A Connecticut Kat in King Arthur's Court
By Mari Mancusi
Once upon a time there lived an outspoken fashion editor named Kat, who certainly was not your typical damsel in distress. But when a gypsy curse sent her back in time to the days of King Arthur, she found she'd need every ounce of her 21st century wits (and pop culture references) to navigate the legend. After all, surviving a magical plot, an evil prince, and a case of mistaken identity--all without changing history or scuffing your Manolos--takes some doing!
Luckily, she's got her very own knight in shining armor, Lancelot du Lac, on her side. The honorable-to-a-fault and devastatingly handsome champion insists on helping her out, even though she's not quite sure she wants him to. After all, shouldn't he be off romancing Queen Guenevere or something? Will Kat manage to stay out of trouble long enough to get back to her beloved lattes, cosmopolitans and cashmere? And what will Lancelot's forbidden love mean for the kingdom of Camelot?
Chapter One
If Mr. Blahnik could see me now, he'd be royally pissed off.
Not that I'd blame the guy. After all, dragging his kitten heels through upstate New York mud is not exactly the reverential treatment six-hundred-dollar shoes deserve.
To be fair, it really isn't my fault. It's not like I volunteered for the assignment. If anyone deserves Manolo's full wrath, it's my editor. She's the one who decided that me spending my Saturday with a bunch of no-life weirdoes would be a positive career move.
I originally planned a full day of shopping in the Village, lunch with Lucy, more shopping, then a relaxing train ride back home to my Connecticut condo, where I would lounge by the pool for the remainder of the afternoon.
Instead I am on assignment at King Arthur's Faire. My mission? To write five hundred words on the emerging trend of medieval flair in today's fashions.
I'm Katherine Jones, by the way. But pretty much everyone calls me Kat. Why, I don't know— maybe it's my eyes. I've got big, green, catlike eyes that turn up at the corners. When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn, they were my ticket to fame. The guys couldn't stay away--even the ones I wished would.
I've moved up in the world since then. Now, as the twenty-two-year-old associate fashion editor at La Style, my job is to claw through the hype and sniff out the trends. I'm good at it, too. Remember that ridiculous puppy-purse craze? I broke that story before Vogue laid their Chanel-shaded eyes on it.
But does my editor recognize my talent? Uh, that would be a no. In fact, half the time I don't think she even recognizes me, even though I donated four years of my college life to slavery—er, interning for her.
And so instead of jetting off to Paris or Milan to write cover stories on the beautiful people, I usually get stuck doing back-end blurbs that lie lost between tampon ads.
This time it's medieval gear, which, I'm sorry, but I think is ridiculous. I can hardly see Giselle sporting a pointy veiled headdress, and am quite positive Bradley Cooper would not be caught dead in tunic and tights.
My photographer, Chrissie Haywood, seems to have none of these reservations, however, seeing as she’s currently traipsing through the mud in a Chrissie Haywood original—a royal-blue velour gown with lace-up corset and cap sleeves. She told me earlier that she made it from a pattern she'd bought off Etsy, confirming my suspicions that the Internet really is an evil empire where freaks come together to rejoice in their freakiness. In BI (Before Internet) days, if you had an odd quirk, you kept it to yourself. Now you make a Tumblr.
When I was growing up, my family couldn't afford a computer. But I didn't care. All I needed were magazines: glossy, glamorous, advice-filled pages just waiting to transport me to a world of beauty, majesty, and anorexia--for the bargain price of $3.99. Why waste a grand or more on a plastic box that’s only good for checking up on what your ex-boyfriend's current girlfriend posted on his wall? (Okay, that’s admittedly a pretty good feature.)
"Hear ye, hear ye," a barker announces as we walk by his stand. "Whoso shall lift this sword from the stone, the same is rightly born king of England." Or, in this case, will rightly win a plastic Excalibur of his very own. The toy sword emits a piercing scream when slammed against trees, rocks, people—whatever the little brats decide to use as their unwitting target. I know this not because I'd tried my luck at the sword-in-stone thing (I have no burning desire to become British royalty--as far as I'm concerned Kate can have it!) but because every kid here seems to have already won one and has made it his or her mission to see that I achieve the headache of a lifetime.
