"Yeah. Morgause, Morgan Le Fay, Evil Woman Who Tried to Kill Me, whatever name she's going by now," I say, trying to sound casual. I had kind of forgotten the witch was Arthur's half sister. "She's—"
"You killed her," Mordred interrupts, staring at Lancelot with icy dagger eyes. "You killed my mother."
"She was attempting to kill my sister at the time," Lancelot says, firmly meeting Mordred's eyes with his own. "By her actions, she chose her destiny. I did only what I had to do to save the life of my dearest kin."
I actually think I see steam coming out of Mordred's ears, making him look kind of like Wile E. Coyote. I feel a tiny bit bad for him. After all, losing one's mother has got to suck big-time. But what else was Lance going to do? Try to talk her out of it?
"I challenge you, Sir Lancelot," Mordred says suddenly, rising from his throne. "I demand blood justice for my mother's murder. Name your time and place and bring your favorite sword."
Lancelot groans, shaking his head in protest. "Do not do this, Mordred. I do not want to kill you."
"I should like to see you try."
"Mordred, you know I am the best knight in the land, and you are untrained with a sword," Lancelot tries to reason with him.
"You are so sure of yourself, du Lac?"
Arthur breaks in. "Silence!" he commands.
Everyone shuts up immediately.
"I have seen enough blood spilled already to last a lifetime," Arthur says in a hard but calm voice. "I have united Britain. I have ratified treaties with the Saxons. I will not let civil unrest between my knights and my kin tear apart all I have built up."
It's times like these that you know why Arthur's the king. Why, I bet if the guy had been king instead of King Solomon back in biblical times, he could have totally come up with that whole cut-the-baby-in-half thing on his own. I can see why Guen's so taken with him. He's strong, commanding, but fair and kind at the same time. A total winning combo.
"Mordred," Arthur continues. "My son. I am so sorry for your mother's loss. She was my kin as well. I promise she will be given a proper burial, and we will well honor her and the kingdom of Orkney. But please withdraw your challenge against Sir Lancelot. I cannot afford to lose either of you. There will be tough times ahead, and we need to be united, not divided."
Mordred frowns, but I think he knows he got off easy. He's proven his point and isn't stuck fighting the best knight in the land. "Very well, my king," he says, bowing stiffly. "For your sake, I withdraw the challenge."
"And Lancelot," Arthur says, "while you had noble intentions, leaving your post without reporting first to me is ill-advised at best. Did you think I would not have let you go if you had asked to take your leave? On the contrary, I would have offered you a small army to protect your sister. I only hope next time you will trust your king's judgment."
Lancelot hangs his head in shame. "Yes, my lord."
"Your actions cannot go unpunished. However, I think banishment too harsh a penance to pay for saving one's sister," Arthur continues. "Besides, as I said before, I need you in my service. Therefore, I command that you make monetary reparation to the kingdom of Orkney, which has now lost its queen. I also ask that you withdraw your application for this year's jousting tournament. Finally, I command you spend three nights fasting with Bishop Mallory on your knees by the altar of Christ, praying that he forgive you for your sins against God and king."
I see Lancelot sigh in visible relief. I'm sure he's not psyched to do the whole Christian-confession thing, him being a goddess worshiper and all, but it could have been a lot worse.
"Yes, my lord," he says to Arthur, bowing low. "I thank you for your fair discipline. And I vow to you 'twill never happen again while I am in your service."
Arthur smiles down at him. You can tell what good friends they are. Of course, so can Mordred, and he looks pissed at the very light sentence. As court breaks for dinner, I see the prince huddling around several of the other knights, including his Orkney half brothers Gawain and Agravaine. All three are whispering furiously.
"There is trouble ahead for Camelot," Lancelot says in my ear as he watches them alongside me. "Arthur should keep a close watch on his son."
I can't help but agree and wish I had paid more attention in school, so I'd know just what this specific trouble entails.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Spring is beautiful in Camelot. The birds chirp. The flowers bloom. Everything is green and unspoiled and wonderful. And everyone's in a great mood, too, relieved to be out and about after being cooped up all winter.
