A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  I squeak open the door again and scan the room for exits. Aha! To the very left of the hall, far away from the royal table, are two large, wooden double doors. That must be the way out.

  I straighten my shoulders and step into the room with a confident swagger. Though I'm sure my outward demeanor is perfect, my heart is beating so loud and fast I'm positive someone's going to hear it. Like in that Edgar Allan Poe story, "The Tell-Tale Heart." Though, of course, in this case it's my own heart, and I didn't murder anyone, and ... Well, okay, not such a good analogy.

  The hall seems endless as I walk slowly toward the doors of freedom. I keep my head low, trying not to meet anyone's eyes.

  "I have not seen you around the castle before."

  Caught. I whirl around to address the voice, praying it's not someone who will recognize me from the jousting field. The man behind me is short and stout, with beady little black eyes sunken into a fleshy face. He also reeks of beer and is standing way too close. Evidently he's never heard of the two-foot personal-bubble rule.

  "Yes, well I ... art new to these yonder ... things,” I say, giving my best English-accent impression. Must try to blend in.

  "You look like a fine lady, you do." As he talks, little droplets of spit fly at my face, and I step back, wiping them away with the sleeve of my gown. Gross. "Where are you from?"

  "Er, um, London?" Was London even a town back then? Luckily he nods. Evidently an acceptable answer. Phew. Hopefully he doesn't have any follow-ups. The only street I know in London is Bond Street, and I have a feeling that's more retail than residential.

  "Aye," he says, swaying back into my personal space. "My travels have taken me through London. 'Tis a town not fit for dogs."

  Now, I'm not really from London, obviously, but if I truly were, telling me that my hometown sucks is not the way to make friends.

  "Well, I like it fine. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go...” Shit, what was it that ladies had to go do in medieval times? Oh, duh. "... to, uh, relieve myself."

  But he's evidently not buying it. Instead of letting me on my merry way, he grabs my shoulder with a hairy hand, roughly pulling me to him. He smells even worse close-up. "Won't you come to my chambers, lady?" he asks, slurring each word.

  "Not in a fucking million years, asshole," I retort, slipping back into New Yorker mode. I think my playing along has merely encouraged him. I struggle to break free, but his hold is too tight.

  "At least tell me your name," he begs, pawing at me with ragged, filthy fingernails.

  "I don't have a name," I say, looking around to make sure no one's watching. "And you"—I rear back my foot—"don't have a chance!" On the word “chance”, my knee collides with his groin—the world-famous Kat Jones special-delivery-for-disgusting-men-who-don't-get-the-word-no move. Works every time.

  He howls, releasing me and crouching down in pain. He's so loud I'm sure someone will hear. But while one or two people turn their heads, evidently seeing this guy holding his privates and moaning isn't enough to cause alarm, and they turn back to their dinners.

  I make quick strides to the door. Close up, I realize it's flanked by two guards. Here we go. I flash them a breezy smile like I have no cares in the world. They totally buy it, even opening the door for me, like gentlemen.

  I step past the doors and into a huge, open, grassy courtyard filled with crumbling statues and surrounded by high stone walls about twenty feet tall.

  Sucking in a breath of cool, crisp air, thankful to be out of that smoky chamber, I look around. In one corner is a wooden building that looks like it could be a stable. In another is a small chapel. At the far end of the courtyard, under an open iron grate, I see a lowered drawbridge sitting over an actual moat.

  So this really is a castle, I marvel, a little perplexed. Where the hell did they take me? I am quite positive there was no castle near the fair. I'm pretty sure I would have noticed. What if I can't find my way home?

  Even more worrying, from the look of the sun in the sky it appears to be high noon. Since it was about four in the afternoon when I got hit with the lance, I realize I must have been out an entire day rather than the mere hours I'd first thought. Poor Gucci.

  Poor sofa.

  The birds chirp merrily from an unseen location as I cautiously approach the drawbridge, not knowing what—or who—I'll encounter there. Two men dressed in leather tunics with chain-mail sleeves and leggings stand at attention on the other side of the drawbridge. Each holds a spear. Obviously some sort of outer guards. This place is like Fort Knox.