I know the story of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table as well as anyone, I suppose. Dude pulls sword from stone, becomes king. Marries a total slut named Guenevere who goes off and hooks up with his best friend, Lancelot. What I don't get is why people think it's so goddamned romantic. Having been a victim of a cheating man whore, I can tell you for a fact there's nothing glamorous about having your heart trampled over.
We walk past Ye Local Eatery, where for $5.95 you can get a cup of mead (aka Bud Light) with your King's Royale Chicken Bites (courtesy of King Ronald McDonald, if I'm not mistaken). They also feature what I'm sure was a medieval delicacy—pepperoni pizza of the Round Table. Yeah.
"Here, wear this." Before I can stop her, Chrissie plops a tall dunce-cap thing—complete with lavender polyester veil— over my head. She must have bought it while I wasn't looking. "Now you fit in," she proclaims, as if that had been my goal—rather than my nightmare—all along.
"Gee, thanks," I reply, pulling the hat from my head and examining it with a critical eye. Could Gucci really be planning this kind of kitsch for the fall runway? Chrissie looks hurt as I pick at the hat's seams, investigating the quality or, in this case, lack of it. I could have sewn better during first-year home ec at the Brooklyn community college I went to—and that was the year I accidentally blew up the kitchen! Okay, so I'm a better seamstress than cook.
"You know," Chrissie whines, "You could at least try to have a good time." She twirls around, velour gown flapping in the breeze, as she takes it all in. "It's not exactly torture, you know, hanging out in a medieval village. Could be much worse."
It could, and suddenly is, as the skies open up and rain starts gushing down. Awesome. We duck into the nearest tent for cover.
"May I read thy palm, milady?"
Oh, great. The tent we pick just happens to be inhabited by King Arthur's very own Miss Cleo. A tiny, wrinkled gypsy type addresses us from behind her crystal bowling ball. She wears a bright, mauve-colored robe bordered with intricate gold embroidery. Gotta give her some props—her costume, at least, looks authentic enough, even though I'm pretty sure I've seen that same crystal ball at Spencer Gifts for $19.99.
I motion for Chrissie to take a photo. "Ooh, yes. Kat, get your fortune read," she replies, misunderstanding my gesture.
"No, thanks. I don't believe any of that psychic mumbo jumbo." Sure, I check my horoscope once in a while—what magazine diva doesn't? But anything that forces me to fork over good money for worthless prophecies that could apply to anyone, I steer clear of.
The old crone glares at me with beady eyes, possibly not appreciating the fact that I used the words mumbo jumbo and psychic in the same sentence. But come on! She must be used to nonbelievers at this point in her career; she looks about eighty. Still, her pointed stare gives me the creeps, and I contemplate leaving the tent, rain be damned. After a second analysis, I decide the cost of dry-cleaning six-hundred-dollar Armani trousers that I borrowed from the props closet at work outweighs being stuck with an annoying old woman who thinks she knows my future.
&n
bsp; "Come on, Kat. I'll pay for it and everything." Did I mention Chrissie is persistent as well as enthusiastic? I give in. What else are we going to do while waiting for the rain to end?
Plopping down on the chair, I stick out my arm. A strange chill trips down my spine as the ancient crone takes my palm in her gnarled hands. She traces my lifeline with a long, bony finger and I wonder if I should ask her if she's ever heard of hand lotion. I mean, her hands are pretty far gone, but it's never too late for moisturizing.
"Let me guess," I say with a sigh. "Long life. Success in love. Great career." These fortune-tellers always tell you what you want to hear. After all, spreading doom and gloom isn't going to get them many customers.
"Thou dost not believe." The woman scowls, dropping my hand immediately. "Why would I bother?"
"Look, Chrissie's going to fork over your five bucks," I reply, a little pissed. Who is this woman to cop an attitude with me? She's a lame medieval-fair fortune-teller. Probably doesn't even have her own website. "Just tell me about my illustrious future or whatever it is you do."
