"Never mind." Did the legends get that one wrong, too? First Guenevere has no interest in Lancelot, and second, the knights don't even sit at a round table. Interesting. Very, very interesting.
As the servant reappears, this time carrying a tray piled high with sliced meats, I contemplate the situation. While I'm not eager to hook Lance and Guen up anytime soon, I don't think it would hurt to try to get some round-table reality going on. And no, I'm not being selfish by wanting to keep the knight and queen apart. Those two getting together leads to the destruction of Camelot, which would be a bad thing. It has nothing to do with my slight crush on Lance. Really.
"You know, Guen, this table would look great at Camelot," I suggest oh, so casually. As if her agreeing or disagreeing won't shape the future as we know it. "Arthur could use it when he hosts meetings with all the knights."
"But why?" Cocking her head in question, she asks, "Why wouldst our knights wish to reside at a table round, as opposed to one of the rectangular shape?"
"Why?" I repeat, thinking fast. Hmmm. Why was it that the round table was so important? I mean, it must have been important or the stories would never have bothered mentioning it, right? But what were its benefits? Why would no other table do? Damn it, Kat, why didn't you pay more attention in school?
As I try to think, I can't help but watch Guenevere grab a piece of meat off the platter with her fingers and shove it into her mouth. Horrifying. She's a queen, and she has worse manners than my uncle Donny.
Thanksgivings at Uncle Donny's Hoboken house were always a treat. (And yes, I'm being very sarcastic!) I’d stare at my plate and try not to watch as he slurped his beer and chewed with his mouth open, spittle flying as he spoke before swallowing. The sight is literally nauseating. You can't help but notice, either, since he always sits at the head of the table. He insists, saying it is his house and therefore he is the head of the—
That's it! I'm a genius!
"The table must be round so no knight gets to sit at the head," I explain proudly. "Makes them all of equal status."
Understanding nods all around. " 'Tis a good idea," Guenevere says, addressing Lancelot with a smile. "This way you and Sir Agravaine can no longer argue over the coveted position." She turns to her father. "That is, of course, unless you object to giving up an object of such value."
King Leo smiles indulgently. There's no doubt from his expression that Guenevere is daddy's little girl. Why, I bet he's never been able to resist giving up whatever her heart desires. And, of course, she made dad proud—marrying the high king of the land and all. I'm betting that being the queen's father ain't such a bad thing when Leo has to deal with his enemies. Worth a table or two, at the very least.
"The table is yours, my darling," he says. "Do with it as you wish. 'Tis a fine suggestion, and I will be quite willing to dispatch twenty men to ship it to Camelot in the morn. If you will excuse me, I will go about the preparations." He rises from his chair and exits the chamber.
Well, what do you know? I've created a legend. What would have happened if I hadn't gone back in time? I wonder. Would they have eventually decided to ship it over themselves? Or...
An uncomfortable thought strikes me. What if I'm supposed to be here? What if all the legends are based on me changing things? But then how would I know of them before they happened? Well, I guess not before. Just before in my time line. What if this is all a big time loop, and I've been making this journey a billion times over, like in that movie Groundhog Day? Of course, he remembered his time looping. And he only looped back for one day, not one millennium. Oh, and he had to do it over and over until he got it right. God, what if I'm supposed to get something right? Because of my pitiful lack of medieval history, I have no idea what's even wrong to begin with! If this is the case, I'm royally screwed.
"So are we heading to Avalon tomorrow?" I ask, trying hard to scoop up a slice of meat with my spoon. How many years until forks are invented? "Go meet with this lake lady?"
"Aye," Lancelot says. "We shall leave at first light. Tis a day's journey at most."
"You are making a pilgrimage to Avalon?" Guenevere asks, her eyes lighting up. "I have not been to the sacred isle for many summers. Would you allow me to accompany you?"
Seeing as she's the queen and all, I doubt that either Lance or I have much choice in the matter. Still, it's nice she presented the idea as a question. Also, I wouldn't mind having another chick to chat with in case we run into some bad guys and have to sit through a long fight scene again.
"Sure. That'd be cool."
