“I annoy what I—”
“Just try out your line, man!”
“As you wish, Sir Kay,” Gaheris said and then eyed Bors. “What is it again?”
Bors held the script out at arm’s length. “I am Sir Gaheris, feel the steel of my mighty blade!”
“Gah, guh,” started Gaheris.
Kay jumped back. “Are you soiling your britches?”
“No, I am clearing my throat.”
“Oh, okay, it’s just that those are the same sounds you... Never mind. Go on.”
Gaheris rolled his eyes and told himself, “I am Gary. I am Gary.” He then took a deep breath and fought to calm down.
“I am Sir Gaheris, feel my dirty sword!”
“No, no, no,” Bors shrieked. “It’s ‘I am Sir Gaheris, feel the steel of my mighty blade!’”
“What difference does it make?”
“Well,” stated Kay, “for one, a ‘dirty sword’ sounds rather racy, and somewhat vulgar.”
“That it does,” Bors agreed with a nod.
“Secondly, it’s not the line.”
“Ugh.” Gaheris took another breath. “I am Sir Gaheris and my dirk is ready to stick in you!”
“Honestly, man,” Bors said, throwing the script to the ground. “That’s not even close!”
“You did say ‘dirk,’ right?”
“Yes,” Gaheris grumbled at Kay through clenched teeth. “And Sir Bors, that is precisely what you instructed me to say.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“Did too.”
“It’s right here in black and white, man,” Bors said, snatching the script back off the ground.
“More of a bluish color,” Gaheris noted, looking at the ink.
Sir Kay leaned back against the wall and rubbed his eyes. “This is going to take some work, I fear.”
“Indeed,” Bors agreed with a huff.
MAKING A FUSS
This was not a discussion that Arthur wanted to have, but enough was enough. He had to make a stand or he would just continue to hold his feelings in until the day he exploded. Still, he understood the importance of not speaking to Guinevere too harshly.
“I’m just saying that the constant references to the man’s deftness in the sack is hurtful.”
“Are you jealous, Arthur?” Guinevere said with a wink.
“Of the man? No. Of his chauncey? Absolutely. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be?”
“I saw a few fellows on the boxes in that store who wouldn’t be.”
“True,” Arthur agreed, “and a couple of the ladies, too, which I’m still trying to wrap my head around.”
“So to speak.”
“Pardon?”
“Pantaloons.”
“Ah, right. Anyway, it’s just not kind of you to constantly swoon over the man in front of me.”
“I had no idea you were so sensitive about things like this, Arthur.” Again, she was saying it in a teasing way.
“It’s not sensitivity!” He didn’t want to lose his temper, but his resolve had all but failed him. “It’s... It’s...” He stopped. “Okay, maybe it is sensitivity. But how would you like it if I brought up Cybil all the time?”
Guinevere looked at him with eyes of rage. The teasing was gone now.
“You mean that slut with the gigantic bazangas?”
“Bazangas?” Arthur said, furrowing his brow. “I know, I know, it’s the pantaloons. Anyway, yes, her.”
“Honestly never understood what you saw in her, Arthur.”
“Myself, for one,” he said, deciding it was his turn to tease.
“Arthur!”
“Doesn’t feel so good, does it?” he said defiantly.
“Depends,” she said, looking momentarily confused. “What are we talking about?”
“My teasing you, dear.”
“Oh, right.” She walked a few more paces in silence. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Well, that’s how it feels to me when you talk about Mitch all the time.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” she said and then took his hand. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I guess I just didn’t realize how it made you feel.”
They looked up to find that Merlin and Galahad were approaching. The timing wasn’t the best, but when was there a good time for a king and queen to be alone? Night, sure, but only because they were sleeping in the same bed. They had been together a long time, after all, which meant that a place to sleep was their bed’s primary purpose these days.
“Hello, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Galahad.”
“Sire.”
Merlin gave them both a dubious glance. “Are we interrupting something?”
“No, Merlin,” Guinevere said. “I believe we’ve finished our discussion. Yes, Arthur?”
“We have, my turtle dove.”
“Good, good.” Merlin looked back at the hospital. “We found Allison. She’s doing fine.”
“Was she struck ill?” Guinevere asked.
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
“Out with it, man! What’s the matter with her?”
“She’s pregnant,” Merlin answered.
“How wonderful,” Arthur said while bringing his hands to his chest.
“Sweet,” said Guinevere, adjusting her sock.
Merlin squinted at them both, as did Galahad.
“Anyway,” said Merlin, “I suppose it is, sure.”
“Is there something wrong with her being with child, Merlin?”
“Yes,” Guinevere said, “what’s the matter?”
Galahad cracked his neck from side-to-side and said, “You might want to sit down for this.”
I'M A WHAT?
Lance-A-Lot was not a fan of walking around in public while wearing only tights. It got him far too many looks. The glances of awe from the women were great, but the sneers from the men made him uncomfortable. The winks from some of the men made him even more uncomfortable.
It was also clear that Arty was unhappy to be seen with him, but that wasn’t Lance-A-Lot’s fault. King Arthur had decreed that the two men would work together to seek out Merlin.
They walked up to the desk that had a sign above it that read “Information.”
