"Oh, Guen," I moan. "What am I going to do?"
* * *
I leave Guenevere and head down the hallway, thinking I'll take a walk or something, try to clear my head. I step out into the courtyard, squinting in the sunlight. Summer is definitely on its way, and so is my scheduled trip back to the twenty-first century. But now I'm more sad than excited.
What should I do? Should I consider staying? But then that means I'm surrendering who I am and where I belong. Either way, if we want to stay together, one of us will have to make the ultimate sacrifice.
I always swore I'd never again succumb to the long-distance-relationship trap after the time I hooked up with this guy from California. Now it's funny—plane tickets and sexting seem inconsequential compared to my current dilemma. A geographical long-distance relationship would be a hell of a lot easier to put up with than a time-differential one.
As I walk toward the castle gates, I come upon two of the Orkney knights—the big, beefy Gawain and the sniveling Agravaine—whispering furiously. Hmm, Guen was right. Something is foul in Camelot.
Sensing the potential for good gossip, I sidle up to the knights and clear my throat to make my presence known. After all, while they may shy away from informing the queen of dirty doings in her kingdom, surely they won't mind enlightening Lance's very charming visiting sister.
"Good morn to you, Lady Kat," Gawain says, bowing respectfully. His brother Agravaine simply sneers. He doesn't like me much, namely because of the kick in the balls I gave him on my first day in Camelot. I've apologized for that, like, ten thousand times, but King Lot's son seems determined to hold a grudge. Plus, he's all friends with Mordred and stuff now, which doesn't help matters.
"Good morning, Gawain." I smile pleasantly. Gawain, on the other hand, is like a big, gentle giant. A fierce teddy bear—all brawn, no brains, and loyal to Arthur to a fault. With Lot and Morgause dead, he could have left Camelot to become king of the Orkneys but chose to stay here in service to Arthur. "How are you enjoying the round table?"
"It's a wonderful thing," Gawain gushes, nodding his head. "The idea that no knight can sit at the head. Bloody marvelous."
"Yes. It helps keep certain knights from putting on airs," Agravaine growls under his breath, while staring at the ground. Did I mention he doesn't like Lancelot either?
"Oh, really? Was someone doing that?" I ask, all wide-eyed and innocent, even though I know exactly whom he's referring to. Jerk.
"Oh, don't listen to my brother," Gawain says, slapping Agravaine on the back. The knight scowls and steps away. "He's jealous of your brother's prowess at arms."
Agravaine looks even more pissed at this. He narrows his eyes and glares at Gawain. "'Tis his boasting that sours me, not his skill."
"Yeah, yeah," I say amicably. "Well, you know how Lancelot is." As a gossip queen, I've learned it pays not to get angry, and instead, make them think you're on their side. Then they open up to you more, and you can get the whole story.
"I thought I did," Agravaine mutters.
"I'm sorry, what?" I'm getting close to the good stuff—I can feel it.
"We thought we knew your brother," Gawain butts in. "The only knight who would not take a lady to his bed. Pure as the driven snow."
The other knights, I had learned, were not so honorable as Lance when it came to damsel rescuing. He might have had the whole celibacy thing going on before he met me, but from what I've heard, most knights would screw anything in a skirt, whether Arthur approved of it or not.
"Yeah, he's an honorable one, that's for sure." Though not so virginal as you might imagine, I think as I try to visualize their shock if they saw Lance and me together.
"Ah, then you do not know your brother as well as you think," Agravaine replies, a twisted smile distorting his hideous, battle-scarred face.
"I don't?" I put on an innocent expression. Here it is— the big gossip of the day. What the hell is it going to be? They obviously haven't figured out Lance and I are a couple, since they're not treating me oddly. So, what then?
"Well, you see, it turns out the great Lancelot du Lac is not so honorable after all," Agravaine says, rubbing his palms together in glee. He's really enjoying this. "In fact, it turns out he is a traitor to Camelot."