Guenevere scrunches her eyebrows in confusion. "D'you think it so? But the weather has been so warm of late."
I burst out laughing. I'll never get used to talking medieval. "Oh, sorry. In my time we say 'cool' to mean something good. So by me saying 'that'd be cool,' I mean that would be a good thing if you came with us."
"So heat is not well liked in the future?”
This is tougher to explain than I thought. "Well, no. It's just an expression. To confuse you even more, if someone's good-looking, we'd say, 'Wow, he's hot.' And that's a good thing."
"Kat, I think thou art very hot." Guenevere tries it out shyly.
"No, no, no." I shake my head, trying not to make her feel bad. "You don't want to say it to another girl. Then people'd think you were a lesbian."
"Les-been?"
"A woman who loves other women."
"I love other women. My recently departed mother, for one. My ladies-in-waiting are also very dear to me."
"Yes, Yes, I know." I sigh. "But do you, uh, lie with them at night? Like you would with your husband?"
Guenevere raises her eyebrows in shock. "Of course not."
"Then you're not a lesbian."
"In the future women make love to other women?"
"Yup. And men to men. In fact, most of the good-looking guys are gay... the male version of lesbian."
"Aye, we have that here as well." She nods. "Many a lord has been caught coupling with the young, fancy lads of the palace."
I glance over to Lance, who looks a bit pained by the subject matter. Macho medieval homophobe.
"Really?" I grin. "What about knights?"
"Well, yes. I have heard tales of knights who, on long, lonely crusades..." Guenevere babbles until Lancelot clears his throat—extra loudly. "But certainly not Lancelot," the queen adds quickly, perhaps afraid I got the wrong impression. I hadn't, but find it amusing to see Lancelot turn beet red. "He is quite the man with the ladies."
"I'm sure that he is," I say with a smile. I turn back to Guenevere. "Anyway, to get back to your first question, yes, I'd be delighted to have you accompany us to Avalon."
"Then 'tis settled," Lancelot butts in, seeming anxious to keep with the subject change. "We leave at first light."
###
The next morning I'm woken up by a servant girl, who tells me the caravan to Avalon has been prepared and will be setting off as soon as I'm ready. I had no idea the trip involved a caravan. Truth be told, I'm not even sure what she means by that—the only Caravan I've even seen is the Dodge kind.
Once again the maid insists on helping me dress. This time I choose a bright yellow dress and matching cape with hood. I think I'm actually getting used to walking in heavy, bulky gowns at this point, though if we get a really hot day, I'm going to be sweating to death. No deodorant. Ew.
The maid leads me down the steps and out of the castle. There I see about twenty horsed men, including Lancelot, and a brightly decorated, portable tent. A horse in front and a horse behind support the litter with long wooden poles slotted into each saddle. Seems to me they should have put wheels on the thing, but what do I know?
Guenevere pokes her head out from inside the tent and gestures for me to come inside. After giving Lancelot a little wave of greeting, I peek behind the curtains and am amazed to find a plush little chamber, big enough for two to sit comfortably. I climb in and plop down opposite the queen, settling into the soft furs that l
ine the floor.
"Now, this is the way to travel," I remark. "Much better than a stinky, bouncy horse."
About an hour into the journey, I take back my optimistic statement about the litter beating out horseback in the comfort category. It's bumpy as hell and has given me major carsickness ... er ... I mean, litter sickness with all its rocking back and forth. It's all I can do to hold down the nausea swimming through my stomach.
Guenevere, on the other hand, is not affected in the least by the jarring ride. Guess she's used to it. Bubbly and happy, she babbles on and on, relating stories of derring-do—this knight smiting this other knight who then smote still another knight in retaliation for the first knight's smoting and smiting. There's the compelling story of "how Sir Palomides jousted with Sir Galihodin, and after with Sir Gawain, and smote them down," for example. Then, there's the thrilling tale of "how Sir Marhaus jousted with Sir Gawain and Sir Uwaine and overthrew them both." Oh, and let's not forget the classic "how Lancelot slew two giants and made a castle free." At first I pay attention to this one, since it involves Lance, but once I find out the so-called "giants" probably wouldn't even make the NBA, I drift off again.
