“Answer the question.”
“Fine. I’ve learned a fair amount.”
“You know how electricity works, yes?”
“Considering how you had originally tried to kill me with it, I’d say I’ve got a decent handle on it.”
Merlin ignored that. “And you understand the basic mechanics on how to solve pulling water up from a river basin and onto land?”
“Archimedes Screw,” Galahad replied.
“And how radio signals work?”
“Almost.”
“What about cameras and film?”
“Still baffling to me,” said Galahad with a shrug.
“And—”
“Get to the point, Merlin.”
Merlin wasn’t fond of being spoken to in such a manner, but he knew what he was getting into when he’d decided to take Galahad on as a student and so he pushed the angst away.
“The point is that without Allison you wouldn’t know any of that. She is the reason your brain is full of more than hops and barley.”
“Hmmm.”
“Worse than that,” Merlin said, unfolding his arms while walking toward the window, “I’d be nothing but a pencil-pusher in some remote town, struggling through the daily toil of life while my curious mind suffered endlessly.”
Galahad grunted. “Oh, all right. Fine. What do we do, then?”
“I’m going to speak to Arthur,” Merlin said distantly.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like the idea of going into the future alone.”
“I’d be with you,” Galahad pointed out.
Merlin nodded slowly. “Exactly.”
A PARTY?
Scottish Arthur was not a man who took well to being told what to do, except when the person telling him what to do was his queen.
Agnes wanted to have a party. More of a grand ball, to be exact. They’d had a quick get-together when the king of England came down with his men a number of months back, but nothing in the line of fanciness that Queen Agnes had in mind.
Arty—as he liked to be called by his peers—knew his queen’s true intentions, though. She wanted to see Camelot’s lead knight again.
The king of Scotland grunted to himself.
This had all been his fault. He’d done the naughty with the queen of France after falling into a drunken stupor at a banquet last year. Alcohol, and the fact that the queen of France was smokin’ hot, made it all too easy for Arty to put his person where it ought not to be. This would have been fine and good had Agnes not found out about it. He’d never said a word to her, of course. He wasn’t stupid. But Agnes had tricked him by intimating that she knew he’d done it, which tripped him up into inadvertently admitting his guilt.
That had opened the door to Agnes having enough ammunition to get even. Unfortunately, her selected man was none other than the human garden hose known as Sir Lance-A-Lot.
Arty sighed and poked a stick at the campfire that his men had built. They were just over halfway to Camelot. He should have left in the morning instead, but Agnes had been nagging him all afternoon and so he’d decided to get away sooner.
Most of his men had drifted off and were snoring. Those still awake were huddled in groups around fires, talking of women and conquests. It wasn’t often these days that Arty got to go on journeys such as this, and technically he hadn’t had to go at all, but he wasn’t going to allow a messenger to deliver this particular invitation. No, it was Arty’s goal to personally speak with the king of England to find a way to circumvent Sir Lance-A-Lot’s ability to join the party.
“Ridiculous, it ’tis,” Arty said with a sneer.
“Aye, me lord,” answered Ceallach, Arty’s military adviser.
“To think that I’m gonna invite that Lance-A-Lot back into Scotland after he...” Arty paused. “Erm, I mean, uh…”
“What did he do, me lord?” Ceallach said like a man who was building a strategy for war.
“Let’s just say he was after probing into matters that dinnae belong to him, and leave it at that.”
“Oh,” Ceallach replied as his face relaxed. “Ye mean he boned the missus?”
Arty frowned. “Anyway, if Agnes thinks I’ll be invitin’ that one along, she’s batty.”
“Not sure why we would be invitin’ the English to anything other than battle anyway, sire, truth be told.”
“I know yer feelin’, Calle,” Arty said as he twitched on the log where he sat. The selection of lacy underbritches seemed fun when he’d left Scotland, but they were beginning to chafe him now. “Their king is after bein’ a decent sort, though.”
“Aye, me lord. So ye say.”
“You doubt me word, Calle?”
“Nay, sire,” Ceallach replied with a touch of gloom. “More a case of thinkin’ that you’ve had the lace pulled over yer eyes, is all.”
“Lace?” said Arty with a start.
Ceallach closed his eyes briefly and then said, “Wool.”
“Ye said lace.”
“Meant wool, sire.”
“Then why say lace?”
“Thought it’d be more crafty, is all.”
“Crafty?”
“Everyone’s always after saying ‘wool,’ me lord,” Ceallach explained, “so I think of it as cliché, I do.” He looked sideways at the king. “Somethin’ wrong with the term ‘lace,’ sire?”
“Nay,” Arty said defensively. “Just wonderin’ why ye picked it.”
“Maybe there’s something about lace that chafes ye, me lord?”
Arty adjusted himself again. “Actually, it... Uh... Forget it. Anyhoo, point is that this English Arthur is a decent sort. He’s a kindred fella, in a manner of speakin’.”
“As ye say, me lord.”
“Bah! Go to bed, ye git,” Arty commanded. “We’re only getting an hour or two before we’re back on the steeds. Want to get to Camelot before first light.”
