"What can I do? I cannot fight a whole army." He sighs deeply, picking at a fingernail. "I cannot fight my fellow knights and my king."
"Lancelot du Lac, this isn't like you," I protest, hands on my hips. "You're the bravest, noblest, most chivalrous knight in all the land. You don't just sit around and let your friend die because of a stupid misunderstanding. What would Arthur—"
"Arthur," Lancelot interrupts, "thinks I betrayed him."
"No, he doesn't. I had a long talk with him. He totally knows you and Guen would never hook up. In fact, he's counting on you to go rescue her. He can't, 'cause it will destroy the kingdom and stuff, and so that leaves you. If you don't save her, no one will, and she'll die. You don't want her to die, do you?"
"No. Of course not." Lancelot stands up and walks over to the far wall. Pressing his hand against it, he bows his head. "But there will be an army guarding her. The knights will be out for my blood. They think I killed Agravaine."
"Well, yeah, but they have to understand it was total self-defense," I argue.
"No. It was not."
I scrunch my eyebrows. "It wasn't? Then—"
Lancelot turns around, meeting my eyes with his bloodshot ones. "Mordred killed him—stabbed him in the back to make it look like 'twas me." He clears his throat. "He wants to ensure I am not pardoned for my supposed rutting with the queen. Sex is one thing. Many a man can forgive a night of passion. A violent murder of one of my sworn brothers, however, is a sin worthy of death. 'An eye for an eye,' as the Christians say."
I pace the floor, trying to think of a plan. "Still, there's got to be a way to help Guen. Arthur's setting it up so it's like a big public execution—gates thrown open, knights out of the way, stuff like that. He's going to make it as easy as possible for you to rescue her. And, of course, I could help too."
"Why? What's in it for you?" Lancelot asks angrily. "Ah, I know. You need Guenevere alive so she can send you back to your future."
I stare at him, horrified. Is that what he really thinks? Does the man I love more than anything really believe me to be such a monster?
"I need Guenevere alive because she's one of my best friends!" I say furiously. "I need Guenevere alive because she's innocent and doesn't deserve to die for something she didn't do. How can you stand here and say I'm only interested in what she can do for me? How"—I choke back a sob—"dare you? Is that what you really think of me?"
Lancelot sighs deeply. "I do not know what to think anymore. However, it does not matter, I suppose. Whatever your motivation, you are right. The queen must not die for something she did not do. And as a knight loyal to Arthur, it is my duty to protect her at any cost." He walks back to the table and sits. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You may depart now and inform the king he need not lose sleep over that matter."
Oh, he thinks he can get rid of me that easy, does he? "No way," I protest, plopping down on a seat next to him. "You may not believe me, but I care about Guenevere too. And, like it or not, I care about you. I'm sure as hell not going to sit back and watch you bumble this rescue because of your stubborn refusal to believe I'm telling the truth. As you said yourself, you can't fight an army alone. So, like it or not, I'm helping."
Lancelot snorts. "I hardly think a woman—"
I shoot him a glare. It's so obvious he's being all chauvinistic in hopes I'll get mad—maybe even take off. After all, me being a kick-ass twenty-first-century chick is what drew him to me in the first place.
"Puh-leeze. I've said it before, and I'll say it again," I proclaim. "Girls can do anything boys can do…usually better."
He raises an eyebrow. "Can you fight with a sword?"
Oh, he's going to pull the whole men-are-stronger-than-women argument. Figures. "No, I can't," I say honestly. "Though I'm pretty handy with a stick sword." I grin, trying to lighten the mood. No luck. Why are men so pigheaded? "Okay, fine. You got me there. I'm not an accomplished swordswoman. However, I can do other things."
"Like?"
"Like…" Come on, Kat. You can think of something. "Like create a diversion."
"Diversion?"
"You know, to distract everyone. Then you can swoop in and rescue her."
"And what do you plan to do?"
I tap a finger to my temple, trying to think. "I could whip off my dress and dance naked on the Round Table."
Lancelot laughs bitterly. "While I imagine that would certainly distract some, I am not sure 'tis enough—no offense—to detract from a burning."