“Here to get that tumor removed from your leg?” asked the woman behind the counter.
“Sorry?” said Lance-A-Lot.
“That massive lump,” she replied, pointing at his tights.
“Oh, uh—”
“That’s the man’s nether saber,” Arty said with a grunt.
“His what?”
“Don’t get him started,” Lance-A-Lot said quickly. “We’re looking for an Allison Smith.”
“Ah, yes,” the clerk said. “Should have known from the clothes. Take the elevator to floor three. She’s in room 327.”
“Right, the elevator.”
“What the shet’s an elevator?” asked Arty.
“You guys really like staying in character, don’t you?”
Arty looked around. “What kind of establishment is this, anyhoo?”
“Sorry, we have a... Uh... Show tonight.”
“Right, I get it. The other guys who were here earlier were acting funny, too. Just go over there, get inside, and press the number three.”
“Thank you.”
They approached the elevator and watched it for a few minutes. People walked in and it would close up. Then they’d see through the glass as those folks were lifted or dropped. The box would stop and the people would disappear, only to be replaced by other people. On their level, different people would walk out than those who had originally walked in.
“I’m not gettin’ in that thing,” Arty said with a gulp.
Lance-A-Lot stood strong. “Come along, sire. I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Nay. I’m not doin’ it,” Arty said as the doors opened again. “Looks like a damn crypt, it does. And ye see how it goes up. Ye think it’s after takin’ ye to the angels?”
“I don’t
think it does, sire.”
“What if we get in it and it goes down? Could be demons we’d be fed to.”
“We have to do our duty, my lord.”
“Ye may have,” Arty said, sniffing, “but I report to no man but meself.”
Lance-A-Lot had little time to mess about with the fears of the king. He didn’t know much about Scotland, but he’d battled with enough of them to gauge that they were fierce warriors. Recalling the look of Arty in his full gown and makeup didn’t bring forth a vision of a man to be feared, but deep down Lance-A-Lot felt certain that Arty was not a weak-willed warrior. He just needed the right motivation.
“Well,” said Lance-A-Lot, “I guess we’ll just have to let it be known that the king of Scotland was too timid to join a mere knight in a quest that required the entrance into a silver box.”
Arty slumped. “Yer a right bastard, ye know?”
“Sorry, sire.”
The doors opened again and Lance-A-Lot strode inside. A moment later, while grasping on to the walls for dear life, Arty followed.
“Bad enough ye got that thing in yer pants what looks like an elephant’s trunk holdin’ a damn coconut, but ye ain’t gotta be a shethead, too.”
“She said to press three, right?” Lance-A-Lot said, unfazed. He was used to being spoken to derisively.
“Aye.”
The doors closed.
“Oh, me heavens! We’re doomed!”
Lance-A-Lot grabbed the king by the shoulder and spun him around. “If you look out the side, sire, you can see where we just were.”
“The world is sinkin’ away from us,” Arty said hoarsely. “I’ll never see me Agnes again.”
“Now that’s a dreary thought.”
“Aye, and...” Arty stood up straight and spun around. “What’s that supposed to be after meanin’?” The doors opened, causing Arty to cower again. “Is there angels out there?”
“Come on, will you?” Lance-A-Lot said, looking back at the terrified king.
“Aye, all right.” He took a step out just as the doors were closing. They clipped his leg and reopened. The Scottish king jumped into a fighting stance. “Shet! It tried to eat me, it did!”
The doors closed again as Arty slowly stood back up. Lance-A-Lot hoped that the king was starting to grasp how foolish he looked. Something told Lance-A-Lot that probably wasn’t the case, though.
“Blimey, they are angels,” Arty said, pointing at the people wearing white outfits.
“Hard to argue that, but I think we’re still in the realm of the living, sire.”
“Yer certain?”
“It’s just a different era, my lord. I’m sure it’s all fine.”
Arty blinked a few times. “Are all nets this calm?”
“I would imagine all nets are calm, yes.”
“Knyeeeeets,” Arty said in exasperation.
“Ah, right. We are trained to be relaxed in the face of adversity, sire.”
“Hmmm. I’ll have to have a think on that.”
“May I help you?” asked one of the nurses as she walked by. She then glanced down at Lance-A-Lot’s situation. “Oh, you’re on the wrong floor, sweetie. You need to be in Oncology on floor six in order to get that removed.”
“It’s his boy-melon, lass,” Arty said tiredly.
“His what?”
“Nothing, ma’am,” Lance-A-Lot said. “I’m sorry if my outfit is too revealing. I am looking for an Allison Smith? She should be here with Merlin.”
“Oh, yeah,” she snickered. “Merlin. Last I saw him, he was in room 327.”
“Thank you. Let’s go, sire.”
“I’m gonna wait out here and look at the angels,” Arty said while taking a seat. “I don’t know this Allison person.”
“She was Merlin’s helper when we came to see you in Scotland.”
“The young lass?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Ah, right. Well, I think I’d rather keep feastin’ me eyes on all the angels.”
“As you wish, sire.”