SPEAKING TO ARTHUR
King Arthur rarely had pleasant dreams. His nighttime visuals were more of the sort where people learned of his particular delight in wearing women’s clothing. There were trials, laughter, people pointing at him, name-calling, and a slurry of other atrocities that tended to happen to someone who was deemed different.
In this particular nightmare, the local lords and barons had heard of his tawdry behavior and had called for Arthur to be removed from the throne immediately. Guards were sent into the castle to rip him from his kingly slumber. They were pounding on his door…
“Arthur,” came the jolting voice of Guinevere, waking him from his dream, “there is someone at the door.”
Arthur was still in twilight as he replied, “I know, my dearest. It is me they’ve come for. They’ve learned of my inappropriate fashion sense.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Slowly Arthur’s mind came into focus and he realized that this was no longer a dream.
“Nothing.”
The pounding on the door continued.
Arthur angrily threw back the covers and began his purposeful stride toward the door.
“Arthur,” said Guinevere, “you may wish to put on a robe first.”
“Hmmm?” He looked down at himself to find that he was currently garbed in a purple number made of satin with frilly edges. “Oh, right.”
The king snagged a proper covering from the wardrobe and finally swung open the door, half-expecting that it would be the guards from his dream.
Standing there was Merlin, and he looked intent on having a conversation.
“Good heavens, man,” said Arthur as Merlin pushed into the room, “it’s the middle of the night!”
Merlin paused. “Your point?”
“Simply that it’s not wise to wake anyone at this time, especially not your king!”
“You knock on my door at first light all the time,” scoffed Merlin after giving a nod to Guinevere, who had moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Precisely,” Arthur stated as if
the point were obvious. “First light,” he added strongly.
“Which is my night, Arthur.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“No, but it is your fault to not respect my sleeping cycles. The world does not revolve around you, you know.”
“I’m the king!”
“How many times…” Merlin stopped and held up his hand. “Can we please discuss my purpose for waking you?”
“Oh, sure,” Arthur said dramatically, “when you’re trying to sleep, you’re allowed to give me a bunch of bull dung about how I interrupt your slumber, but whenever you feel like intruding on—”
“Arthur, stop this nonsense,” Guinevere said. “Merlin obviously has a dilemma or he would never have come here in such a manner.”
Arthur crossed his arms, stomped his foot, and said, “Hmmph!”
Guinevere adjusted the sock that she had stuffed in the front of her boxer shorts and leaned forward.
“Now,” she said, “what is this all about, Merlin?”
“It’s Allison.”
“Your apprentice?” Arthur asked. “I thought she had moved on some time ago.”
“Yeah, about that...” Merlin said while rubbing his chin. “She was never really my apprentice, Arthur.”
“Oh?” said Guinevere.
Merlin sat down on the stone ledge that surrounded the window. Arthur had not seen the man like this before. He appeared concerned, which was normal, but not in this way. While Arthur still hadn’t quite adapted to Merlin’s particular personality, he would have guessed that the wizard was afraid of something.
“If anything,” Merlin said finally, “I was her apprentice.”
“Well, this is interesting,” said Guinevere.
“Indeed, it is, my sweet,” said Arthur. “Pray tell, Merlin.”
“She’s from the future,” Merlin replied.
Arthur nodded. So that’s what this was all about. Merlin had gone on a bender and his first destination was Arthur’s room in the castle. He would have to give the guards a talking to about this. Not that it was really their fault. If the wizard threatened to turn them into toads, or worse, they’d have little recourse but to let the man pass. Still, a drunken Merlin was not to be tolerated.
“The future,” Arthur said dryly.
“Yes.”
“How’s that, again?” asked Guinevere, clearly coming to the same conclusion about alcohol being involved.
Merlin looked up at the ceiling for a moment.
“She came back in time through a machine of some sort,” he explained slowly. “I found her in a cave a number of years back and she began teaching me.”
“I see,” said Guinevere, not sounding all that convinced.
“I don’t wish to be rude,” Arthur said a few seconds later, “but have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Bumped your head, maybe?”
“No.”
“Did you cast a dullard spell on yourself, per chance?”
Merlin merely sighed and gave Guinevere a would-you-please-help-me-out-here look.
“Enough, Arthur,” Guinevere said as she stood up from the bed. “Forgive him, Merlin, but you must understand that what you’re saying is rather fantastical.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that, Gwen. But I assure you that it’s all true.”
“Maybe you’ve been experimenting with recreational hallucinogens?” Arthur pressed. “I hear they are the rage these days.”
Guinevere turned on Arthur and gave him a stern look. It was the look that she typically reserved for when she was wearing women’s clothing and he was in his kingly garb. It was that look that said, “You’ve had it now, mister.”
“Arthur,” she said evenly, “if you keep this up I shall take away the key to my wardrobe closet and you’ll be stuck wearing boxers for the next two weeks.”
“Diabolical,” Arthur replied as his shoulder’s slumped. “Fine, I shall play along.” His heart wasn’t in it, but he forced himself to feign sincerity. “Okay, Merlin, so your former non-apprentice has gone missing?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And you fear she is in trouble?”
“Obviously, you bonehead.”
