A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  She pulls Lancelot down to her level and kisses him on the cheek, whispering something too soft for me to hear. I lean into the doorway to get a better listen, but to my utter embarrassment lose my balance and end up falling flat on my face into the room.

  I look up from my sprawled position to find Lancelot and Nimue staring at me, frowning, obviously realizing I've eavesdropped on the entire conversation. I'm totally busted!

  Doh!

  Chapter 9

  "I must say, I have found most felines art more graceful than thee, Kat," the Lady of the Lake says, raising a delicately arched eyebrow as I scramble to my feet, my face pulsating with my hot blush. I'm mortified. What will Lance think of me? I knew I shouldn't be listening in. After all, you know what they say about curiosity killing the Kat.

  "Sorry," I mutter, brushing off my gown.

  "My dearest knight," Nimue continues, turning to Lance, "I can see thy attentions are needed elsewhere. Go now. May the love of the goddess ever light thy way. May thy steps along life's path be ever true."

  "As with you, my lady," Lancelot says, bowing before turning to me. He gestures to the door.

  I wave a good-bye to Nimue, grateful she isn't too pissed about my intrusion, and head out. As we walk through the mineshaft, my mind wanders back to the prophecy. Will it work? Will I actually be able to get out of here in nine months? Nine months is such a long time. Especially if it doesn't work. And what happens if it gets screwed up? Do I have to wait another year?

  Can I deal with living at Camelot for nine months? Will they let me live in the palace? Or will they stick me in the village? Will I have to get a job? I don't think my magazine experience is going to come in very handy here. I guess I could find work as a seamstress. I'm actually fairly handy with a needle and thread, although I don't usually sew by hand, and obviously they're not going to have sewing machines. I couldn't be a cook. I can't even boil water. What else? Hmm. What about those ladies-in-waiting? I think I could handle a job where the only skill necessary is that of sitting around a castle looking pretty.

  I'm about to ask Lance whether he knows of any openings amongst the waiting ladies, but we've come to the curtain that separates the secret passage from the regular hut. I step through, and the girl who allowed us entry welcomes us back.

  "I trust our lady has helped thee with thy quest?" she asks. Like it's any of her business.

  "Aye," Lancelot says, much more diplomatic than I. "I thank thee for arranging the meeting."

  "Of course, sir," the girl says, bowing her head. "Will you stay at Avalon tonight, or should I call the ferryman back to take you to the village?"

  Lancelot glances over to me. I shrug. Here, there—it's all the same to me. The beds are going to be made of bales of hay, and neither place features free HBO.

  "Why don't we rest here for the night?" Lance decides.

  "Very well." The girl nods. She opens the front door to the hut and steps outside. We follow. "Yonder lies the House of the Maidens," she says, pointing at one of the huts. "You may find a bed inside. Lancelot, would you prefer to lie in the house of your boyhood?"

  "Aye," he agrees. "Nothing would please me more."

  Wait a sec. Sleep? It's way too early for sleep. It can't be later than, like, nine o'clock. Though my sense of time is a bit fuzzy without the cool and oh-so-retro Swatch I usually wear. Still, it's definitely prime time, not bedtime.

  "I'm way too excited to sleep," I tell Lance. He smiles indulgently.

  "As am I. Shall we take a walk instead?"

  "Sure." We've already walked miles, but what else are we going to do? Not binge watch Orange is the New Black, that's for sure. Besides, this way I'll have Lancelot all alone. Maybe get a chance to resume where we left off at the barge.

  I catch the maiden frowning a bit, like she's jealous of his attentions toward me. Hands off, druid girl. He's mine.

  "Very well. I will leave thee to begin my evening prayers. Sir, thou knowest well as any how to find thy sleeping quarters ... should thee still choose to sleep there."

  After accepting Lance's oblivious thanks to her not-so-subtle implication, the maiden retreats into one of the other huts. Good riddance. I slip my hand in Lancelot's and look up into his blue eyes.

  "Where should we go?"

  He glances down at our clasped hands, furrowing his brow. Then he pulls his hand away in order to scratch at his ear, and doesn't choose to resume the hand-holding once his supposed itch is satisfied. I'm totally dissed. Kind of hurt, too. What's with the change of attitude? Is it 'cause of what Nimue said?