The woman sighs—she's really one for drama, let me tell you—and takes my hand again. A sudden fear washes over her crinkly face. "Thou shouldst not be here," she says in an urgent whisper.
"No shit. I should be at Bloomingdale's. Doesn't take a psychic to figure out that one."
Chrissie swats me from behind, and I giggle.
"No." The woman looks suddenly fierce. "That is not what I am meaning. I mean thou art out of time."
"Already? I just sat down. You haven't even told me my future yet."
"Not out of time with me. Out of time with life. Thy destiny—it is lying in another era."
You'd think with everyone paying twenty bucks' admission, the fair organizers could have found a better psychic than this. "All I want to know," I say, glancing back at Chrissie with a wink, "is whether I'm going to be rich, successful, and score a really cute boyfriend. Tell me that and I'll be on my merry way."
"Pay attention!" the woman shrieks, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I try to pull my hand away, but she clutches it tight, digging her long fingernails into my palm. Her beady eyes are wide-open now, but clouded over, her nose scrunched and her lips curling into a snarl. Okay, this is getting a tad bit freaky for me!
"The lines of tragedy are clearly written on thy hand. If thou dost not take heed, thou wilt surely die today!"
That's it! I manage to rip my hand from her claws and stand up. "Yeah, sure, whatever, psychic psycho," I spit out. I'd much rather be caught in the rain than listen to this bull. Who does this crackpot think she is, trying to scare me like this? "Chrissie, I'm so out of here."
Chrissie looks from me to the psychic and back again. "Maybe you shouldn't piss her off, Kat," she says in a low voice. "What if she puts a spell on you?"
I can't help but laugh at that one. "Oh, please, Chris," I whisper back. "She couldn't put a spell on a paper bag."
'That is where thou art wrong, my friend," the gypsy interjects, eavesdropping on our private conversation.
"Oh, really?" I ask in my best skeptical voice. "Then go for it. If you've got so much power, give it your best shot."
"Abu solstice Excalibur!" The woman suddenly recites her best Harry Potterism at the top of her lungs, following the "magic words" with a rather disturbing cackle. Thunder cracks as she waves her hands with a dramatic whoosh.
And for a moment I’m legitimately freaked out.
Then the moment passes. I don't turn into a toad. I'm not suddenly sporting donkey ears. In fact, I'm exactly the same Katherine "just call me Kat" Jones I was before she shouted her crazy curse. Except now perhaps a little less mad and a little more amused.
"Good try, sweetie." I pat the gypsy on her embroidered sleeve. "Maybe a few more years at Hogwarts will do the trick." I turn to Chrissie, who still looks petrified. "What now?"
"I... I think the rain has let up," she mumbles. "I want to get photos of the jousters."
Jousters, huh? As in sexy men dressed in armor and riding horses? That doesn't sound half-bad. A lot better than crazy fortune-tellers uttering curses, anyway. Determined to change my attitude and show Chrissie a good time, I amicably set the pointy hat on my head and take my photographer by the arm.
"Bring on the jousting!"
The jousting arena is at the far end of the fairground. The organizers set up bleachers on either side, kind of like a high school football field. We're a few minutes early and are able to snag front-row seats.
I steal a glance over at the end of the field, where the men are suiting up. Maybe it's due to my recent guy drought, but boy, do they look good. One in particular sports flowing black hair and a body to die for. He wears a crimson crest on his breastplate in the shape of a dragon. Yum, yum, double yum. I squint to get a better look and wish I had brought my glasses.
"The guy in the dragon armor is playing Lancelot," Chrissie informs me after glancing at her program.
"I'd be his Guenevere any day," I remark, taking in his broad shoulders and arrogant swagger. "I'm definitely digging his whole alpha-male vibe." He looks over, and I flash him a smile, then nudge Chrissie. "Get his picture."
She complies, snapping a few shots using her telephoto lens. "Wow, he looks even better up close," she murmurs. "Maybe you should go talk to him."
I laugh. "No way am I going to lower myself to knight-in-shining-armor-groupie level. Besides, I bet he's dumb as a rock. All brawn, no brains."
"You're such a snob. He could be a rocket scientist on his day off for all you know."