On and on she goes, each story running into the next, sounding exactly alike, until I'm ready to jump out of the litter and into the nearest lake to drown myself before I have to hear another.
It's not really her fault. She's trying to pass the time. And by her animated voice, I can see the stories fascinate her, and she wants to share. It's just that when I'm already feeling nauseated, the last thing I need is an enthusiastic, non-sick traveling companion. It's kind of like being on an airplane next to the old lady who won't shut up about her grandchildren, but even worse, 'cause I don't have an iPod to drown her out with .
"Wow, your knights have done some cool stuff," I say, finally catching her between stories. Maybe we can summarize and move on.
"D'you not have knights in your time?" she questions.
I think for a moment before answering. "Well, technically we do. I mean, they do in England, anyway. The queen can knight whomever she wants. But lately she seems to favor aging rock stars and actors over those in the 'rescue damsels in distress' line of work."
In fact, the idea of Sir Elton John or Sir Paul McCartney participating in this sort of smiting and smoting is kind of funny. Though isn't Sean Connery a knight, too? Him, I could see dressed in the armor. Remember that 1995 movie where he played King Arthur? The former 007 looked so sexy in his role as the once and future king that it seemed ludicrous to believe Guenevere would pick Richard Gere over him. They should have had Johnny Depp play Lancelot. He's a hottie. Or the guy who plays Jon Snow in Game of Thrones—he could smite me any day. But then again, he was probably too young in 1995, if he was alive at all.
"That reminds me of another tale," Guenevere declares, interrupting my First Knight recasting. "It is titled, 'how Sir Gareth fought with a knight who held within his castle thirty ladies, and how he slew him.'"
And so it goes. More stories. Sigh. This is going to be a very, very long trip.
###
After what seems an eternity of riding and storytelling, we finally come to a stop. After a few moments Lancelot peeks his head into the litter. "We are at the village," he says.
Thank goodness. I couldn't spend another nauseated minute in that box. I tumble out, my legs unsteady from being tucked under my body for so long. Lancelot catches me as I stumble, and for a moment I simply enjoy the feeling of his strong hands grasping my waist. Maybe I should feign a sprained ankle so he'll have to carry me. Nah, that's a little too tacky, even for me.
I look around. We've stopped at the outskirts of a sleepy village sitting on the shore of what appears to be a large lake. The land surrounding the village is green, but real swampy— kind of like Alligator Alley in Florida. The lake itself is blanketed by swirling fog. Thick as pea soup, my mom would say. The sun has nearly set, giving the fog a reddish glow.
"Avalon lies across yonder water," Lancelot explains, pointing into the fog. "Shrouded by mists, the holy land, protected. No man can approach its shores unless he be trained to navigate through the fog. The villagers who know the route guard the secret with their lives."
Wow. Sounds kind of spooky when you put it that way. I shiver a little. Good thing I'm with Lance and Guen. I'm thinking I'd have a hell of a time trying to convince the locals I deserve to set foot on their holy ground.
"Some say the villagers are not human at all," Guenevere adds, stepping out of the litter. "But descended from the very fey folk."
Oh, so they're fairies, are they? Sure. But hey, everyone has their own beliefs, right? Who am I to say fairies only exist in, er ... fairy tales? After all, last week I would have said the same thing about time travelers.
"Art thou in need of transport?" A tiny, ancient-looking man, supported by a gnarled cane, hobbles out of the mist. With dark skin and shimmering white hair, he looks like no one I've ever seen before. Something about his eyes— otherworldly, I guess you'd say, though it's hard to pinpoint why. Maybe the fairy theory does have some merit after all. I check his ears and am disappointed to find they're not pointed.
"Aye. We will pay well for passage to Avalon," Lancelot says, reaching into his cloth change purse and pulling out a golden coin.
"You may pay well, indeed." The man takes the coin and shoves it into his own change purse. "But passage is granted only to those deemed worthy by our Lady of the Lake."
