A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  "His queen has been known to practice the dark arts."

  "You mean that chick Morgause that he told me about? She's a witch?"

  "Aye, Morgause is her given name. But in the underworld she is better known as Morgan Le Fay."

  Oh, shit. Even I've heard of Morgan Le Fay. She's, like, the major she-villain in all the King Arthur stories. And now I've killed her dear old hubby. Wonderful. Damn it, Kat, why couldn't you have stayed out of it? Let the boys have their little fight and moved on?

  "Sir," Lamorak says, "I will ride to Orkney and present Lot's scabbard and shield to the queen and inform her of his most honorable demise. You and the woman should return to Camelot."

  "Are you sure this is a quest you wish to undertake, Lamorak?" asks Lancelot, looking a little worried for his friend. "After all, the queen is no woman to trifle with. If she were to hear your thoughts, see through your lies..."

  "I am quite aware of the danger. However, I am prepared to face it. Witch or no, 'tis better that Queen Morgause hear the sad tidings from friend than foe."

  Lancelot nods. "Your bravery will not go unrewarded, Lamorak."

  "I thank you for those words. Godspeed." And with that the knight disappears into the night, leaving me alone with Lancelot.

  "We cannot stay here," he says, sheathing his sword into the jeweled scabbard that hangs from his belt. " 'Tis not safe. We must make the journey back to Camelot."

  Do I want to go back to the castle? That's a tough one. I think I need more info before making my decision. "As your prisoner?"

  "Nay, as a lady under my protection."

  "And you won't mention to the king about my sort-of involvement in Lotty's death?"

  "As far as the king is to know, Lot was murdered by Saxon raiders, as you suggested."

  Well, okay, then. Since I'm pretty certain that Arthur won't be sending out a team of forensics investigators to take DNA samples—ala CSI—as long as Lance keeps his mouth shut, I'm as innocent as O.J.

  So should I go back to the castle? I consider my options.

  a) Refuse to go back and risk getting kidnapped again. After all, I'm sure Lot ain't the only evil king in the forest.

  b) Refuse to go back and risk getting lost in the woods and dying of starvation, since I have no idea how to snare a bunny rabbit, or which mushrooms are edible and which make you hallucinate like hippies do at Phish shows.

  c) Refuse to go back and risk getting—

  Oh, what the hell, I might as well go back with him. What else do I have to do? It's not like I've got a hot date in the forest or anything. And maybe if I go back to where whatever happened, happened, I'll be able to figure out a way to make it, uh, unhappen.

  "Sure, why not?" I agree. "As long as you can find me more comfortable accommodations than that moldy tower." I might as well draw up some terms of agreement now. "I'm thinking a nice windowed room with a feather bed. You got those in the castle?"

  Lancelot grins his enticing grin. "I think that could be arranged, lady."

  "Do you always have to call me 'lady'? It's getting kind of annoying, to tell you the truth. I have a name. Kat. Remember? As in, 'meow, meow, pussy cat'?"

  "I meant only the greatest respect, Lady Kat."

  I grit my teeth. "Not Lady Kat. Kat. Just Kat. Plain and simple."

  "Plain and simple does not suit you," Lancelot says in a suddenly serious tone.

  My cheeks heat, and I look down at the ground, scuffing my toe against the dirt. I mean, what do you say to something like that? And what prompted him to say it in the first place? I thought he was all mad at me for killing Lot. Now he's giving me compliments. At least, I think they're compliments.

  I decide to bring the conversation back to the subject at hand. "Do we have to go back to Camelot tonight?" I don't mean to whine, but I'm so tired at this point, all I want to do is curl up and go to sleep. And the castle is at least four hours away.

  "Nay, 'tis too dark to travel far," Lancelot says, pacing. "Mayhap we can find a small cave...."

  "Oh, no. No way." I place my hands on my hips. "I've had enough camping for one millennium. I'm not sleeping in a cave."

  Lancelot studies me for a moment, his piercing blue gaze boiling my blood. I don't know what it is about him that's got me so worked up, but I'm thinking maybe it wouldn't be so bad to share a cave with him.

  "I am sorry, lady—I mean Kat. I forget myself. You are right. A lady is entitled to a bed." He scratches his head. "There is a village not far off. Perhaps we can find a tavern with rooms to let. Are you fit to ride for a short spell?"