"Okay fine." I rip the camera from her grasp and look into the lens. Unfortunately Lancey-boy simultaneously picks that moment to place his helmet over his head, so I don't get much of a view. "Oh, well," I say, passing the camera back to Chrissie. "Guess it wasn't meant to be." I sigh dramatically. "Though I'll tell you what: something's gotta be 'meant to be' pretty soon. I'm like literally a born-again virgin at this point."
Chrissie giggles at my declaration. Easy for her to laugh. She's married to some Jersey-born beatnik and living a happy, hippie vegetarian existence in the Village. She met her poet in high school and has absolutely no idea what the rest of us go through trying to find a decent man in the tri-state area.
It's not that guys don't hit on me from time to time. It's only that lately there hasn't been anything worth hitting back. One would think in Manhattan there'd be cute guys up the yin-yang but no, only on Sex and the City reruns. In real life the scene is a lot more depressing.
Trumpets sound, presumably to mark the start of the tournament. Men and women dressed in silly costumes like Chrissie's scramble to find last-minute seats.
"Hear ye, hear ye!" A young man wearing a very fake gray beard, wizard cap, and star-covered gown walks into the center of the field. "Welcome, one and all, to King Arthur's Faire. I am Merlin, wizard of Camelot."
Oh, he's supposed to be Merlin, is he? I snicker, wondering who on earth did the casting for this place. First there was the scary old bag who takes herself way too seriously, and now this teenager posing as an ancient magician.
"Today you will witness feats of wonder that will amaze and entertain. Valiant knights, brave and bold, fiercely fighting to win the favor of their lady, Queen Guenevere."
"Yeah, yeah, we get it. In the name of chivalry and all that shit," I mumble to Chrissie. "Enough intro. Bring on the hot men on horses."
But Merlin keeps droning on and I soon find myself drifting off, unable to concentrate on his long-winded ramblings, his voice lulling me into a strange trancelike state. My eyes blur, and I start to get dizzy. I waver a bit, almost feeling as if I'm going to faint. Odd.
I shake my head to try to wake up, get oriented.
"Are you okay?" Chrissie studies me with concerned eyes. "You look pale."
"I'm fine." The dizziness fades as quickly as it began. "Maybe I'm dehydrated or something. Too many buy-one-get-one-free margaritas last night."
"Let me
get you some water." Chrissie rises from her seat and walks toward the refreshment stand. After a moment's contemplation of her extreme niceness, I turn back to the ring.
Merlin's endless speech has somehow miraculously ended, and knights on the sidelines mount their trusty steeds. As they gallop into the ring, the front row seems like it might have been a bad idea. I'm not a big fan of horses and find myself far too close to crashing hooves for comfort.
Two knights line up on either side of the field, grasping long wooden lances capped with steel tips. Each knight is covered in heavy plates of armor from head to toe, offering protection, though not much maneuverability. Even the horses wear armor over their heads, making them look like metal monsters.
A bell rings, and the horses charge, their thundering hooves echoing through my already pounding head. The knights lower their lances, each preparing to bash his weapon into the other, in an attempt to knock him off his horse.
Slam! The lances whack against the shields, splinters flying everywhere. The green-crested knight falls from his horse. He runs to the sidelines and grabs a stick with a chain and spiked metal ball on the end. He swings it, guarding his space, while the blue knight, still on horseback but now wielding a sword, circles him. Gotta admit, the whole thing is rather exciting.
The green knight manages to hook his chain around the blue knight's sword and wrenches the weapon from his grasp, sending it flying. The blue knight jumps off the horse and somersaults to his blade, grabbing it midroll, and stands ready to face his opponent. I lean forward in my seat. I know it's all fake, but it really is a pretty good show.
Where's Chrissie? I look around. Must be a long line at the concession stand. Too bad, 'cause she's missing everything.
After much clashing and bashing of weapons, sparks flying as metal slams against metal, the blue knight succeeds in cornering the green knight, sword to his throat. The first joust is over, the blue knight victorious. High on a far platform, the woman playing Guenevere, wearing a green velour gown and heavy gold metal crown, claps and tosses daisies to honor her champion.
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 1