A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  "Blue knight, thou art brave," Merlin declares, this time riding into the ring on a white horse. "But art thou willing to challenge the realm's most gifted sportsman? A knight above all others? I give you Lancelot!"

  The crowd cheers and whistles and whoops as the red-dragon knight gallops into the ring, waving a flag with a matching crest. From the starry-eyed gazes of the other women in the audience, it's obvious I’m not the only one who finds him hot.

  The blue knight accepts the challenge, mounting his horse and acquiring a new lance from his squire. Another helper hands Lancelot his lance and they line up, ready to charge.

  At that moment pain stabs behind my eyes and my vision blurs again, right as the two men are set to run. I want to watch, but instead I'm forced to squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to get rid of the dizziness. The roar of the crowd only makes it worse. I press my fingers against my temples and try to stand. The pain is nearly unbearable. I've got to find Chrissie.

  Once I'm on my feet, nausea overtakes me, and I stumble forward, not sure whether I'll throw up or faint. I close my eyes, willing myself to stay conscious. What is wrong with me? All I can think of is the gypsy curse. Her words: Thou wilt surely die this day!

  But that’s stupid. This is just a major coincidence. I’ve got a migraine. I'm not dying. I take a few more steps to clear my head.

  "Get back!" a man yells, and I open my eyes, only to realize he's talking to me. In my delirious walk I've somehow wandered halfway onto the field, right as the jousters have come together for their first run. Suddenly a huge chunk of wood—splintered from one of the lances—flies through the air like a javelin, directly toward my head. I put up my arms to cover my face, but I'm too late. The lance hits me square in the forehead and I see stars, then blackness.

  "Milady?"

  A sexy, deep voice prompts me to open my eyes. I'm lying on my back on the ground, staring up at the most gorgeous blue eyes I have ever seen. I mean, lots of people have blue eyes, but this particular pair is quite literally the color of sapphires, sparkling in the sunshine. Mmmm.

  "How do you fare?" the man asks. His calloused fingertips brush against my forehead as he lifts a wisp of hair from my face. The sensation sends a shiver down to my toes. I drop my gaze and notice the Adonis is wearing a suit of armor with a red dragon crest emblazoned on it. Ah, the guy playing Lancelot. His medieval garb looks a lot more real close up. My very own knight in shining armor. Maybe this whole getting-hit-on-the-head thing could work out in my favor after all. If only it didn't hurt so much.

  I force my focus away from those eyes to better assess my current situation. I try to sit, but a stabbing pain at the back of my head causes me to rethink that notion. I lay my head back down and moan. That flying wood must have hit me harder than I thought. Just great. I'm a real damsel in distress now.

  "Ow," I cry, closing my eyes in agony. "My head kills. I think I might need a doctor."

  "Page, send for Lord Merlin immediately," a concerned female voice commands in a bad British accent. I open my eyes. Behind the blue-eyed man stands a petite blond woman wearing an authentic-looking purple silk gown and a sparkly tiara. Probably the one playing Guenevere, though I could have sworn she was wearing a different outfit before.

  But never mind her. I turn back to my hero, Lancelot. Chrissie was right; he does look a lot cuter up close. His long black hair, blowing in the slight breeze, makes my stomach do flip-flops, despite my headache.

  Where is Chrissie, anyway? I try to turn my head to get a better look at my surroundings, but the pain proves too great.

  “Rest, lady. The Lord Merlin will attend to your wounds shortly," insists the woman.

  I frown. What's this about Merlin? Don't they have a first-aid tent or something? I'm certainly not getting medical treatment from the fifteen-year-old who introduced the jousting.

  "Hey," I protest. "I don't want to be treated by some kid." Then again, maybe they have two guys playing Merlin today. One who in his spare time serves as a NYC EMT, hopefully?

  "I am not sure what you speak of, lady," the Guenevere wannabe says, furrowing her brow. "Lord Merlin is certainly no baby goat. He is the most powerful druid in all of Camelot, and well versed in the ways of magic."

  "Goat? What are you talking about? Oh, I get it. Kid. Goat. You're still doing the role-playing thing." These people really take this stuff way too seriously. You'd think it'd be all fun and games until someone loses an eye—or gets hit in the head with a flying lance. I hope they have good insurance, because if I've sustained any serious injuries, I am so suing this place.