I raise my eyebrows, beginning to get a little worried. Are they still talking about the whole abandoning-Arthur thing? He did his punishment. How about we move on? Unless there's something else?
"A traitor? How so?" I ask.
Gawain frowns. "Brother, maybe we shouldn't—"
But I can tell Agravaine's determined to finish telling whatever sordid tale he has up his sleeve. "Late last night, the crown prince Mordred caught Queen Guenevere leaving Lancelot's bedroom. The two of them are lovers."
"What? But it was—"
I gasp as I remember the veil. Seeing Mordred. Pretending to be the queen so he wouldn't talk to me.
Oh no!
CHAPTER TWENTY
I have to say something. Correct their mistaken identity. Oh, why hadn't I opened my mouth when I saw Mordred in the hall? Now I've screwed everything up, just because I didn't want him to yell at me. Stupid, Kat. Truly stupid.
I have to make things right. To come clean.
"That wasn't Guenevere," I say, trying to sound casual. They're never going to believe this. No way in hell. "That was me."
Both knights stare at me as if I've lost my mind.
"'Tis noble of you to try to protect your brother and your friend," Gawain says gently. "But Mordred has made no mistake. He saw the queen with his own two eyes and has sworn to it on his mother's grave."
"Well, sure, I know he thought it was the queen," I argue. "Because I pretended to be her. And I was wearing her veil."
"The queen gave you her veil?" Agravine looks suspicious.
"Yes. It was a gift."
"Show us."
"Well…" Damn it. "I actually gave it back to her this morning."
They exchange bemused glances. "Do you expect us to believe Queen Guenevere gifted her royal veil to you? That you then walked around the castle late at night pretending to be her and paid a visit to your brother?" demands Agravaine. "Only to give her back the veil the next morn?"
"Well, um, yes!" Though I have to admit it sounds pretty far-fetched when he puts it that way.
Gawain raises an eyebrow. "But why?"
Should I tell them? What would they do to me if they knew I've been lying to them all along? That I'm not Lance's sister but actually his lover? Could Lance get in trouble for lying to the king? Even so, isn't it better to get in a little trouble now than let fester a rumor that has the potential to lead to the downfall of Camelot?
I can't make the decision on my own. I don't have all the info. For all I know, lying about one's brother could get one burned at the stake. Especially if they think that I am a spy, and Lancelot has been aiding me the whole time. As much as I want to save Camelot, I'm so not dying for the place. Plus, I don't want to get Lance in trouble again. Mordred would probably take the opportunity to further his Lancelot-should-be-banished campaign.
"Well, fine. You don't have to believe me," I say, putting on a hurt expression. "Believe that sniveling inbred moron instead, for all I care."
"The problem, you see," says Agravaine with a sneer, "is that Mordred has no reason to lie. You, on the other hand, have a brother and friend to protect."
Touché. "I know how it must look," I protest. "But trust me, it isn't true. Guenevere is madly in love with Arthur and is dying for him to come back from London. She's got no interest in Lancelot whatsoever."
"If you say it, lady," Agravaine says with a patronizing smile, "it must be so."
Oh, forget it! There's no convincing these guys. I give Agravaine a dirty look and stomp back into the castle, trying to still the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
This is bad. Really bad. I mean, what good is it for Guen and Lance to never fall in love if everyone believes they have? Same result wit
hout the sexy times: end of Camelot.
Nimue's going to be so pissed when she hears of this. I can't say I blame her. What had I been thinking, pretending to be the queen? Of course, I hadn't known Mordred actually saw me leave Lancelot's room… Still, all the rationalizing in the world doesn't make a difference now. The rumors have begun.
I wonder if this means I have to go back and do this all over again, like in Star Trek, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Stargate SG-1, and every other TV series' requisite stuck-in-a-time-loop episode. Will I remember that I've done it before? Come to think of it, maybe I already have and just don't remember. Maybe this is my billionth time of looping, and I've still messed it up.