  "If it means sleeping in a bed, then hell yeah. I'll ride all night if I have to."

  If I have to. As I mount Lance's horse, I seriously pray that I won't have to. Day one in medieval times and I've already had my fill of the equestrian lifestyle, thank you very much. Makes me real appreciative of Betsy, my battered old two-door Honda back home. Betsy may have trouble going over sixty-five miles an hour and a penchant for hitting guardrails, but she doesn't smell like manure and is much easier to steer. This horse—like all horses, I suppose—literally has a mind of its own.

  Of course, there are some benefits to riding on Lancelot's horse as opposed to those horses that do not regularly carry sexy knights on their backs. Like the feeling of his muscular arms wrapped around me to hold the horse's reins, for one. Of course, the stupid metal armor he wears kind of limits actual physical contact, but it's enough to feel his warm breath on the back of my neck.

  I squirm a little. This guy has a hold on my senses that borders on tyrannical, and my body is desperate to submit. I know it's been a long time since I've had a hot guy pressed up against me, but really, do I need to be this turned-on? After all, I'm probably going to get nothing out of the deal. We all know Lancelot had no other love than Queen Guenevere, whether she wants to admit it or not. Man, she is so lucky! What I wouldn't do to snare a nice, handsome, honorable guy like Lance. I don't think they exist nowadays. Maybe like the dinosaurs, in the twenty-first century, chivalrous men are extinct.

  As we ride, I try to make conversation by asking where we are. He tells me the Forest Sherwood. Like in Robin Hood? I ask. But evidently the old "steal from the rich, give to the poor" guy hasn't been born yet, because Lance has no idea who I am talking about. Or maybe Robin Hood is fictional. I can't remember. Of course, in my world Camelot is fictional, too, or at least if it did exist it was nothing like the legends—like the Camelot I've seen with my own eyes. Who knows, maybe the history books got it wrong.

  A horrible thought strikes me, as horrible thoughts tend to do when the brain has some downtime to wander. If I really have gone back in time—not that I'm totally convinced, mind you, but let's say it somehow happened—what if my killing King Lot has changed the future? Like when Marty's mom fell in love with him instead of his dad in Back to the Future? I mean, how big a change could one medieval guy's death make?

  The implications are mind-boggling. For example, what if Lot was supposed to have another kid before he died and that kid's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson founded Louis Vuitton? What will twenty-first-century rich people pack their Armani in when they holiday in the south of France? And how will those street vendors who make a living selling the fake ones survive? Will they have to turn to welfare to make ends meet? And what if the welfare system can't handle the influx of fake purse sellers and completely collapses, causing millions of children to go without food and shelter?

  And that's just a scenario involving Louis Vuitton. What if Lot's future kin was supposed to be a Kennedy? Or Osama Bin Laden? I know Lot's Scottish and all, but the English knights went over to the Islamic countries during the Crusades, right? What if Lot was supposed to meet a nice, sweet Muslim girl and have a kid with her?

  Man, I can't get my head around this time-travel stuff. I need to find someone who knows the deal. Maybe I'll ask Merlin when we get back to the castle. In that cartoon Sword in the Stone, Merlin would hop back and
forth from the past to the future on a regular basis. Of course, this Merlin seems a lot less cuddly than the animated one, and yes, I am aware knowledge attained by watching a Disney cartoon is a bit suspect, but hey, I've got limited options here.

  Okay, time to make conversation with Lance or I'm going to go crazy with questions.

  "How did you find me?"

  "I followed you."

  "You saw me leave the castle?"

  "'Twas I who unlocked the door."

  "You freed me?" I'm a bit surprised by this admission. I had assumed Guenevere did it. "Why?"

  "A Kat should not be kept in a cage."

  Cute. Real cute. I grin. "What was your real reason?"

  "I wanted to learn if you were really a Saxon spy."

  "And?"

  He sighs before answering. "You are odd, 'tis for certain. But a spy? Nay, I think not."

  Good. At least someone's on my team now. Maybe he can convince Arthur of that, too. Of course, now he's going to ask me where I do come from, since it's obviously not from Saxonia or wherever it is the Saxons live, and I'm so not ready to open up that whole can of worms! If I tell him I'm from the twenty-first century and have actually traveled back in time, he's going to think I'm a madwoman. And if I tell him he's just part of my really long, realistic coma dream, he's going to get offended at my thinking he's not real. Definitely time to change the subject.