  "Milady, has the feast ended so soon?" the one on the left asks as I approach, furrowing his thick eyebrows. Up close, I realize he's quite mammoth, with bushy black hair and a full beard. Kind of like the Mountain guy from Game of Thrones. "I had thought it would have lasted hours longer."

  "Indeed, I can hardly imagine they would even be through the first course," says the other, a redhead who looks a tad suspicious at my oh-so-innocent presence.

  Are they going to try to stop me from leaving? Time to turn on the charm—my specialty. After all, I didn't get voted senior class president because of my vast knowledge of school politics or even my innovative campaign for an annual "wear your prom dress to school" day.

  "Indeed they are not," I say, donning ye olde English accent once again. "However, I was feeling ... indisposed."

  "I am sorry to hear that, milady," says the nice giant on the left. "But surely the queen will arrange a bed for you in the castle where you may retire until you are feeling well again."

  Oh, yeah, right. A real comfy bed made out of flea-ridden straw, I'm sure. "Oh, yes, she has offered, kind soul," I say with a dramatic sigh. "But I am more inclined to head home."

  "Where might that be, milady?" asks the suspicious one.

  I think fast. "Yonder village. Not a stone's throw from here."

  "And where is your escort? It is unwise for a good lady to travel these roads alone. They are filled with villains inclined to violate a lady's honor." This from the nice one—a little too concerned about me for his own good. I grew up in Brooklyn, damn it. I think I can face the wilds of upstate New York without a man by my side. But I need to stay in character. Back then women did not kick as much ass. After all, it was way before Tae Bo was invented.

  "I dost not want him to miss thou feast, of course. I can take care of mine self, thank thee."

  "You talk with a strange tongue, madam," says Mr. Suspicious. Darn. I thought I was doing so well with the accent thing, too. "Are you sure you are from the village?"

  Realizing the whole trying-to-act-my-way-out-of-here thing isn't working, I switch tactics, grabbing my purse (which I had tied to the sash around my waist) and pulling out a hundred-dollar bill. This kills me to do, especially since I have no idea now how I'm going to pay my cable bill without it, but I'm desperate.

  "Look, dudes, how much are they paying you to stand here? It can't be more than, like, minimum wage, right?" I wave the bill in their faces for emphasis. "Let me pass and Benjamin here goes home with you. No questions asked."

  They stare at me and then at the bill. The nice one takes it and studies it with a close eye. He turns it over in his hands and even brings it to his nose for a sniff.

  "A marvelous portrait," he says to the other guard, handing the hundred to him. "On such a tiny canvas." He looks up at me. "I am afraid I haven't the gold to afford such a treasure, milady." He holds it out for me to take back. "But I thank you for showing it to us."

  Urgh. This is really getting annoying. "I don't want gold for it. You can keep it. For free. For letting me go."

  "Go where?"

  "Away from here."

  "Where is your horse?"

  "I don't have one."

  "You cannot walk. The path is long and steep. You would not reach the village by sunset in those shoes."

  "Ha! I'm an expert at walking long distances in impractical shoes. You should have been there the day me and my Jimmy Choos took on the steps of
..." I trail off when I realize they're not listening to my exciting girl-and-her-shoe tales and are instead conversing with each other.

  "In the name of chivalry it is only right," says the nice one.

  "You only want to keep the miniature portrait."

  "Not true. My intentions are honorable."

  "Fine. Do it if you must."

  "Hello?" I wave my hands to regain their attention. "So can I go now?"

  "I will escort you to the village, milady," says the nice one. "Just give me a moment to get my horse." He turns to walk into the courtyard.

  "Oh, no, you really don't have to..." I start to yell after him.

  “Tis the only way we can rightfully allow you to leave. The queen would not be pleased if we were to let harm come to one of her guests," the other informs me. "In fact, perhaps we should inform the queen that you—”

  "Oh! Ha! No need to do that." I laugh nervously. "Your friend can take me to the village. No problem. No sense disturbing the queen." Wow. That could have royally sucked.

