and his knights will have to wait. Lance and I have some catching up to do first.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After dropping me back off at Camelot with a stern warning never to leave the castle by myself again—as if I hadn't already learned my lesson from kidnapping-and-near-death-experience number two—Lancelot prepares to head back to Listinoise in case the peace talks are not going well. But before he can even change clothes, a courier arrives to the palace with a message for Guenevere.
"The king sends his love, my queen," the courier says, reading from his scroll. "And says he was able to ratify a new treaty of peace without any violent negotiations."
"Praise be to the goddess," Guenevere exclaims. She's been acting all tough, in control, and queenly, but I know in her heart she's extremely relieved to hear that her husband's out of harm's way.
Since the army is on their way back, Lancelot decides to stay in Camelot. He's a bit distracted, but I'm sure it's only due to the fact that he knows he's going to get ripped a new one when the king returns.
To keep his mind off of it, I decide to sew together some leather strips and create a crude-looking soccer ball. After all, I know for a fact that sports cheer guys up from just about anything. (Well, except when their team loses, and they end up walking around like big babies for weeks on end, moaning about the stupid, biased umpire.)
"We'll make this end my goal," I say, pointing to the space between two crumbling Roman statues in the courtyard. "And that can be yours. When you get your ball through those posts, you get a point. Whoever has the most points wins."
Lancelot nods, grabs the ball from off the ground, and runs through the goal. "Point?" he asks.
I sigh. "No, no, no! I forgot to mention you can't use your hands. Just your feet. And we really need a goalie—someone to block the goal." I look around and see Gareth, the youngest of the Orkney knights, and the only one not sent to Listinoise. I explain the concept, and he eagerly takes his place at my goal. Lancelot, in the meantime, recruits his own squire to stand guard in his end.
As we start playing, more and more knights, squires, young women, and children ask to join. Soon we have a whole team, an audience of older men and women, and a pretty good game going. Everyone's really into it, too—cheering and jeering at all the right moments.
Hey, I've just invented team sports! They should name something after me. Maybe the courtyard could be the Kat Courtyard. But then again, I'm sure it would be only a matter of time before it gets sponsored, and they totally sell out and change Kat Courtyard to Bob the Blacksmith Courtyard or something equally lame.
As I'm daydreaming about courtyard naming, Lancelot puts a David Beckham-worthy cross past me and right to his teammate, who proceeds to slam the ball into the back of our net. (Well, what we're pretending is a net, anyway.) The two cheer their victory, and Lancelot sticks his tongue out at me. He's having fun and not torturing himself over abandoning Arthur. That's good.
Already winded from running around (after three months of being stuck in a castle and a tower, I've lost most of my cardio ability), I switch places with an eager teen who wants a turn at what is fast becoming the coolest thing in Camelot since sliced bread. If they were to actually have sliced bread, that is.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised. After all, they are from England, future home of the soccer (or as they call it, football) obsessed. Maybe if I started a league, the bored knights will get out all their aggression on the field and not be so war-hungry. Then Mordred would have no leverage in gaining the knights' loyalty to him over Arthur.
I have another ulterior motive, too: to aid my British friend Aaron back home, who cried the day Uruguay knocked England out of the 2014 World Cup. With my help, they should do better next time around. After all, I'm giving them nearly a thousand years' head start.
I consider teaching them baseball, but I decide it's not worth bothering. In fact, it'd be a complete waste of time, considering that when America has a World Series it forgets to invite the rest of the world.
Suddenly, the trumpets blow, succeeding in ending what might otherwise have been an endless game, since I kind of forgot to introduce time limits.
"The king returns!" announces the trumpeter. "He is within sight."
Cheers erupt from the soccer players. They rush off to their chambers, preparing to dress in their best clothes for court. Lancelot's happy sports face crumples into a mask of sorrow mixed with fear.
"Lance," I say, laying a hand on his arm. "Everything's going to be fine. We're talking Arthur here. He loves you like a brother. He's totally going to understand that you did what you had to do."
"Aye," he says, not looking a bit convinced. "He may understand. But what of Mordred? I must inform the lad that I have slain his mother. He will want blood payment for the crime. He may challenge me."
"He won't." I snort. "He's too much of a coward to fight you man-to-man. He's all talk. I've never seen him pick up a sword in his life. And if he is idiot enough to try it, you'll whip his fancy little ass in no time."
"But he is the king's son," moans Lancelot. "I cannot kill him. Or maim him even."
"Look, Lance, you're beating yourself up over something that hasn't even happened," I say, sliding easily into self-help mode. "That kind of unhealthy, negative thinking can lead to major stress and even physical health problems." Wow, I sound pretty smart. I should write a book when I get back to the twenty-first century.
He looks at me, eyebrows raised. "Ah, well, you should know, always worrying about a relationship developing between the queen and me."
I blush. "Yeah, well, that's different. I'm from the future. I know you and Guen are supposed to have a thing. I mean, I hope you never do, but, well, all the storybooks say—"
He takes my hand in his and pulls it to his lips, pressing down in a fervent kiss. The sudden gesture sends a thrill down my spine and makes me completely lose my train of thought.
"I do want you to know," he says earnestly, meeting my eyes, "that whatever happens, I do not regret my actions. I would save you all over again if I had the need to. I love you, Kat."
"And all you need is love," I say back, plagiarizing the Beatles for lack of other witty, romantic repartee.
I can only hope I'm right.
* * *
"His crime is treason against my father, King Arthur, high king of Britain. He deserves to be banished from Camelot."
&nb
sp; I'm surprised to hear quite a few court attendees murmur their agreement at Mordred's brash statement. The young prince's popularity in Camelot is increasing, and he's evidently set on using that power to get rid of the knights who remain loyal to his father. Knights like Lancelot. And Lance's leaving Arthur's side to rescue me gives Mordred the perfect excuse to try to oust him.
I bite my lower lip. This is not going well. Lancelot has stood before the court and explained his actions. He has begged pardon of the king. Now, Arthur has opened up the floor to hear opinions on how he should rule. It's his attempt at democracy—my idea. Now I wish I had never brought up the concept of giving everyone a voice, because then we wouldn't have to hear Mordred's whiny one.
"He saved my life," I butt in from my position on the sidelines. Damn it, if everyone gets a voice, then that means I do, too. "I'm his sister. You think he should have stood around and let his own sister die?"
"If 'twere for the good of Camelot, aye." Mordred says, sitting back down on his throne. "What is one life when the kingdom is at stake?"
"Puh-leeze!" I roll my eyes. "The kingdom was so not at stake. You guys had, like, five hundred soldiers there."
Mordred frowns. He knows I've got him. He turns to Arthur on his left. "Who let this woman into court?" he demands. "'Tis a forum for men only. Why is she not with the others, mending the clothes and cooking the food? If she had kept to her place to begin with, we would not even be here, debating this."
"Yeah, well, if you're going to go there, how about the fact that if your mama hadn't been an evil, vindictive witch who liked to sacrifice innocent girls, I never would have needed rescuing in the first place?" I say, stepping forward to stand beside my "brother," Lance.
Mordred's mouth drops open in shock. Oh no. I suddenly remember Lancelot hadn't exactly mentioned who my kidnapper was yet. My big mouth strikes again.
"His mother?" Arthur questions. "You mean to tell the court that the druid who deemed fit to sacrifice you to the goddess was Queen Morgause, my sister?"
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