I sigh. "You're probably right." What would be big enough to get everyone's attention? Ooh, ooh, I know! "What about a bomb?"
"A what?" At least he's listening to me.
"Well, it's this thing that explodes. Like, um, a burst of fire. Everything blows up," I explain. "When I was in first-year home ec at Brooklyn Community College I accidentally blew up the kitchen when mixing cleaning chemicals to clean milk mold out of an old bottle. Believe me—it got everyone's attention, including the school's chancellor. In fact, I almost got expelled."
"Where would you get one of these 'bombs'?"
"I'll make one. Somehow." I frown, realizing I have no idea how I'd do that. I mean, I know mixing bleach and ammonia makes an explosion, but I don't have access to Clorox here. There's got to be another way, though. Where's The Anarchist Cookbook when you need it?
I brush a strand of hair from my face as I try to think. My hair's grown so unruly lately. Guess it's the lack of regular conditioning. Of course, it's probably a lot healthier since I no longer blow it dry and use my limited supply of hair spray only on special occasions—
"That's it!" I cry, grabbing my purse and rummaging through it. I pull out my travel-size can of hair spray and check the label. Flammable. Avoid heat, fire, and smoking during use until sprayed hair is fully dry. Thank goodness I refused to listen to all the environmentalists at work who ragged on me for not switching to the pump kind.
"What is that?" Lancelot asks, walking over to check out the can.
I smile broadly. "Lancelot, my dear, meet Aqua Net. Savior of Camelot."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
You'd think there's a carnival in town, the World Series taking place, or Elvis performing live from beyond the grave, the way people have turned out for the burning. I mean, this has got to be bigger than Kate Middleton marrying Prince William. Everyone who's anyone—and some who aren't—have all dressed in their queen-burning best and have made the trip to Camelot. It's sick—really sick, if you ask me, which of course no one has.
The courtyard is filled, the pyre piled high. They could probably burn a dragon with the amount of wood they've stacked. Talk about overkill. And Mordred's front and center, looking as eager as a little kid ready to toast marshmallows when the coals get hot. Everyone else is milling about, talking excitedly. If they lived in the twenty-first century they'd be total rubbernecking ambulance chasers.
Arthur sits on a makeshift throne, high on a platform above the courtyard, flanked by his knights and Merlin. Even from down here I can see he's trying to compose himself, to keep the illusion of being in power. But there's no doubt in anyone's mind who's running the show: the little bastard Mordred, giving orders down on the ground. He's acting like a celebrity, basking in all the attention from the ignorant peasants.
Trumpets sound. It's starting. My quickening pulse throbs under my wrists. Will this work? It has to. There's no plan B.
Cheers and jeers erupt as Guenevere is led into the courtyard, dressed in a simple shift dress. Her golden hair hangs tangled over her pale face. Her hands are bound in front of her, and I can tell she's finding it difficult to keep her balance as the guards escort her to the stack of wood—her intended grave.
She stops in front of me, shooting me a desperate look with her heartbreaking eyes. "Kat," she whispers. "I am sorry I could not help you. Maybe Nimue…"
I'm awestruck. Here she is, moments away from what she believes will be her last breath, and she's still concerned about
me. My heart lurches, and I want to reach out to hug her, whisper the plan in her ear, tell her not to worry, that I would never let her die. But the guard shoves her forward, causing her to fall onto her knees. Then he roughly grabs her by the arm and yanks her to her feet.
"Get up, ye filthy whore!"
His brutality toward the sweet, innocent girl pisses me off, and as the man pushes by me, I can't help but stick out my foot to trip him. He falls flat on his face, causing several bystanders to snicker. Scrambling to his feet and whirling around, red-faced, he tries to figure out who's to blame, but I'm already making my way through the crowd. He's lucky I have to keep a low profile, or I would have so kicked his ass.
I head to the outer gates to deal with the guards, balancing a pewter cup of mead in my hand. I can't believe they even had the nerve to open up a medieval-style concession stand. If they had the technology, they'd probably be selling souvenir cups and My Grandma went to Guenevere's execution and all I got was this lousy T-shirt paraphernalia.