Lance-A-Lot took one last look around. He was somewhat worried about leaving the king of Scotland alone, but King Arthur had never put the man’s safety in Lance-A-Lot’s hands. Besides, a king of Arty’s stature should be able to handle himself, even if he was terrified of elevators.
He opened the door and peeked around the corner.
“Merlin? Hello?”
“Mitch?” said a voice that Lance-A-Lot had not heard in many months.
“Oh, hello, Miss Allison. It’s Sir Lance-A-Lot.”
“I know. That’s why I called you Mitch.”
“Oh, right.” He felt uncomfortable with that, but it wasn’t like she was in the military. “Have you seen Merlin?”
“He left a little while ago. Said he was going to catch up with you and Arthur.”
“Must have missed him in the hallway.”
“So you don’t know, then?” Allison said.
“Know what?”
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
“How wonderful,” Lance-A-Lot said, feeling genuinely happy for her. “My most merry congratulations to you and your husband.”
“I have no husband, Mitch.”
He felt an instant pang of guilt. “Ah, my apologies, my lady.”
“None required. I need no husband. I’m an independent woman.”
“Again,” he said, thinking this was a bad thing, “my apologies.”
“Hmmm.”
“Wait,” he added at the sudden thought that this young woman had been put in a dastardly situation. “Are you saying that the father of this child of yours has gone derelict? If so, I shall hunt the man down and force him to do the right thing!”
“As to that, Mitch,” she explained, “you are the father.”
“A man should take responsibility for his... What?”
“When I was back in Camelot, you were the only one I had relations with.” She looked out the window. “Frankly, prior to that it had been a few years.”
“What?”
“Years,” she repeated, “and having you as my first in such a long time wasn’t the best of ideas. Took me two weeks to walk normal again.”
“I’m confused.”
“It’s your baby, Mitch. You’re the father.”
Lance-A-Lot’s legs nearly gave out. He moved to the chair and sat down.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“But... how?”
“You of all people should know the answer to that, Mitch.”
“Right, sorry.” He shook his head, trying to clear out the fog. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t worry, Mitch. I don’t expect anything from you. You couldn’t have known, and had Merlin not come along, you never would have known.”
“So, I’m going to be a father?”
“Well, biologically-speaking, yes.”
He sat up straight. “Then I must do what I can to contribute—”
“No, Mitch,” Allison interrupted, holding up her hand. “It’s not necessary. Really. I can handle it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said, I’m an independent woman. I don’t need, nor do I want, a husband.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, you couldn’t possibly make any money in this day and age.” Then she looked him over. “Well, maybe a little at the dinner theater, I suppose.”
“Actually, I was just paid…” He looked up and thought better of continuing his sentence. “Forget it.”
“Oooh,” Allison said, her face cringing as she leaned forward.
“What is it?” Lance-A-Lot said, fearing the worst.
“Just having some contractions is all. Oooh! Ouch!”
Lance-A-Lot rushed to her side. “What do I do?”
“They’ll subside shortly,” she said through ragged breaths. “Oooh!”
THE GATE
A smallish man with a clothing style that fit Arthur’s personal taste came out to m
eet the four Camelotians as they approached the medieval dinner theater.
“You’re late,” the little fellow hissed. “Everyone is already getting into position. The curtain goes up in thirty minutes.”
“Pardon me?” Arthur replied, surprised at the man’s demeanor.
“At least you have your outfits on,” said the man. He then eyed them carefully. “I don’t recall you being on the actors list, though, especially the little guy with the pointy hat. Are you supposed to be a wizard? A stunt double maybe?”
“What?”
“Either way, you need to get down to the rooms and finish up with your makeup.”
Arthur smiled. “That sounds lovely.”
“Wait, young man,” Merlin said. “We’re not who you think we are.”
“You’re actors, right?”
“No. Our friends are acting. We are merely spectators.”
“Then why are you dressed like that?”
Galahad stepped up and said, “We are looking to sell a sword.”
“We are?” said Merlin.
“What?” said Arthur, knowing that the only sword they had in their possession was Excalibur.
“I’m assuming that the owner of this establishment collects items from the elder age?” Galahad pressed on.
“Mrs. Levstall is a huge collector of Medieval paraphernalia, yes.”
Merlin glanced at Galahad. “How the blazes did you know that?”
Galahad motioned to all of the pieces encased in glass on the sides of the building. There were knights’ outfits, swords, maces, shields, crossbows, and a number of other items that were related to battle. There were also dresses, barons’ outfits, jester hats, and so on.
“Could just be replicas,” mused Merlin.
“Look at the notches on that red-tinted one, Merlin,” Galahad whispered, just within earshot of Arthur. “That’s what Bedivere does. Nobody would know about that. And look at those metal pants with the increased package handler in the mid-section.”
“Lance-a-Lot,” Merlin and Arthur said simultaneously.
“Exactly.”
“Sorry,” the small man said. “You’re selling a sword?”
“Correct,” answered Galahad.
“I believe we are, yes,” Merlin agreed. “And a fine one at that.”
“What is the sword?”
“The genuine Excalibur, of course,” Merlin replied, pointing at the weapon hanging on Arthur’s back.
Comedic Arthurian Bundle: The Adventures of Queen Arthur Page 18