The thought makes me want to throw up. I don't want to do this over and over again. I want to go home and live a normal life. I want to drink mojitos on South Beach. Go on safari in Africa. Seek wisdom in Tibet. Hell, I even want to visit Stonehenge—but in a touristy drive there and hit the pub for a pint of Guinness afterward kind of way. There's so much in the twenty-first century that I have never gotten to experience, and I'm dying to go back to do so.
There's only one thing I can do now: come clean to Lancelot. He'll know what to do. These are his people. Maybe he'll say, "Oh, sure, Kat, let's tell them about us. It's no big deal. We'll sort everything out."
Somehow, I doubt it will be that easy.
If only I hadn't left things such a total mess between us. Why, oh why did I storm out of his room last night? I could have stayed, talked it through. Listened to his side of the story. Then not only would I not be worried about telling him the rumor right now, but there would be no rumor to tell, since Mordred wouldn't have seen me and mistaken me for Guenevere.
After vowing never to let my explosive temper get the better of me again, I swallow my pride and head for Lancelot's chambers. My heart pounds as I knock on the door. Will he welcome me in? I wouldn't blame him if he didn't, after the temper tantrum I threw last night. In the light of day, it all seems so petty and immature. Why couldn't I have had a normal conversation with him? A debate, if you will, on the pros and cons of each millennium? But no, I had to storm out the second he told me he couldn't abandon his life at Camelot, even though my doing so proved I felt the same way about my life.
Mature, Kat. Real mature.
The door creaks open. Lancelot's fully dressed, but his droopy, red eyes tell me he hasn't had much sleep.
"Kat." His voice is tired, drained, sad.
"Hi, Lance." I smile at him, my heart breaking. I love him so much. I can't bear to be angry at him. Oh, please let him forgive me for my stupid temper! "Can I come in and talk to you for a minute?"
He nods and ushers me in, closing the door behind me. He turns. "I—"
"I'm so—" I start at the same time. We both stop. Our eyes meet. A millisecond later I'm in his arms, letting his strength support me both physically and mentally. I nestle my face in his chest, enjoying the rigid contours of his muscles.
"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I'm so, so sorry." My tears soak his tunic, and he runs a hand through my hair.
"No more than I," he whispers.
"I was selfish to expect you to give up everything to come back with me."
"I have stayed up half the night thinking on your words," he says, leading me over to the bed. We sit on the edge, and I look into his sapphire eyes, only to realize he's fighting tears of his own. "I love you, Kat. I cannot bear to live without you. I have made my decision. I will leave Camelot. If 'tis possible, I will come back with you."
"No," I cry. "I'm the selfish one. You've got, like, this whole life here, and I just expected you to drop everything to come with me."
"What is my life without you? 'Tis better if I die than spend one moment away from you."
Does he mean that? Could there really be a person in the world who feels so strongly about me? It seems impossible, like what he's saying is some romantic bull. But somehow, as I study his earnest face and feel his hands squeezing mine a little too tightly, somehow, I believe him.
"I've never met anyone like you," I whisper, trying not to choke on my sobs. Why couldn't he have been born in my world or I in his? That way we'd have no regrets. Now, no matter what time we decide to stay in, the other person might start longing for their own world.
"I don't want you to have to give up everything for me," I insist.
"Do you still not understand?" he scolds. "You are my everything."
His words, his gaze, cause my heart to flip-flop like a fish out of water. I have to remember to breathe. With a desperate roughness, he pulls me into his arms, claiming my lips with his own. It's not his typical soft, slow kiss—this time his mouth is hungry, demanding, wild. And I am a goner.
* * *
"I love you," I whisper as we both lie still in the aftermath of ecstasy.
He lifts his head to look into my eyes. His gaze is full of wonder, awe. Do I really have that effect on him? He reaches to brush a wayward strand of hair from my face.
"As I you," he says with a small smile. "Though the word love seems a feeble understatement. If I knew a stronger one to describe my feelings for you, I would surely use it."