  "Could we cut the medieval crap for one second?" I ask, starting to get annoyed. "I'm hurt. I need a doctor. A real one, not a magic one. Maybe even an ambulance." I scan the crowd. No reaction, only blank stares. The Lancelot guy has risen, and I see him whispering with Guenevere.

  I fumble for my purse and manage to pull out my cell phone. Screw them; I'm calling 911 myself.

  No reception. I forgot we're out in the boonies. They must not even have cell phone towers here. My day is getting better and better. I close my eyes, succumbing to my fate, at least until Chrissie returns. Voices whisper furiously around me, perhaps assuming I'm unconscious and unable to hear.

  "Where did she come from?"

  "Out of thin air, I should think."

  "She is dressed more like man than woman."

  "What would Bishop Mallory say?"

  "Could she be one of the fey folk, caught between the worlds?"

  "Don't be daft; she is as human as you or I."

  "Then with what strange talk does she go on about?"

  "Perhaps she's mad?"

  Sick of the conversation, I open one eye, then the other. A crowd of medieval garbed folk has gathered around me. I check for any nonfreaks, but don't see a single normal-looking soul. Just great.

  "Can we go back to the twenty-first century for, like, one minute so I can get help?" I suggest, the pain in my head throbbing. "Then you can go on with your little fantasy world?"

  They stare at me as if I'm the village idiot. "Aye, it definitely appears she may be addled," whispers Guenevere to Lance. "Poor child."

  I open my mouth to protest, but suddenly the sea of people parts, and an ancient man with a long gray beard and a gnarled cane approaches me. Is this the Merlin guy they were talking about? Well, at least he's not fifteen. Maybe they have different Merlins, like Disney has different Mickeys. I hope this one isn't as crazy as everyone else seems to be.

  He studies me with an odd look in his piercing green eyes. "Where did this woman come from?" Okay, not a good sign.

  "She appeared from nowhere," Lancelot informs him, evidently not ready to take the blame for his lance's wayward actions.

  "Actually," I interrupt, "I was hanging quite nicely on the sidelines when his big lance thing splintered and came flying at my head." No need to admit to my walking out onto the field, in case of future lawsuit. Had I signed any kind of waiver? I hope not.

  Lancelot's eyes narrow. He reaches beside him and picks up his lance. Not a splinter on it. Running his hand up and down the smooth shaft, he says, "I know not what the lady is going on about, sire. But she was hit by no lance. As I said before, she appeared out of nowhere, already bleeding when she collapsed onto the field."

  My face heats in anger. "That's such a lie. You're only saying that so you won't get sued." I meet Merlin's eyes. Will he believe me? "He probably did a lance switcheroo while I was out cold." What a jerk that Lancelot guy is. Forget the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing, the beautiful blue eyes. Underneath it all, he's exactly like the rest of the sorry male race—from Mars!

  "Hmm." Merlin's eyes fall on my abandoned cell phone. He reaches down and picks it up, turning it over and around in his fingers, a look of wonder and surprise clearly written on his face. He presses a button. The responding beep makes him jump a little, dropping the mobile on the hard ground.

  "Do you mind? That's a four-hundred-dollar phone," I prot
est, to no avail. The old man's clawlike hands grab the handset off the ground and stuff it into his robe's pocket. "Hey! That's mine. You can’t—"

  "What is the trouble here?" a rich baritone voice demands. The crowd parts again, this time also bowing their heads in reverence. A blond, bearded man, probably in his mid-thirties, dressed in red robes and wearing a large golden crown, approaches. He looks down at me and then to Merlin with questioning eyes.

  Merlin shoots me a suspicious glare, then turns back to the crowned man with a sly smile. "We've caught an intruder, Your Majesty. A spy from another land."

  "Oh, give me a break," I moan, unable to take much more. I'm in pain—physically and mentally at this point. All I want to do is go back to Connecticut. Where the hell is Chrissie?

  "She certainly does not have the voice of one born in Camelot," the king guy agrees, though his tone is cautious. "And her clothing is very strange indeed."