  "What took you so long to rescue me?"

  He laughs. "I am strong, lady. Perhaps the strongest knight in all the land. But even I am no match for twenty able-bodied men on horseback. Lamorak and I waited until they had soused themselves on drink."

  "Yeah, well, you made your move just in the nick of time. I was this close to getting raped and murdered."

  "I can assure you, lady, I would not have let him compromise your honor."

  He's really big on the whole honor thing, huh? I guess that's the chivalry kicking in. But hey, if it saves me from being compromised and all, I can be down with that.

  The woods part, revealing a walled city of sorts. "Cameliard," Lancelot pronounces as we ride up to its gates, perhaps assuming I'm interested in a geography lesson, which I'm not. The place could be called Cleveland for all I care, as long as it features hotels with comfy beds. Oh, and food would be nice, too. I'm starving. I hope they won't be serving roast pigeon. I can't stomach the idea of consuming those pesky rats with wings.

  At the gates, Lancelot asks the porter about an inn, and the man suggests a place called the Rusty Nail. Now, I'm all for not judging a book by its cover, but I'm hazarding a guess that a place named after a tarnished metal spike ain't gonna be the Ritz.

  After dropping off the horse at his own personal horse hotel (aka stable), we walk down a narrow cobblestone road. The houses' second stories hang over the streets, creating a kind of tunnel-like effect. Rather claustrophobic, if you ask me. I remember hearing stories about how people used to dump their chamber pots out the windows and into the streets, and I start walking with my head up, ready to jump out of the way at the first sign of raining piss.

  We come to a dilapidated building with splintered walls and rotting beams. A long metal nail hangs from a post. It's definitely rusty, so I guess this must be the place.

  We walk inside. You know how I said I had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn't be a five-star resort? Well, that was what you call optimism. I'm not sure if the traditional hotel rating system allows for minus stars, but if they don't, they might want to make an exception in this case. In fact, I'd give ye olde Rusty Nail a negative three. And that's being kind.

  But, it seems, not all medieval men share my distaste for a dirty bar with a sticky floor that reeks of stale beer and puke. In fact, the place is packed with boisterous guys shouting and cheering and singing as they down their pewter mugs of ale. Evidently this is the place to see and be seen if you're a man living in the lovely town of Cameliard. Well, there's no accounting for taste.

  A big, burly guy with a huge beer gut and wild black hair approaches us. A wide smile reveals his dire need for modern dentistry. "Greetings, sir knight and lady," he proclaims, slapping Lancelot on the back. Lance looks extremely uncomfortable. Evidently a bar like this is not a knight in shining armor's scene. "What brings you fine folk to me humble establishment?"

  "We have traveled far," Lancelot explains a bit stiffly. "We would like to rent two rooms for the night."

  The man's smile falters a bit. "Aye, I would love to accommodate you, I would. But I only 'ave one room available this eve. Tis late, you see, and I had no warning a fine knight like yourself would be gracing me with—"

  "Is there another inn in town?"

  "No, milord. The Rusty Nail is it." The man picks at a tooth with what looks like a chicken bone, making me cringe. I consider reaching into my purse to offer him a toothpick but figure it might raise too many questions. "Though I am surprised you would not seek accommodations with Leodegrance, king of Cameliard. Not that you are not welcome here," he adds quickly, probably worried he's going to lose our business. "After all, the Rusty Nail is a fine establishment in its own right."

  Sure it is, buddy. If this place is considered fine, I'd hate to see, uh, unfine. Still, at this point I really don't give a damn about its fineness factor. It's here. It's available. It's got beds and food and alcohol. "Lance," I say, "it's late. Let's just share a room."

  Lance looks at me like I've asked him to kill his mother and eat her for breakfast. Geez. It's not like I said, "Hey, Lance, let's go have sex." I mean, what's the big deal about sharing a room? It's just a place to crash. "One of us can sleep on the floor," I add to ease his moralistic mind. Of course, by "one of us" I mean him. I'm so not interested in volunteering for ground sleeping, and after all, he's the chivalrous knight, right? Doesn't that give me, damsel in distress, first dibs on the mattress?