  "If I remember right, the moon lights a pathway to the very top of the Tor," he says. "Perhaps we should take that route."

  Well, at least he's not changed his mind about walking. Maybe he's waiting for us to be alone—doesn't want to be all PDA in case anyone is watching.

  "Sounds good to me. Lead the way."

  We pick up the hidden trail behind one of the huts and begin to climb. At first neither of us speaks. But it‘s not like that uncomfortable silence you get on so many first dates. More like sharing a quiet respect for a place of beauty and allowing the crickets to provide a peaceful ambient sound track. It's like one of those nature tapes my mom used to play me as a kid to get me to go to sleep. (No real crickets where we lived in Brooklyn.)

  The full moon casts a dreamy yellow glow on the land, and I gotta say, as I look around, I'm totally overwhelmed. I had no idea a place of such transcendent beauty could even exist.

  Everywhere I look I see wild, tangled roses climbing the hill, weeping willow-like trees dusting the ground with their moss-covered branches. Lightning bugs twinkle, making it appear as though the landscape is literally sparkling. The air is crisp, cool, but not too chilly.

  The scent of roses becomes stronger as we climb, a sweeter fragrance than even my favorite Clinique Happy perfume. If I could bottle this smell, I'd make millions.

  The path ends at a grassy clearing on the very top of the hill. We must be at the highest point of the island now, above the white mists, which still blanket the land below.

  I'm getting carried away with description. But this place totally blows my mind. It's so beautiful—another world. And, after years of living in neighborhoods with trash-filled streets, neon signs, and garish twenty-first-century architecture, it's a refreshing vision of how amazing the world can actually be.

  Does this hill still exist in the twenty-first century? Do people still visit here? Do they know what it was? Do they recognize its importance? Its power? Or is this just a place where English soccer hooligans come to down Bass Ale and smoke pot? Are the jagged boulders now stained with messages designed to inform all that Ali loves Bobby and MRM was here, '99?

  Sometimes I hate the millennium I live in.

  "The mighty Tor," Lancelot announces. He finds a seat on a small boulder, kicking out his legs and stretching his arms lazily above his head. I haven't seen him so relaxed, so unguarded as he is here, now. He must be feeling the same magic as I.

  "It's amazing," I say, meaning it. I twirl around, my gown flapping in the slight breeze. Thick forest surrounds the clearing at every angle, hiding even the path we came from.

  "As a boy," Lancelot says, "I'd spend many an hour here at this spot, practicing my swordsmanship." He smiles. "As the only lad on an entire island of women, it was hard to find someone to spar with. The poor trees received much abuse from my handmade wooden sword. If you look closely, some may still bear the scars."

  I laugh, feeling at ease, peaceful. I wander around the edge of the clearing, searching for battle-scarred tree trunks, surprising a little bunny rabbit grazing at one end. My Thumper would have liked it here.

  "Too bad I wasn't around back then," I say, turning to Lancelot. "I used to be quite handy with a wooden sword. Growing up with three older brothers made me a total tomboy." My eyes fall on a long stick lying nearby. I reach down and grab it, wielding it as if it were a mighty blade. "I would have been happy to play swords w
ith you." I lightly poke him in the chest with the stick's tip. "Of course, I would have won."

  "D'you think so?" Lance asks with a grin. He jumps to his feet, eyes searching the ground until he finds a branch sword of his own. "D'you think you could beat the best knight in all the land?"

  "Is that a challenge?" I ask, delighted. I raise my stick.

  "I would not want to injure you."

  "I'd like to see you try." I smack my stick against his, remembering my childhood games in the neighborhood. Of course, we used to pretend they were light sabers out of Star Wars, not swords. But I'd be crazy to even try to explain sci-fi and outer space stories to Lance. Hell, the guy probably thinks the world is flat.

  "Right, then. A challenge has been issued. A fight to the kiss."

  "To the kiss?" I giggle. “I’ve never played this version of swords. Sounds fun."

  "Aye," Lancelot says in an overly serious tone. "The one who can successfully kiss the other on the mouth first wins the challenge." He pauses, then adds, eyes sparkling, "Unless you prefer we play to the death?"