  "She is not a spy, Arthur," Guenevere pipes in. "She is just a girl. I will admit she may be a bit odd. Perhaps simple—or mad, even. But I think not—"

  "Spies can come in all shapes and forms, Your Majesty," Merlin interrupts, "You cannot be too careful these days. Many outside the civilized lands of Camelot wish to do you harm. What better plan than to send in an innocent-looking girl to win your heart and gain your trust, all the while feeding back your intimate secrets to her barbarian Saxon lover?"

  Oh, yeah, whatever, loser. I can tell Guen doesn't like the guy either, from the dirty look she shoots him behind his back. Not that Arthur notices. It's obvious he respects Merlin's opinion more than that of his wife. Men. If he's acting anything like the real Arthur did, well, it's no wonder Guenny ends up finding love in the arms of Lancelot.

  "Indeed, we should practice caution," Arthur admits. "Lord Merlin, what do you suggest we do with her?"

  "Take me to a hospital. Please!" I beg, starting to get a little worried at this point. Blood's been trickling from the gash in my forehead for at least ten minutes now, and I'm feeling more than a little faint. The throbbing pain at the back of my head hasn't let up either. I might have a concussion. And they're all standing around, acting! It's like a nightmare, but I can't wake up. "Chrissie!" I call, a lump forming in my throat. Don't cry, Kat. Don't let these losers see you cry. "Chrissie, please help!"

  But Chrissie is nowhere to be found. The only answer I get to my calls is from Merlin, who folds his arms across his chest, a smug expression on his wrinkled face. "I think we should lock the infidel in the tower."

  Chapter 2

  Wow, this sucks.

  As a child I used to pretend that I was a fair maiden locked in a tower, waiting for a handsome knight (usually played by my somewhat unwilling snot-nosed neighbor, Billy) to come to my rescue. It was romantic and exciting and all the rest.

  In real life I now realize that towers are damn boring. At least this one is. There's not even a TV, radio, or any magazines to while away the time—just a cot in the corner with a small wooden table beside it. The cot's mattress is a glorified bale of hay, and you can only imagine how comfy that is. I can only hope that it doesn't have any fleas.

  They even took away my clothes. While I lay passed out, someone exchanged my black Dolce & Gabbana netted corset tank and my Armani silk pants for a shapeless, colorless shift dress made out of scratchy wool. Worst of all, they took my shoes! My precious Manolo Blahniks! Seriously, if I ever get out of this tower, I am going to have to kick some major ass.

  To tell you the truth, I'm not totally convinced this actually is a tower. Shortly after Merlin's declaration on the jousting field, he sprinkled some kind of strange, sparkly dust over my head, and I blacked out almost immediately. When I woke I was here—a round room with no windows and one solid oak door with a huge lock.

  At first I kept thinking that some TV producer and cameraman would pop out, telling me I'm all part of a new reality television show and would I just sign this waiver and go on my way. But as hours go by, the chances of that seem more and more remote. The reality—that I've been kidnapped by a group of Dungeons & Dragons loving freaks who have lost their marbles—starts to sink in.

  It's at this point that I begin to get scared. What do they want with me? Why have they imprisoned me? Is this a temporary thing—until the fair's over? Or will they see fit to keep me on a more permanent basis? And if so, why?

  Oh, God, maybe that's how they recruit the actors—kidnap them and brainwash them into joining their secret cult?

  A bit panicked at the thought, I try the yelling-and-screaming-and-pounding-my-fists-against-the-door tactic for a while, but no one comes. How remote is this "tower" anyway? Has Chrissie reported my disappearance to the police? Are there search parties out right now, looking high and low for some trace of my whereabouts?

  At least my head's stopped bleeding and the pain has subsided somewhat. Guess I didn't get a concussion after all. Thank God for small favors. That said, I think I may have a scar for life, thanks to someone's amateur stitching job. While there's no mirror here, I can feel the rough thread knitted into my scalp. Luckily my hair will cover it. As long as the Sinead O'Connor look never comes back into style, I’m probably okay.

  However, I am a bit worried about infection. Who knows if the guy playing Dr. Merlin sterilized his equipment? The thought makes me feel rather ill. Or perhaps that's just my gnawing hunger. I lie down on the bed, feeling a bit faint.

  I hear the click of the lock and sit up. "Who's there?"