"My worth has been tested by my lady," Lancelot says, pulling up his sleeve to reveal a stunning dragon tattoo on his forearm. The beast looks almost alive as he flexes his muscle. "And found not wanting."
The man studies the body art with a critical eye. "The tattoo of du Lac," he says in a revered whisper. "It has been many years since I have seen one who bears the mark." He turns on his cane and begins hobbling toward the shore. "Follow me, oh blessed of our lady. I shall secure you passage."
Well, all right. Guess it helps to have knights in high places on your side. Lance pulls down his sleeve and gestures us to follow the man into the mist. Guen and I step into line behind him and a couple of the other caravan guards, and trail behind.
"A man must be a great warrior to bear the mark," Guen whispers to me as we approach a long wooden barge. "And trained in all the ways of the high druid sect as well. Lancelot is not only a champion at arms, but could easily serve as a spiritual leader, should he choose."
So he's multitalented then. Interesting. And here I'm thinking he's got more brawn than brain. Maybe I've misjudged him.
Guenevere stops right before we board the barge. "I have dear friends in the village I wish to see before making the journey to the isle itself. Go with Lancelot, consult with the lady, and I will see you in the morn."
"Okay. Have fun," I say. She squeezes my arm affectionately, and I feel guilty for thinking bad thoughts of her and her stories earlier. She's a nice girl, just from a different millennium, meaning different ideas of what's entertaining. I need to be less closed-minded. After all, I'm invading their world, not the other way around.
"Enjoy the company of Sir Lancelot," she whispers into my ear before letting go of my arm and disappearing with her bodyguards into the mist.
I step onto the barge. Lancelot is standing at the far end, his back to me, staring into the shroud of mist. As the old man digs his oar into the lake bottom to push us away from shore, I trace the outline of Lancelot's broad shoulders with my eyes.
The voyeuristic pleasure of watching him unaware soon consumes me. He's quiet. Contemplative. It's obvious, even to dense, self-absorbed little me, that this place holds a special magic for him. Suddenly I long to know his thoughts. Explore his mind. See what makes this tall, dark, silent knight tick.
As we silently glide through the waters, the fog thickens and I can no longer even see my hand in front of my face. I make a decision: if we end up with any downtime on the island, I will make an effort to get to know Lancelot a little better
.
If he wants to get to know me, that is.
I know I've behaved like a spoiled teenager ever since I got here: getting wasted, dancing on tables, throwing up. He must think I'm a total loser, the medieval equivalent of white trash. I've sure acted like it. Just 'cause I'm in a strange place doesn't give me free rein to do whatever I choose. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Or as the medieval English do, in this case. I should be trying to fit in, not bucking the trends. Whether I like it or not, women in medieval times didn't do the shit I've been doing. And I've probably totally embarrassed the one guy who's so nicely volunteered to help me out. It's not like he's getting anything out of the deal.
Why has he been so nice to me, anyhow? I mean, fine, he probably thinks I'm good-looking or something, but there are plenty of other hot castle chicks he could choose from. Judging from the reception he got at King Leo's place, he has his pick, too. So why is he set on protecting little twenty-first-century me?
Unable to bear the silence any longer, I call out to him, "Lancelot?"
"Yes?" The fog obscures my vision, and I can only hear his sexy voice—I cannot see him at all. The only other sound is that of the oar dipping into the otherwise still waters. It makes the conversation strangely erotic.
"Tell me about the Lady of the Lake."
"She is beautiful. Wise," he says slowly, his rich, deep voice slicing through the fog. "A mystical being born of the fey folk. Kind. Full of love."
A pang of jealousy shoots through me. Why should I be jealous of some old woman who lives on an island? Maybe it's something in Lancelot's words, a kind of worshipful tone that no one on earth has ever, ever used when talking about me.
"You said she raised you?"
"Indeed. She and her priestesses take in many a young girl to train her in the ways of the goddess. But I am the first and only boy to have grown up on Avalon's holy shores."
"Oh." Silence again. A slight breeze picks up, causing wisps of hair to tickle my face. I want the moment to continue, for our strange, intimate, blind conversation to continue.
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 10