Standing at attention by the outer gate are André the giant and his smaller, grouchier friend. I remember my first day at Camelot, when I talked them into letting me leave what I thought at the time was just a theme party. So much has happened since then. So much has changed.
The guards have been stationed like bouncers at a nightclub or TSA agents. They've been searching everyone who enters to make sure no one sneaks in with a weapon. From the large pile of confiscated swords resting at their feet, I take it this is not merely a formality at Camelot.
"Hello, lads," I say amicably. André glares at me. He's not as nice as he was that first day. Funny how a little thing like Mace in the eyes can ruin a developing friendship. Well, it couldn't be helped then, and I can't be held responsible for what I have to do now. "Good to see you again. How's it hanging?"
"I do not know about any hanging," the grouchy guard says. "But the burning is right on schedule."
Ooh, good one. "Wow, you definitely ate your clever vitamins this morning," I say with a snort.
"What brings you to the outer gates?" asks the big guy. "Are you not staying to watch the queen burn?"
"Nah. I've never really been into the whole death and dismemberment thing." I shrug. "Figure it'd be more fun to come hang out here with you guys."
They scowl at me simultaneously.
"Hey," I protest in a wounded voice. "Why the mean faces? And here I am trying to do something nice."
"Nice?" the giant one asks, his curiosity overcoming his unfriendliness.
"Well, I figured you might be thirsty, being stuck at the gate and all. So I sneaked you out some mead from the concession stand." I produce the cup from behind my back. "I know it's probably not PC to drink on the job, but I won't tell anyone if you won't. The way I figure it, what happens at the outer gate, stays at the outer gate."
They exchange glances. "Are you trying to trick us?" demands the grouchy one. "What is in the cup?"
I put on a hurt face. "Dude, I told you—it's beer. Mead." I place the cup to my lips and fake taking a big gulp, keeping my lips pursed. "Mmmm. Beer," I say in my best Homer Simpson voice after lowering the cup.
That's all it takes to convince them—typical men. They'll believe anything for free alcohol. The bigger guard takes the cup from me and slurps greedily. The other guard scowls at him for taking more than his share and yanks the cup from his grasp, also sucking it down.
"Thank you, milady," André says, moments before his eyes roll back in his head, and he slumps to the ground. The grouchy guard joins him moments later.
"No, thank you!" I say, kicking them to make sure they're truly unconscious. "And thank Ambien." I didn't think the I'm afraid of flying so I keep it in my purse sleeping pill would work so fast. But then again, I did crush up about twenty pills into their drink to be on the safe side.
With the guards indisposed, all we need now are some fireworks. I go back into the crowded courtyard, weaving in and out of the throngs of people. Their eagerness for death makes me almost reconsider finding a nice quiet place to set the bomb.
But out of respect for Arthur, who seems dearly to love these moron subjects of his, I head to the back of the courtyard where no one stands. Against the stone wall I find a little crumbling niche just big enough to wedge a can of hair spray into. I tie a length of cotton that I've dipped in candle wax around the can and stick it in the slot. I pad the slot with a bit of extra cotton to make sure it burns long enough to ignite the can. Then I roll the length of cotton away from the wall, giving myself a good long wick. I'm so not interested in getting blown up.
I reach into my purse and pull out the lighter I have stashed there. I don't smoke but have found it's always good to have one on hand for when a cute guy outside a bar asks if you've got a light. Thank goodness, too, because Guen would be dead by the time I managed to rub two sticks together, me being a Girl Scout dropout and all.
I look over at the main stage. I've got to get the timing right—not too soon and definitely not too late. Looks like Bishop Mallory has taken center stage.
"Guenevere of Cameliard, the court has found you guilty of the sin of adultery and therefore treason against the king, your people, and God himself," says the priest, reading the verdict from a long scroll. "The sentence dictated by the court is death by burning. Do you have any last words? Remember, God is listening."
Guenevere draws her petite frame to its full height, her mouth set in determination. "Arthur, I love you," she says loudly, raising her eyes to the king above. I can see Arthur's face crumple. I'm half-convinced he's going to call the whole thing off. Stick to the plan, Arthur. We don't need any spontaneous heroics.