  The caller is a big, burly redheaded guy wearing a tunic and tights and carrying a wooden tray. Thank God. They're not going to make me die of starvation or thirst after all.

  My relief dissipates when he gets closer, and I see exactly what he expects me to eat and drink—a huge chunk of white bread and frothy beer, served in a pewter mug.

  "Dude," I say as the guy sets the food down on a wooden table by my cot. "I can't eat this stuff. I'm on Atkins. Get me some meat or something. Bacon, steak, eggs, anything. Just take the high-glycemic food out of my sight."

  The man looks at me strangely, but does not respond. Instead he turns and heads out the door, locking me in with the deadly carbs. Damn him.

  I stare at the bread, my stomach making undignified growling noises. Being locked in a tower is one thing. Being forced to devour fattening carbohydrates that will make my insulin level skyrocket and shoot gallons of fat directly into my already way too wide hips? Now that's torture.

  "I hear you are displeased with your dinner."

  Startled, I look up and see that that guy playing Lancelot has entered the room. His armor is gone and in its place he wears—surprise, surprise—a red wool tunic with embroidered trim, a gold sashlike belt, and tights. I'll tell you, it's a look not many men could pull off and still look sexy. But Lance does it with style.

  Damn, why does he have to be so attractive? I should be shaking with fear, not drooling over a freak who has me locked up in a tower. Though it wasn't his idea, I suppose. But still, he went along with it. And he's definitely as crazy as the rest of them. Just cuter. A lot, lot cuter. With really good bone structure, too.

  "Lady Giorgio? Are you unwell?" He walks over to the bed and sits, studying me with concerned eyes. Such beautiful eyes. No man should be allowed to possess a set that blue. I scrunch my knees up, not wanting to get too close. After all, what if "Old Blue Eyes" is thinking of raping me? Tying me down, ripping the sheath from my writhing body, and taking me like the—Wait! Did he call me Giorgio?

  "Who's Giorgio?"

  "Is that not your name?" He furrows his brows.

  "No, my name's Kat."

  "Cat? Like ... pussy?"

  "Actually I prefer dick,” I reply automatically—my standard comeback to guys who lewdly try to make that connection—but he doesn't seem to get it. (Probably for the best.) I rise from the cot and walk to the other side of the room, focusing my attention on the featureless stone wall—mostly to avoid looking at Lance and contemplating having his babies. Psy
cho, I remind myself. Cute man is actually psycho. "Sorry. My name's Katherine. But people call me Kat for short."

  "I suppose Armani is not your surname either."

  I whirl around, realizing now where the Giorgio came from. "Oh, please, Lancey." I shake my head. "That's so Back to the Future of you. You couldn't think of a more original time-travel joke than that?" I return to the bed, facing him, my hands on my hips. "What were you doing in my pants, anyway?"

  He looks confused. "Pants?"

  "You know, the expensive, well-designed article of clothing that you so brazenly removed from my body?"

  "I assure you, madam, that my intentions were nothing but honorable. I merely wanted to make you more comfortable."

  I roll my eyes. "I take it you've never worn Armani trousers, then. Trust me, they're much comfier than this woolen rag." I reach under the shoulder strap to attack an itch. "This thing totally scratches my skin."

  He nods, at least seeming to take my complaint seriously. "I shall see if the queen has any suggestions for more suitable attire."

  "Yeah, well, while you're at it, see if she's got any suggestions for more suitable food, too," I say a bit crossly, my hunger making me forget my fear. "I'm freaking starving here." Feeling a little dizzy—probably from low blood sugar—I sit back down on the bed, once again careful to avoid touching him.

  Lancelot glances at the tray for the first time and frowns. "I beg your forgiveness, lady. I do not know what the cook was thinking, sending you up a peasant's meal. You are our guest. I shall see to it that you are brought the finest slab of venison the castle has to offer."

  "Venison?" I wrinkle my nose. "No, thank you. I'm so not eating Bambi."

  "Would you prefer fowl then?" Lancelot asks. "The cook serves up a delicious roast pigeon on occasion."

  I stare at him, not sure if he's joking. "I suppose you're going to tell me it tastes like chicken, right? No, thanks."

  He shrugs. "There's always the mutton stew. A bit plain, but certainly filling."