A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  No. Must stay awake. Don't want to dream again.

  Is this relentless dream trying to tell me something? Something I need to know? Have I somehow developed a medieval version of The Shining? Should I tell Lance? Nimue? Guenevere herself? I know these people take dreams very seriously. I don't want to worry them unnecessarily.

  I drift asleep again. And again I dream.

  I wake up with no idea how much time has passed. I open my eyes to see Nimue deep in conversation with Lancelot at the other end of the room. At least, I think it's Nimue. It sounds like her, but her appearance has changed somewhat. No longer majestic and regal, the priestess now looks haggard and old. She runs a hand through graying hair. What happened to her? Where did all her beauty go?

  " ‘Tis most like the fever, Lancelot," she insists, though her voice sounds troubled.

  "I do not believe it," Lancelot answers in a sharp voice. "If 'twere the fever, then why now? Why so soon after looking into the Pool of Dreams?"

  " Tis not connected."

  Lancelot shakes his head. "She is not a priestess. She has had no training. Yet you allowed her to look into the pool. What did you expect to be the outcome?"

  Nimue lets out a long sigh. "Thou brought her to me."

  "I brought her to you in faith that you would take care of her. Had I known you would endanger her life, I would have never allowed it." He's furious now, and I can't help but feel a tingle of pleasure at how protective he is of me. And he's stayed by me the whole time I've been at death's door. Most guys I've dated won't come near me with a ten-foot pole if I tell them I have a tiny cough. "I don't want you to get me sick, too," they say, refusing to come over even to open a can of chicken soup, plop it in a bowl, and nuke it for a minute or two. Lancelot would probably go kill me a fresh chicken—or at least a pigeon—if I asked him for soup, no questions asked.

  They sure don't make men like they used to.

  I turn back to their conversation. After all, Lancelot said something about endangering my life. Is my life in danger? Chills crawl up my spine. Will I die? I don't want to die!

  "Thou art letting thy personal feelings cloud thy judgment, little one," Nimue tells him.

  And what's wrong with that?

  "You are letting your power cloud your humanity," Lancelot retorts, kicking at a stool. Yeah, you tell her, Lance! He rubs his thumb against his unshaven chin. "What is wrong with her? Tell me now."

  Nimue paces, her steps eating up the distance between the hut's makeshift walls. "I could be wrong, but..."

  "What? Tell me!" Lancelot grabs her by the shoulders and whirls her around.

  "Behave, knight!" Nimue says, her eyes wild. "I am still thy priestess."

  Lancelot drops his hands and bows his head. "I beg your forgiveness, lady," he says, his voice matching his repentance. ‘Tis only that I am worried. She is so pale. The girl, once so full of life, lies near death's door. I must know why."

  Nimue's face softens. "I know, little one," she says. "I will consult the pool myself. I will see if I can determine what ails her."

  I close my eyes again, my heart pounding its fear against my rib cage. This is terrible. They think it's some kind of sickness from looking into the Pool of Dreams? Did I mention how gullible these medieval people are? Why can't anyone see the obvious answer? I've evidently caught some rare medieval disease. Like the plague, maybe. Didn't medieval people have the plague? Spread by rats or something? I haven't seen any rats. Unless they crawled on me when I slept. Oh, man. How creepy can this get?

  Worse, they don't even have any antibiotics here! No medicine. No emergency surgical procedures. I'll probably die here in Avalon.

  The thought fills me with dread. I've come so far. I can't die now. Now that I've found a way back home.

  Oh, please don't let me die in Avalon.

  I drift asleep again, and again I dream—the same torturous, repetitive dream. I'm really getting sick of it, to tell the truth. I wish I could at least have some variety. Maybe throw in a lying-on-the-beach-sipping-frozen-margaritas dream once in a while? Why does my brain insist on replaying the same horrible scene over and over again, like some broken record?

  Guenevere, tied to a stake. Set to be burned. For treason. For sleeping with Lancelot.

  "Katherine. Wake."

  I open my eyes groggily, relieved to be awakened before the part of the dream where the flames begin to rise. Before I hear Guenevere's screams.