  "Nay, fair knight," I cry in my best British accent. "I accept thy challenge to fight to the kiss."

  He laughs softly, then raises his stick. "I did warn you, lady."

  "En garde!" I cry, dancing forward, swinging wildly. He easily parries my thrusts with his own stick. I charge again. Blocked. I try to sneak around the side. He's too quick. I think the fact that I've caught the dreaded giggles has interfered with my normal stick-swordsmanship skills. Or maybe it's 'cause I'm out of practice. I did give up the sport more than twenty years ago.

  "Surrender!" I demand, stumbling over the long hem of my dress.

  "Never," he says, laughing along with me. He slashes at my stick, bending it back. I'm losing—really losing. The guy knows his stuff. No wonder he's the best knight in the land.

  Time for some Kat Jones illegal stick-sword-fighting tactics. I grab his stick with my free hand and break it in two.

  "Ha-ha!" I crow, triumphant. "I win." I press my sword into his flat stomach. "Without any sense of honor whatsoever! Whoo-hoo!" I drop my stick and jump on him, throwing my arms around his neck. My sudden movement catches him off guard, and we both come tumbling down to the grass. I'm on top of him now, and we're both laughing so hard we can barely speak. "Now to claim my prize." I lean down to press my lips against his, trying to quell my giggles.

  But before contact is made, I squeal in surprise as he rolls me over on my back. Now, on top of me, his leg pressed between mine, he looks into my eyes, suddenly quite serious.

  "First rule of a knight," he says, his voice low and husky. "Do not celebrate until you are sure you are victorious." He leans down and kisses me hard on the mouth. It takes my breath away. He pulls back, his eyes flashing his delight. "I believe 'tis I who should be celebrated as winner."

  "Cheater."

  "And breaking my sword in two is seen as fair play?" he queries, rolling onto his back.

  "Yeah, yeah." I stare at the galaxy above me, my heart still beating wildly and lust coursing through my veins. Must slow down, Kat. Look at the pretty stars. When I was growing up in Brooklyn, the stars were not often visible, and only the brightest could be seen. Here there seem to be billions—tiny crystals embedded into the black sky.

  I glance over at Lancelot, who is also lying still, also gazing into the heavens. What's he thinking? Does he want me as much as I want him? Focus, Kat. Don't want to rush into things, scare him away. I doubt many medieval women make the first move.

  Silver light steaks across the sky. "Ooh," I cry. "A shooting star. Got to make a wish!"

  "A wish?" Lancelot asks, turning to face me, propping his head up with his hand, his elbow on the ground.

  "Yeah. In my time we wish on shooting stars," I explain. "There's even a poem. 'Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.'"

  Lancelot reaches over, tracing my cheek with a calloused finger. It sends chills down my spine—lots of chills. The good kind, mind you. Really good.

  "What did you wish for?" he asks.

  I turn over on my side, our faces inches apart. "Now, now, Lance," I chide, unable to resist a mischievous grin. "If I told you, it wouldn't come true."

  He laughs softly, his breath warm and sweet against my face. How does one achieve such nice breath when toothpaste won't be invented for centuries?

  "Well, we would not want you to lose your wish, now, would we?" he asks in a raspy voice. I shiver as he runs a finger along my shoulder, down my arm.

  "Never," I murmur. Why won't he hurry up and kiss me again? Is this some kind of chivalrous thing? Or is he worried about what the lake lady told him? I mean, I know he kissed me to win the duel, but that was a quick one. No tongue even. Not the kiss he'd give his mother, but not a long, lazy lover's kiss either.

  I decide that if that's what I want, it's up to me to get this party started. So, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck, I pull him close, shut my eyes, and press my lips against his. I can feel his surprise as our mouths make contact, his initial hesitation, his eventual acceptance. I part my lips a little, allowing him to explore my mouth. His tongue is soft, reverential as it traces my lips and then delves in for deeper discoveries. Almost as if he's amazed I'm allowing him free rein. My own mouth—heck, my whole body—has already completely given in to the delicious torture his tongue invokes. How do the romance heroines say it?

  His touch stoked a fire deep in her loins.

  I never really got what loins are, but I know exactly where my fire's been stoked.