On his days off from training, Lancelot and I spend long, lazy hours away from the castle, riding to a remote spot, picnicking by a lively babbling brook, making love on a large woven blanket. Heaven. I almost forget at times that I ever lived anywhere else.
On one especially warm day, I get the idea to lie outside and try to get a tan. I'm not normally a tanner—it's so unhealthy for your skin and all—but I figure in medieval times the ozone layer must still be pretty darn thick, since aerosol has yet to be invented, and so the skin-cancer risk should be way down. Also, this way, when I get back to NYC I won't need to stock up on any bronzing lotion, and everyone will be jealous, thinking I've been to Bermuda or somewhere else tropical.
Of course, tanning in a gown is pretty useless, so I grab a needle and thread and sew myself a two-piece, using material from an old dress. It's tough to create without a pattern or elastic, but I manage to come up with a cute little design. It's probably not seaworthy, but for tanning, it'll do.
I find a vacant tower top, once used as a lookout when the country was at war, and spread out a wool blanket. I lie down, wishing I had sunglasses. But right as I close my eyes and prepare to bake, I hear a startled voice cry my name. I sit up. Guenevere is standing above me, hands on her hips and a horrified expression on her face.
"Kat? What on earth are you doing?"
"Tanning." I brush a hand over my arm. "I don't want to be this white."
She scrunches her face in confusion. "You mean to say you desire to become as brown as a peasant woman?"
"I don't know about the peasants." I shrug, sitting up. "But where I'm from, tanned is considered sexy, attractive, though somewhat deadly. But then, there's always a heavy price to pay for beauty."
Guenevere shudders. "Here, white skin is prized above all."
"Which is probably for the best," I agree. "Besides the whole cancer thing, the sun also causes wrinkles." Not that these people live long enough to get any. The average dying age in medieval times, I was horrified to hear, is, like, forty-something. I mean, people can still have babies when they're forty in my time. They don't even qualify for the senior discount at Denny's for at least fifteen more years.
"However, I was not asking about your skin but rather your gown. Or," she corrects, "your lack of it."
I laugh. "It's called a bathing suit."
"Bathing suit?" she questions. "Something to wear when you bathe?"
"Well, no. We still bathe naked, like you guys do. It's actually for when you swim, like in a river or the ocean. Or to lie out in, since you get more sun exposure without being all covered up."
"You would go in front of others in this bathe suit? It barely covers your…" Guenevere gestures to her private parts, her eyes wide.
"That's what makes it sexy."
Guenevere raises an eyebrow. "Do men like these bathe suits, then?" She's interested now. Probably thinking of Arthur—turning Arthur on with skimpy outfits, to be precise. I did mention that thanks to me they're majorly in love with each other, right? I'm talking Romeo-and-Juliet-level love, without the whole messy suicide part.
"Hell yeah, men like bathing suits. In fact, in my time, there's even this thing called the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Let's just say it's…very popular with the male of the species."
"So where did you get this suit to bathe?" Guenevere crouches down on her knees to examine the fabric.
"I made it."
> She looks impressed. "I am sorry, Kat. If I had known you were such a good seamstress, I would have not stuck you in the kitchen during the preparations for winter."
"No biggie. But yeah, I was a fashion major in college. We needed to make our own clothes. I'm quite handy with a needle and thread, actually."
"Will you make me a bathe suit?"
"I thought you didn't want to get your skin all brown?"
She blushes. "I mean, so I can wear it for Arthur," she says in a hushed voice.
"Ooh!" I throw her a knowing grin. "So we are no longer going shyly to the marriage bed, I take it?"
Her blush deepens at my implication. "I am learning to love like a woman," she admits. "And Kat, I must admit, I have never known such rapture could be attained by mere mortals."
"Glad to hear it," I say. "But I don't think you're looking for a bathing suit if your goal is to seduce Arthur."
"Am I not? Do you have another idea, then?"
"Do I?" I scramble to my feet. "You'd better believe it. I'm a fashion editor, remember? Okay, maybe you have no idea what that is, but I'll show you." I nod my head eagerly, thinking about what I can do. "It's makeover time, Guen. When I'm through with you, you'll be the very first fashionista in King Arthur's court."