  "There is a pull-out truckle bed," the tavern owner informs us. "Perfect for those not interested in getting under the covers with a fine lady." He gives me such an unsubtle wink that I laugh out loud. Lancelot, of course, looks mortified. Man, this guy really needs to loosen up.

  "What about food?" I ask. "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."

  "I'm, er, sorry, milady," the owner says, looking seriously taken aback. "The cook is not, uh, serving horse this eve."

  Oh, darn, 'cause I was being so literal, too. Guess that expression has yet to be coined. "Well, what do you have on the menu then?" I ask. Another blank look. Oh. Menu. Guess they don't know that one either. It's amazing how many twenty-first-century words pop into my vocabulary without my thinking. "What do you have to eat?" I clarify.

  "The cook makes a fine roast pigeon," the owner suggests. Doh! I knew it. Suddenly I'm not feeling so hungry.

  "Maybe I'll just get a drink. Don't suppose rum's been invented yet?" I ask hopefully, but I'm met with the same vacant stares that I'm getting very used to. Guess that's a no. Darn, I would kill for a mojito right now. "Well, you definitely have wine, right?"

  The owner's face brightens. "Ah, aye, milady. Imported from France. The very best in the land. I will open a bottle for you." He runs toward the back room.

  I turn to Lance. "Well, all right! Alcohol is on its way. I'm feeling better already. I'll tell you what: I can use a drink after all that's happened to me today. Actually, I can use about twenty."

  The owner returns with two cups and a bottle of red wine. I actually prefer white, but at this point I'm not complaining.

  I take a huge gulp and my insides warm. The tension of the day fades away with my next sip. My third makes me almost forget what century I think I'm in. (By the way, I'm taking big sips and refilling my glass; I'm no lightweight. Kat Jones can hold her liquor.)

  Suddenly I’m not a bit tired and feel strangely ready to party. I push nagging concerns to the back of my head. The ones that say I should be worried and scared. What good will it do to stress about the situation? It's not going to get me back to the twenty-first century. If I'm here, I might as well
make the best of things and have some fun. If I wake up from my coma, or miraculously go forward in time, at least I can say I made the most of my stay in jolly old England.

  "Perhaps we should bring the bottle to the room," Lancelot suggests, touching me on the arm. I'm getting the impression he doesn't dig the bar scene.

  "No way," I cry. "We should stay and hang with these fine gentlemen of Cameliard. Besides," I add, tripping over a stool on my way to a vacant table, "it's empty." I hold the bottle upside down to prove my point. A barmaid appears at my side and deftly replaces the empty bottle with a full one.

  Great service. What a nice bar. With nice, fun people. I take a swig from the new bottle. Glasses are so overrated.

  "I do not think it is appropriate for—"

  "Dude! Will you lighten up? I mean, really! I'm the one who should be freaking out here. But I'm having a good time. Do you even know how to have a good time, Lancey?" I see the barmaid out of the corner of my eye. "Hey," I cry. "A cup of mead for my friend here. He needs to get drunk. Like, really badly."

  She nods and returns a few minutes later with a mug of frothy brew. "Drink!" I command. Lancelot, after a doubtful sniff, complies.

  A musician with some kind of hornlike instrument steps up on a corner stage and starts tooting a lively tune. The men cheer, as if delighted to see him. I give my own salutation, raising my bottle high in the air. "Whoo-hoo!" This place is pretty cool. I don't know what I was thinking before. I mean, sure, it's technically a dive bar, but hey, there are a ton of Jersey clubs that are a hell of a lot worse. I've got a real good buzz going on now, too. Maybe it's drinking on an empty stomach.

  The music is pumping. It's not exactly techno, but it has a good beat. I could dance to it. Hey, maybe I should! You know, like, let's get this party started? Show the medieval dudes how it's done? I take another swig of my wine and climb over the table.

  I'm a good dancer—lots of experience in high school and college. In fact, I once figured out where to go dancing six out of seven nights a week—a feat that was great for my social connections and body (dancing burns a ton of calories!), but lousy for my wallet. Of course, at the moment my feet don't seem to be moving quite the way I want them to, and I keep finding myself tripping up. Oh, well, it's not like I'm on Dance Fever. Who cares if it's not fancy footwork? No one here knows the difference.