  The other nods, wearing a smug smile, like he knows full well I don't want to involve Guenevere in the matter. Jerk. He looks like he's going to say something else, but at that moment the other guy reappears, now astride a horse.

  He motions for me to mount. Ugh. Did I mention I hate horses? I’ve also never ridden one—unless you count the merry-go-round at Coney Island—and never had the urge to do so. Growing up, my friends all dreamed of getting horses of their very own. Not me. If someday my prince were to come, he'd be riding a British racing-green Jaguar convertible, not a pony. Hey, a girl can dream, right?

  Today, however, this equestrian beast seems my only opportunity to escape the clutches of the nerds in shining armor at the castle. So I muster up my courage, bite my lip, and place my hand in the guard's. He boosts me up so I'm sitting sidesaddle in front of him. It's not at all comfortable, and he stinks as bad as the other guy. I hope the village isn't far.

  He shakes the reins and-the horse breaks into a trot. The up-and-down bumping makes my butt hurt worse than after two hours of spinning class at the gym. Hasn't anyone invented gel saddles like they have for bikes? Though as medieval purists, these guys would probably rather suffer sore behinds than succumb to a modern, comfortable innovation. I don't get it.

  I look back at the castle, my breath catching in my throat. Now that we've headed down the hill a bit I can see the building in its entirety. It's huge, seeming to be carved from the very rocky cliff on which it sits. Its whitewashed stone walls rise to what looks to be a hundred feet high. Tall towers pierce the blue sky, their golden spires catching the sun, nearly blinding me with their brilliance. Red banners, proclaiming the symbol of the dragon, flap brazenly in the wind. The scene is breathtaking. It also makes me wonder...

  Where the hell am I?

  Fear shoots daggers through my heart, delivering an unpleasant adrenaline rush that makes me severely nauseated. Something is very, very wrong. There should not be a magnificent castle like this anywhere in upstate New York. In fact, I doubt anything like this exists anywhere in America. And the screwed-up thing is that it looks completely new. Shining even. Not crumbling ruins like the castles in Europe. Even the ones they keep up for tourists look a bit rundown. But this ... well, I've never seen anything like it.

  Where am I?

  As we descend a steep, rocky path, the horse taking slow careful steps, I really start to panic. My heart is beating a mile a minute, and I contemplate jumping off the horse and making a run for it. But a run where?

  Just wait till we get to the village. I take deep, soothing breaths—the kind they teach you in yoga class—and try to focus. At least in the village I'll be able to get help. Call a cab. Get a ride to the airport if they've taken me far away. Oh, man, why has this happened to me? What if I've been taken to, like, Nepal or some other faraway country? Do I even have enough money on my Visa to book my ticket back? Oh, why did I succumb to that last Macy's one-day sale?

  After about a half hour of riding, we come to a turn in the road and I look down the path. The sight causes my heart to flutter out of control all over again, breathing exercises forgotten.

  The village sits in a grassy valley below, about a hundred yards down. My first thought is that it's very beautiful and tranquil-looking. My second, more horrifying thought is that it looks, even from here, completely medieval. Hundreds of thatched-roof houses dot the landscape, and cows graze in the fields. On the east side of the village sit farms, tended by people walking behind oxen.

  Not a train, plane, or automobile in sight.

  Unable to sit calmly on the horse a moment longer, I squirm to get down. The guard tightens his grip.

  "Let me off," I cry.

  "Ah, milady, I am not letting you go until I deliver you to your people in person." He shrugs his broad shoulders. "Tis too dangerous for a woman to walk this path alone."

  "Dude, cut the chivalry shit and let me go." I try to maneuver out of his grasp, but he's too strong.

  "No, milady. That would not be wise. The queen would have my head if I allowed anything to happen to you."

  "Screw the queen. I want to get off. Now!"