* * *
Several hours of a non-televised Fashion Emergency episode later, the queen emerges from her bedroom, looking rather sheepish and red-faced in her saucy new threads.
I whistle in appreciation. "You go, girl!"
"Go where?" she asks, all wide eyes and innocence. I laugh.
"Go directly to Milan. Paris. New York City. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Wow, Guen. You could so be a model. Look at you!"
I size her up. She's successfully hidden a stunning pair of legs under her gowns this whole time. Her long torso compliments the ultra-low-rise skirt I've sewn. It hangs perfectly from her lean hips, showing off her flat stomach. (How'd she get that nice muscle tone without ever holding plank position?) And I'm a bit jealous of how her breasts fill out the corseted D & G top I let her borrow in a way mine never could. Back in good old Connecticut, I thought I'd looked good wearing that top at the King Arthur's Faire, but Guen is stunning.
It's funny how much clothes define people and their time period. Looking at Guen now, you'd never know she's a medieval queen. She could be an NYU student in Central Park. A surfer babe at Malibu Beach.
"What is a model?" the queen asks curiously as she skips over to me, playfully kicking out her feet. Evidently, she's enjoying the freedom bare legs can give a girl. I only wish I had some panty hose for her.
"In my time, we have women whose whole job is to wear clothes," I explain.
"But why?"
"To show them off so other people will buy them."
"Oh. I see. What a lovely job." She grins. "And where do they do this wearing of clothes? In the main hall of the castle?"
"No one lives in castles anymore, Guen. Well, the royal family of England does, I suppose, but I doubt they have models hanging around, strutting their stuff. Well, that is, unless Prince Harry's in town…" I'm getting off track. "In any case, usually they model clothing at special shows. And there's, like, a long stage—what they call a runway." I jump up to demonstrate. "And the women walk down the runway like this." I stick out my chin and sway my hips, doing my best catwalk impression, "And everyone sits on each side and claps."
"What fun!" Guenevere falls in behind me, trying to swing her hips like me. She's giggling so much she trips. "Sorry," she apologizes as she falls into me and nearly knocks me over. "I am not used to the shoes." She looks down at the two-sizes-too-big Manolos strapped on her dainty little feet. "Though they are quite lovely, I must say. I only wish I could own a pair. Perhaps several. Are they made in different colors? I should like one of each."
Ah. The first designer-shoe addict. Eat your heart out, Carrie Bradshaw.
"Stand up straight. Don't giggle," I order. "Models are serious. They don't smile—they pout. Like this." I stick out my lower lip, narrow my eyes, and glare. Guen attempts to mimic my serious face but can't stop laughing.
"Maybe you're not model material after all," I tease, shaking my head in mock dismay.
"No, no! I can do it. Wait." She dons a serious expression and starts walking again, sashaying her hips from side to side.
I clap my hands. "Now you've got it! Yeah, baby. You're too sexy for this crown, too sexy for this crown," I sing. "Too sexy to, um, frown." Yeah. Not bad for a rhyme on the fly.
She turns back to me, her eyes wide. "What on earth do you sing about?"
"I'm a model, you know what I mean, and I do my little turn on the catwalk," I croon, on a roll.
Guen puts her hands over her ears. "'Tis not music!"
"I know,'" I sing, switching tunes, "it's only rock and roll, but I like it."
"Stop, stop!" she begs, shoving a hand over my mouth to stop my murderous rendition of the Stones.
"I wike it, wike it," I sing on, muffled by her hand. "Es I dooo."
I stop. Guenevere lifts her hand away, shaking her head in amusement. "You are too funny, Kat. Thank you for the clothes. I love them. The things from your world are so wonderful. I only wish I could see the place for myself. It sounds heavenly."
Her words spark instant melancholy. It sounds heavenly. And it is, isn't it? All this time I've been getting used to the Middle Ages, I've forgotten all the stuff I'm missing out on. No matter how nice everyone is here, truth be told, I still prefer the rudeness of New Yorkers. No matter how good I get at horseback riding, I miss driving sixty-five miles an hour. (Okay, maybe eighty-five…) I can get used to roast pigeon, but I prefer filet mignon. Mmm. Filet mignon. Especially from Ruth's Chris. Mmm.