I giggle. Man, I love chivalrous speeches like that. "We could invent one," I suggest coyly. "A brand-new word that's stronger than love."
He nods solemnly. "How about"—he squints his eyes and scratches his chin—"abba? As in, I abba you."
I shake my head, laughing. "No, no! ABBA's, like, this terrible seventies disco band. I am so not going to be your dancing queen."
He smiles uncertainly, by now used to me babbling about things he doesn't have a clue about. "Well, then how about…bubba?"
I shake my head. "Former intern-screwing president or a big ol' Southern man. Try again."
"Rubba?"
I groan. "New England-accented word for condom."
He groans in mock exasperation. "You pick, then." He grins. "For your world seems more cluttered with words than mine."
I laugh appreciatively, putting a finger to my temple, trying to think. "How about…lubba? Yeah. That's it. From now on lubba means the feeling that's greater than mere love."
He smiles, kissing me softly on the forehead. "Well, then, I lubba you. More than anything on this earth."
I laugh. He laughs. I feel warm and safe. I never want to leave his arms. Screw the twenty-first century. Screw lattes and fashion week and 7-Eleven. Screw brunch and elevators and HBO GO. None of the material things I remember are worth leaving what I have here.
"I'll stay." I can't believe I'm saying this, but I mean it. "I'll stay in Camelot. I can't leave you."
"No."
I furrow my brows. "No?"
"No. I have given this a lot of thought. I will come back with you."
"But—"
"No buts." He rolls off me and onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "You have already lived in my world. It is my turn now to see yours."
I scarcely dare to breathe. Is he serious? Or is this one of those reverse-psychology things where I'm supposed to argue that I really think we should stay here? Then again, reverse psychology has yet to be invented, so he must be for real. He wants to come back with me. Oh, happy day!
"Are you sure?" I ask, praying that he is. "I don't want you doing something you'll regret, just for me. I mean, once we get there, there's most likely no going back."
"I'm sure. Very sure." He props himself on his side, hand cradling his head. "I want to live out my days with you by my side. Besides, you have said in your world that people can live a hundred summers. That will give me many more days to spend making you happy."
Very true. Though I'm not quite sure the damage to his body hasn't already been done—lack of nutrition and inoculations and all. But I don't think I'd better spoil this by mentioning the pesky details.
"What about the king?"
"He has other knights. And I fear that soon his son, Mordred, will be the one leading the Knights of the Round Table. Do you think the prince would
allow me to remain in his service once he becomes king?"
Mordred. Oh dear, I almost forgot. I rise from the bed, grabbing my dress. "Listen, Lance, we've got other problems." I relate what I heard from Gawain and Agravaine.
He shakes his head. "Silly gossip. Nothing to concern ourselves with."
"I think it is." I frown and pull the dress over my head. "What if it got back to Arthur? They could try you for treason. You know Mordred's completely out to get you after the Morgause incident."
"Arthur would not believe idle tales over the word of his first knight and lady queen."
"Maybe we should come clean," I suggest. "We could tell everyone that we aren't really brother and sister but boyfriend and girlfriend. Or we could say we're married."
Lancelot looks aghast. At first I think it's 'cause I mentioned the dreaded M-word, feared by men everywhere, but then I realize he's more worried about the idea of letting his boss in on our relationship.
"To admit we have been lying to the king for months? You cannot be serious." He shakes his head. "What you heard is merely careless talk that will evaporate in a day. 'Tis not worth the trouble admitting our lie would cause. The truth would only give Mordred a chance to declare you a spy and me a traitor. And for that we could be not only banished but executed."
"I'm not sure what's worse, Lance," I say, not ready to give in. This is too important. "After all, remember what I've told you: in my future, everyone thinks you and Guen were lovers. Maybe this is how it all starts. Maybe the legends are due to a case of mistaken identity. If this turns out how I think it might, it could lead to the destruction of Camelot. And that," I conclude, "is bigger than just admitting a lie that didn't hurt anyone to begin with."
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