  I look up to see Nimue sitting at my bedside.

  "Nimue," I murmur weakly, reaching out to touch her arm. "Where's Lancelot?"

  She frowns, as if I have no business asking. "He rests," she says finally.

  "What's wrong with me?" I ask. "Am I dying?"

  She shakes her head. "Nay, thou art not dying." A pause, then: "Katherine, listen to me. I need thee to tell me what thou hast dreamed."

  "Is it a vision?" I ask. I'm ready to believe anything now. "It seems so real."

  "Tell me!" she demands, raising her voice a bit.

  What's her problem? Where's the nice, sweet lake lady whom everyone loves and adores? I think about not telling her, but what good would that do? I'm too weak to argue, anyhow.

  "The dream's always the same. Guenevere is arrested for treason. She's slept with Lancelot. Betrayed the king. They burn her at the stake."

  "Do they actually burn her?" Nimue asks. I pause, thinking, trying to remember. The Lady of the Lake grabs my shoulders, her nails digging into my flesh. "Do they?" she asks, almost hysterical.

  "N-no," I stammer, suddenly quite frightened. "I always wake up before she dies." I close my eyes. "But I hear her screams. They're ... terrible screams."

  I feel Nimue shaking me by the shoulders, and I open my eyes to meet her fierce expression. Now she seems more like the Wicked Witch of the West than Angelina Jolie.

  "Guenevere is a sworn priestess of the goddess," she informs me in a tight voice. "She has been placed in Camelot, placed with Arthur, to combat the spread of the Christian religion. She knows how important she is to the future of our people. She would never betray her destiny for mere carnal pleasure. What thou hast seen is but a dream. Not a vision. 'Twill never happen." She pauses and then adds, perhaps for emphasis, "Never."

  "Well, actually ..." I begin to say, not sure at all whether I should bring up the point that I'm from the future and don't really need some dream or vision or whatever it is to tell me what " 'twill" and " 'twill never" happen. "According to all the legends I've read, she does sleep with Lance. And her doing so leads to the destruction of Camelot."

  Nimue lets go of my shoulders, her face morphing from anger to deep sadness. She lets out a long sigh. "I know."

  "What?" Huh? Didn't she just say it 'twill never happen"? Now she's saying she knows it will? Okay, now I'm, like, so lost it's not even funny. "What the hell is going on here?" I demand, my confusion overpowering my sickness.

  "Katherine, canst thou keep a secret?" Nimue asks.

  Secret? Now there are secrets? "Uh, I guess ..."

  "Thou hast met Merlin, correct?"

  "Yeah. Old guy. Took away my phone. Do you think he'll give it back? I don't mean to sound shallow here, but it's a four-hundred-dollar-phone and there are photos on it I didn’t get a chance to backup to the cloud."

  "Merlin and I have long sought a way to save Camelot from its ultimate destruction," Nimue says, artfully ignoring my phone question. "For we too have seen the signs of what is to come, due to Guenevere's foretold betrayal of country and king. For countless years we've consulted oracles, researched the stars, everything. All to determine a path that does not lead to the end of the line of Pendragon and the rise of Christianity in Britain."

  "And?"

  "What I am saying is that thy presence here is no accident."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" My heart pounds in my chest the way hearts do when you realize something really, really important is going to be said in the next few moments.

  "That gypsy at
the fair?"

  "Yeah? What about her?" I grit my teeth. Get to the point, Nimue.

  "Twas I."

  "Yeah, right. Give me a break. I mean, I may be sick in bed and hallucinating, but I'm not stupid. For one thing, the gypsy at the fair looked nothing like—"

  Nimue suddenly covers my eyes with her hand, obscuring my vision.

  "Hey!" Angry, I reach up to swat her hand away. "What the hell are you doing?"

  She offers no resistance, and I remove her hand from my eyes. When I do, my gaze falls on a familiar face now peering down at me.

  The gypsy!

  "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" This cannot be happening! I'm still dreaming. Maybe? I hope. Oh, my God—she brought me here? I start to scream but Nimue claps a hand down on my mouth. Her grip is too strong; I am too weak from my illness.