  As he kisses me, his hands wander as he runs his fingers through my hair, then drags his nails down my back. He explores my hip, my outer thigh, his fingers leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Then he moves higher, finding what I'm dying for him to find: my breast.

  He caressed the tip of her delicate womanly pillow until it budded into a diamond-hard peak of perfection.

  As he drags his thumb across my fabric-covered breast, I squirm against him, shivers of exquisite torture ransacking my body. I want him so badly right now, I can't stand it. I'm usually not a nature lover, but making love to a breathtakingly handsome guy on the top of a secret hill on a magical island ... can it get any more romantic?

  He's so gentle with his exploration. There's no rough fumbling, no rush to rip my clothes off. Just worshipful caresses and soft, sweet kisses. God, I can't stand it.

  He reached under her skirts, his throbbing member piercing her sweet rosebud.

  Okay, that last part didn't really happen. Believe me, I would very much like the rosebud-piercing process to begin, but he's taking his time. My body's impatient. I mean, don't get me wrong: I appreciate the foreplay. But at this point I'm ready. More than ready, in fact. The throbbing inside me is unbearable, and I'm dying to move on to the next part. To satisfy the ache that consumes me down to my toes.

  I want him inside me. Desperately.

  Maybe if I give him a little encouragement... I pull up my dress and grab his hand, guiding it to where I want it to go. Third base, baby.

  "Make love to me, Lancelot," I murmur, not bothering to hide my need.

  Suddenly his hand jerks away. His lips jerk away. In fact, everything that is him jerks away—far away, like standing-up-and-walking-to-the-other-side-of-the-clearing far away. Damn it! I sit up, pushing down the folds of my skirt and smoothing my hair.

  "What's wrong?" I demand.

  "I cannot do this."

  "Why not?" I scramble to my feet and stalk after him. He stands at the edge of the clearing, his back to me. I mean, what the hell? "Is it 'cause of what that Nimue lady said?"

  "Perhaps." He sighs deeply.

  "Lance," I say, trying to rationalize. It's tough when my heart's still beating a mile a minute. "This thing between us has nothing to do with any prophecy. We're two adults here. No one has the right to say what we can or cannot do." I place a hand on his arm. "Besides, she never ha
s to know."

  " ‘Tis not just that," he says, his voice not hiding his anguish. "I am a knight. My loyalty to the king is absolute. I need no distractions."

  Distraction? I withdraw my hand and plant it on my hip. "Is that what you think of me?" I question him, angry. "I'm a distraction?"

  Lancelot paces the ground, a distraught expression overwhelming his otherwise stunningly handsome face. "Yes ... No ... I do not know." He runs a hand through his long black hair, yanking on the ends. "You are more than a distraction, but you completely distract me."

  I squint, not quite sure what to make of that statement. It sounds complimentary, right? Romantic even. But still cryptic. I'm a twenty-first-century American, damn it. I need everything spelled out.

  "Lancelot, what do you think of me? Really. I mean, am I just another one of your damsels in distress?"

  He turns to look at me, his eyes wide and his expression horrified. "No! Is that what you think?"

  "I don't know what to think. I don't know you well enough to know your habits. But I'm trying to be realistic here. Let's face it: You're a gorgeous knight. It's, like, so obvious all the girls in the land adore you. You could have anyone."

  "I do not want anyone," he insists. He grabs my hands in his and looks me straight in the eye. "Truth be told, I have never wanted anyone. Until I met you."

  "Why?" Maybe if he gives me a reason, maybe if he explains, the doubt raging through my body will be sated. I want to believe him, but what if this is what he tells all the damsels? I already have plenty of twenty-first-century unrequited crushes; the last thing I need is to develop one on a medieval knight in shining armor.

  "Why you?" Lancelot shakes his head in disbelief. "How can you ask that? Do you not see what you do to me?" He lets go of my hand and stares off into the black woods, as if they could hold the answer. "You are different from anyone I have met. Your bravery, your determination. You are like a dancing sprite from another world, more clever and more spirited than even the fey folk. Your laughter lights up the darkest night. You are not afraid to dance in a room full of strangers. You are like a firefly—brilliant, shining, but not to be caught and caged."