I miss my life. My home. My mother, my little sister, my brothers, my dog. I miss my magazine even—each shallow, fluff-filled page. I miss the bitchy models and my even bitchier editor. I miss telling the public that pink is the new brown, boots are the new flip-flops.
I want to go home.
Guenevere catches my frown and puts a comforting arm around my shoulder. "Soon," she says, all giggles gone. "You will be home soon. Summer solstice is but one moon away."
I look up in surprise. "One month? That's it?"
"Aye."
Suddenly my sadness magnifies as I realize what I'll be leaving behind. While I may be able to do without horseback riding and roast pigeon, I am devastated to think of never seeing Lancelot again.
"You are thinking of Lancelot, are you not?" Guen asks gently.
"I'm that obvious, huh?"
"'Tis a shame that you have found true love, only to have to abandon it so soon," she says, stating the obvious. "Maybe you should stay."
"Believe me, I've thought of that," I say. "Many, many times. I imagine Lancelot and me growing old together here at Camelot. At the same time, I can't pretend I don't miss my world. I miss my life. I don't belong here." I sigh. "The decision is totally giving me an ulcer."
"Maybe Lancelot will come back with you?"
I look over at her in surprise. "Do you think that's possible? I mean, if he wanted to, is it physically possible?"
"I do not know, Kat. But I would ask Merlin. Perhaps he could devise a way."
"Yes. That's it. It's perfect," I say, excited. "Then we'd never have to part." And Nimue and Merlin would never have to worry about Guenevere and Lancelot getting together. "He'll love the twenty-first century. I know he will."
A lingering doubt gnaws at my insides. Will Lancelot really love the future? What will the twenty-first century hold for a man whose talents consist of fighting with swords via horseback? He's a superhero here in Camelot. Will he be a laughingstock back in NYC? And if so, can I really justify asking him to come back with me? Will he be miserable? But we love each other. Isn't that enough? Can't we build a life together? A fulfilling twenty-first-century life?
"Kat, you look troubled."
"I just don't know." I shake my head. "I
don't know what to do."
"You cannot make the decision for him," Guenevere reminds me. "Talk to him. Discuss your feelings. Open up and explore the possibilities." Now she's spouting the psychobabble back at me. I taught her too well.
"I will. Thanks, Guen."
"Now, please excuse me while I change clothes for court. Arthur has ridden to London for more peace talks. 'Tis up to me to rule over tonight's dinner."
"You're not going dressed like that?" I tease.
She shakes her head. "This outfit is for the king's eyes only."
"Oh boy. He's in for a surprise when he gets back from peacekeeping. I'm sure he'll love it."
"I do hope so." She smiles. "Kat, you have done so much for me. How can I ever repay your kindness?"
"Don't worry about it," I assure her.
"No. I do worry. If not for you, I know not where I would be right now."
I do. She'd be fornicating with Lancelot. I must admit she does owe me one, and she doesn't even know the half of it. Because of me, she's three for three: happy, in love, and won't get burned at the stake.
"Seriously, I'm glad to help."
"I want to give you a gift," she says earnestly. "To thank you." She rummages around her chambers until she finds a long purple gauzy sort of fabric. "'Tis my most special veil," she says in a reverent whisper, holding it out to me.
"Guen, I can't take your veil. You love this veil. You wear it all the time. It's your favorite," I protest, refusing to take it from her outstretched arms.
"Are your shoes not precious to you? And yet you gave them to me without a second thought," she insists.
She's wrong about that. I had second, third, and fourth thoughts about giving up my Manolos. But I finally decided I'd just raid the freebie closet at La Style for another pair when I got back.
"But isn't there some rule that only queens can wear purple?"
"Ha!" Guenevere snorts. "You are the last person I would expect to care about rules." She stands on her toes to lay the veil over my head. It falls down over my face, gauzy and light. "It looks beautiful on you. You simply must keep it, or I shall be dreadfully offended."
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