"Executioner, please begin," the king says finally, his voice cracking with grief. Poor guy. I watch as he turns and walks back to his throne, slumping down on the seat, his face in his hands. The joy of seeing Guenevere rescued will be bittersweet to him. She will live, but he will never see her again. It's all so tragic, I can hardly stand it.
The executioner lowers his torch until it touches the kindling at the base of the pile. Flames lick at the lower timbers, and I realize the time has come. I flick the lighter and set fire to the end of the cotton wick.
Then I run.
Fast as my twenty-first-century legs can carry me, I dive into the crowd and push my way through the masses until I reach the other end of the courtyard.
Until I hear…
Kaboom!
There's chaos everywhere as the explosion rocks the ground. I picked just the right unstable spot. The wall crumbles, large boulders crashing down, creating a graveyard of stones and dusty rubble. Everyone's screaming, running.
"We're under attack!"
"An army has penetrated Camelot's gates!"
"Grab your children! Run!"
I duck into the stables and free Dior and another horse that Arthur had arranged to have saddled. I peek out the door. Is Lancelot here yet? He'd better hurry. This plan is completely dependent on timing.
I watch as a brown-cloaked monk approaches the pyre with defiant strides. I draw in a breath. What is he doing?
Lancelot, hurry!
The monk leaps onto the pyre—pretty agile for a scholar of God—clearing the flames and approaching Guenevere. His hood falls from his head, and I gasp as I realize who it really is.
Lancelot.
Pride and love swell in my heart. He hadn't told me about the disguise. Damn, he's good.
Once freed, the queen collapses in a dead faint into his arms. Lancelot cradles her like a groom carrying a bride over the threshold and runs toward the gates. In all the confusion and dust, no one seems to have comprehended what is happening.
I leap onto one of the horses, keeping hold of the bridle on the other. Then, digging my heels into the stallion's flanks, I urge them out into the courtyard and play dodge-the-frightened-medieval-peasant until I make my way out the gate and to the meeting spot. Already, I can hear Mordred's voice above the din.
"A tric
k!" he cries. "Lancelot has used the devil's magic to save his harlot from hell. We must go after them! We must stop the sinners and persecute the injustice."
I reach Lancelot and Guen, exchanging a glance with the knight. His eyes reflect my worry, and I know exactly what he's thinking.
Not much time.
He hoists the unconscious queen onto the horse and slides on in back of her. Then he urges his mare onward, and I follow as best I can. The skies open up, and rain pours down in buckets as we gallop fast as our horses can go to Stonehenge.
As we fly down the hill toward the village, I look over at Lancelot's horse and notice that Guenevere seems to have regained consciousness. That's one relief.
Okay, Kat. Time to cross my fingers, cross my toes, cross myself, and invoke getting-to-Stonehenge-on-time karma.
We need all the luck we can get if we're going to pull this off.
* * *
About an hour later, Lancelot slows his horse and turns to me. We're deep in the woods now, having taken countless twisting turns. Luckily, he knows where we're going. He comes to a stop by a small stream. The rain has tapered off, at least momentarily.
"I think we have lost them," he says. "We must rest the horses for a moment, or they will surely drop dead."
As his horse greedily slurps water, Lance slips to the ground and helps Guenevere off. She looks shaken and weak, sinking to her knees. I dismount and approach her.
"Are you okay?" I ask, kneeling down in the mud and pulling her into a warm hug. I can feel her body tremble against mine as she wraps her arms around me and holds on tight.
"Thank you for rescuing me," she murmurs. "I thought I would die at that stake."
"Nah! We wouldn't let that happen to you!" I say with a grin that I hope looks more happy-go-lucky than I feel. Inside, I'm still extremely worried. I'm sure a search party of knights wielding swords is out in full force. If they find us, we're doomed. If they don't, then what? Guen certainly can't go back to Camelot. She could head for her dad's place at Cameliard, but who knows if she'd even be safe there? Mordred and his army could easily take the small kingdom.
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