  Sudden inspiration strikes, and I reach into my purse and pull out my almost forgotten can of Mace. I lift the safety and spray the noxious fumes directly into the giant guard's face. He cries out, letting go of me to rub his eyes. I slide off the horse and onto the ground, almost spraining my ankle in the process. Then I take off running, ignoring his screaming curses. I should have enough time to disappear into the village before he regains his eyesight.

  I run down the path as fast as I can. The flimsy leather slippers Guenevere gave me have no shock absorption whatsoever, and my feet are feeling every step. I'm also very out of breath, suffering major gym-slacker remorse. If I ever get out of here, I vow, I will take seven step-and-sculpt classes a week and even stay for the sculpt part.

  I enter the outskirts of the village and slow my pace. The good news is that there are so many people wandering around, I'll easily be able to lose the guard. The bad news? Everywhere I look, all I see are people dressed in medieval garb. Hundreds upon hundreds of villagers going about their day as if everything is completely normal.

  This can't be. I rub my eyes, hoping to wake up from the nightmare. A few castle-dwelling freaks I can believe. But an entire town of people all dressed the same way? These can't be actors. There're too many. Way too many.

  What the hell has happened to me?

  Panicked, I break into a run again down the narrow streets, desperate to come across even one out-of-place item that will prove to me this is a joke. Or a re-creation. Or something. A bicycle. A cell phone. A hidden stash of Magic the Gathering playing cards. Anything!

  I run by a blacksmith's shop, past a man hammering a sword over a steaming anvil. I pass a bakery, where a woman is hand-grinding flour with a wooden stick. Then a smelly tavern where men overflow onto the streets, singing drunken songs I've never heard. Finally a churchyard. In the center sits a large stone. My pounding head knows the inscription before I even read it.

  Whoso shall lift this sword from the stone, the same is rightly born king of England.

  This can't be happening. There's got to be some logical explanation. It's a nightmare, but I can't seem to wake up. I've never had a dream so vivid before—or that went on for so long. Maybe I'm in a coma. That's it. When I got hit in the head with the lance I slipped into a coma, and I'm really at Mount Sinai, hooked up to life support.

  Or maybe I'm dead. What if this is hell? Some say hell is the culmination of your personal idea of ultimate torture, and, well, the idea of living the rest of eternity without flush toilets pretty much sums up mine.

  But I can't be dead. My heart's still beating. I feel pain. There's got to be some other kind of logical explanation for this. Anything but the impossible, crazy notion that keeps spiraling uncontrollably through my head.

  Thou art out of time.

  What i
f the crazy gypsy at the fair really did curse me? What if she really did have some kind of magical powers?

  Thy destiny—it is lying in another era.

  I was thinking she meant, like, the seventies. After all, I've always kind of dug disco. I never dreamed she could be talking about the twelfth century.

  If thou dost not take heed, thou wilt surely die today!

  Okay, I know this sounds completely off-the-wall, lock-me-up, men-in-white-jackets-take-me-away crazy but I have to ask...

  What if she sent me back in time?

  No. That's insane. I refuse to believe it. I'm in a coma. I think I can even hear my mother's voice calling me, telling me to come back to her.

  I've run straight through the village and am now approaching some woods. Maybe if I run a little farther I can find another town. A real one with real modern-day people. This could just be a tourist attraction. If I keep going I'll find the parking lot.

  As I enter the forest I slow my pace and suck in air, no longer able to run. With heaving breaths I take in my surroundings, praying for something familiar.

  A canopy of low-hanging trees blankets the path and blocks out most of the sunshine. Spooky-looking moss drips from the branches, and a disconcerting mist hangs in the air. It's like a scene out of Friday the 13th. I try to remember the rules of surviving a horror movie. Number one, you must be a virgin.

  Uh-oh.

  I come to a small clearing and sink to the ground, unable to rein in my fierce sobs. On my knees I lean against a fallen log, cradling my face in my hands and allowing my tears to fall. I can't remember the last time I cried. I'm a tough chick from Brooklyn, after all. I don't cry like a little girl. But suddenly I can't help it. It's all too scary, too overwhelming, and none of it makes any sense.