“Careful, wizard,” said Arthur, having enough trouble with this entire thing as it was. “Remember that I am still your king.”
“More of a queen, really,” mused Merlin, “and remember that I don’t buy in to all of that royal hoopla.”
“I could have you tarred and feathered for—”
“What can we do to help, Merlin?” interrupted Guinevere.
Merlin pushed off the ledge and began to pace back and forth. He’d clasped his hands behind his back as he walked from one end of the room to the other. Arthur wasn’t sure if this was for dramatic effect or if the man was really thinking, and Arthur still wasn’t certain that booze wasn’t involved, but after a few more moments it became clear that what Merlin was truly doing was attempting to summon courage. This took Arthur aback. Usually the little man was direct and unwavering when he wanted something.
“I want to go to the future and find her,” Merlin said with a wince.
“What?” said Arthur.
“I see,” Guinevere said. “How do you propose to accomplish this?”
“I have a time machine in the back room of my house,” he answered.
Arthur squinted. “What?”
“And you believe that this… Sorry, what was it called again?”
“Machine.”
“Machine,” Guinevere said as though she were tasting the word. “And you believe it will help us find your Allison?”
“I’m not sure, but I hope so.”
Guinevere nodded. “What do you need from us?”
“Well,” Merlin said hopefully, “it may be dangerous and I’m not exactly what you’d call a fighter.”
“Wait a second here,” Arthur interjected before Guinevere could make any decrees. “Are you suggesting that I send knights along on this foolhardy errand?”
Merlin bristled. “Is it any more foolish than the one we went on to get you a blasted ring so you could walk around wearing women’s trinkets and gowns without anyone knowing about it, dude?”
“Dude?” Arthur harrumphed and turned away.
“We will speak with the knights and shall prepare a contingent,” Guinevere said, clearly ignoring Arthur’s feelings. “We shall depart at first light.”
“What?” said Arthur, blinking.
“Thank you, Gwen,” Merlin said with a slight bow. “I sometimes wish that you were king. The world would be a better place for it.”
“Hey,” said Arthur.
“Seeing how he dresses, Merlin,” she said and then looked down at herself, “and, honestly, how I do as well, I think the world has already been granted your wish.”
“Hey!”
SELECTING THE KNIGHTS
Arthur stood at the same spot he always stood when addressing the Knights of the Round Table. Looking at their surroundings, a better descriptor would probably be Knights of the Pub Table. There wasn’t a round table to speak of, though he knew that wasn’t quite the point.
To his left stood Sir Lance-A-Lot, whose real name was Mitch Bowenkawski. He had gotten the Lance-A-Lot moniker from the rest of the knights because his man-nub was the size of a lance and he employed its use with the ladies a lot.
The rest of the knights sat along each side of the table, each holding either food, tankards, or both.
Going around he saw Sir Bedivere, the knight who imbibed a steady supply of spirits. Should there ever come a time where Camelot had need to fight a war that consisted of winning drinking contests, Sir Bedivere would rule the day.
Beside him were Sir Purcivale and Sir Tristan. They were of the same make and personality. Anyone who didn’t know better would assume they were twins. Brothers, at least. They spoke funnily, were rather sarcastic, and they had no qualms saying what they thought. This, of course, could have
been due to the fact that very few people could understand them.
Sir Gareth was the company bard. He was slight, and horrible at fighting, but he could sing like an angel and his deftness with musical instruments was untouched. Gareth could also put together a fine meal when in the field, and his ability to stitch up wounds and repair clothing tears stood up there with the best seamstresses.
Another two who were cut by the same jib were Sir Bors de Ganis and Sir Kay. They didn’t look like each other, but they were both actors, writers, and directors in the local theater. Any time Camelot was to hold a party, it was these two, along with their wives, who were in charge of planning and execution (not that kind). Sir Bors was tall and bold with a bald head and a tight goatee. Sir Kay was a little shorter and he had neatly cropped hair and a finely trimmed beard. Had Arthur not known better, he would have assumed that they were more than merely friends, but theater people seem to suffer that reputation, which most likely stemmed from the fact that they only allow men to play all roles, and more often than not those roles include dressing the part of a woman. Arthur, of course, did this constantly, though not in a play, as it were, and he knew well that he was not interested in other fellows, which allowed him to assume that Bors and Kay were not either.
Sir Gawain was a paradoxical sort. He was big and strong, yet gentle and caring. At the same time, he had a tendency to speak his mind in a very blunt and often hurtful manner. But once he realized his mistake—which often required that someone point it out to him—he would vehemently apologize in the most peculiar of ways.
Sir Lamorak was one of the more positive knights. Actually, he was positively positive, to the point of it being sugary and unrealistic. When they had first met, Arthur assumed that this was due to some form of overcompensation, but it had turned out that Lamorak was honestly just a very glass-half-full kind of guy. He also had those steely blue eyes that you read about in romances. Frankly, of all the knights—except Sir Lance-A-Lot, of course—Lamorak’s square jaw and long dark hair made him the most handsome man that Arthur had ever seen.
Arthur quickly looked away, blinking a few times.
Comedic Arthurian Bundle: The Adventures of Queen Arthur Page 10