  "Katherine, thou must listen," she pleads, her face fading back to its more familiar Nimue/Angelina Jolie face. The effect is fascinating, though at the same time utterly horrifying. "After scouring the universe, I found the stars all point to thee as the only soul able to win Lancelot's heart. To ensure he will never fall in love with Guenevere and thus spark the destruction of Camelot."

  She tentatively lifts her hand from my mouth, ready to cover it again should I scream.

  "You fucking bitch!" I spit out, squeezing my hands into fists and struggling to sit up in. bed. "You fucking, fucking bitch! You tore me from my fucking twenty-first-century life and dumped me here in the Middle fucking Ages just to fucking further your own fucking religious agenda? Well, fuck you. I refuse to play any more of your fucking reindeer games!"

  Wow, I don't think I've ever used the word fuck so many times in a row. Still, the circumstances definitely call for harsh language, and if I could think of a harsher word I'd be using that too.

  "Send me the fuck back," I demand, raising my fist and adding one more fuck for good measure. "Now!"

  "No," Nimue says quietly.

  "Now, bitch!" I clasp my hands around her neck in an attempt to throttle her, but I'm too weak to do any damage, and she easily takes my hands in hers and places them by my side. Exhaustion from that tiny effort overtakes me, and I'm forced to lie back down. She's so lucky I'm not feeling well. Otherwise she'd be a dead woman.

  "I cannot take you back now. It must be during the summer solstice. After the scheduled date of Guenevere's betrayal."

  "There's a betrayal schedule?" I moan. Man, these people are nuts! Though organized, too, I guess. "I'm going to tell Lance and Guen everything," I say stubbornly. After all, they're my friends, not Nimue the face shifter and Merlin the phone thief.

  Nimue raises an eyebrow. "Will you?" she asks, back to her demure voice. "And thou thinkest they will believe thee over the wise Lady of the Lake? I raised them since they were small children." She clears her throat. "Besides, if thou tells them, I will not give Guenevere the ceremonial words that will send thee back to thy twenty-first century. Thou wilt be stuck in Camelot forever."

  If I thought I felt sick before, now I'm really going to puke. "Why all the deception?" I ask. "Why not just tell Guen and Lance it'd be better if they never hooked up? I'm sure they'd understand."

  "Mayhap. But mayhap it would spark the desire of forbidden love, the most powerful love of them all. What if they decided they cared not whether Camelot was destroyed, as long as they had each other? Then 'twould be all for naught. We cannot take such a risk."

  "And so you decided to bring me into the picture," I conclude. "I gotta ask you, though—couldn't you have found someone a little closer? I mean, I can't be the only girl in the history of the female race whom Lance would fall in love with over Guenevere."

  "We did try," Nimue says. "First we introduced him to a beautiful princess named Elaine. The lass was quite smitten with our knight the moment she laid eyes on him. But he had absolutely no interest in her. In the end she took her own life to still her grief."

  I grimace. "Ouch."

  "Then I myself attempted to distract our knight with love," the Lady of the Lake continues. "I took him to my bed and showed him the ways of the flesh. I thought perhaps satisfying his male lust would be enough to keep him from seeking love in the arms of the queen." She shrugs. "But after only a few nights, he tired of the game."

  "And so then how'd you make the jump to me?"

  "Time was running short. We consulted the Pool of Dreams. 'Twas there I first saw thy face—a vision: Lancelot and thee, delighting in each other, the very same night that he is destined to be caught with the queen. I knew then, no matter what I had to do, I must bring thee here. Thou remain the only hope for the salvation of Camelot."

  "Wow. That's some heavy shit," I say, totally not knowing what to believe at this point. And I thought the whole time-travel thing in and of itself was fucked-up. I had no idea an X-Files-size conspiracy lay behind it.

  Something occurs to me. "Okay, I've got a question. If you're so hot on getting Lance and me to fall in love, why did you tell him to stay away from me when you two were talking in your cavern?"

  The corner of Nimue's mouth kicks up in a smile. "As I said before, there is nothing more sweet than love that is forbidden."

  Man, she is a clever one, isn't she? She knows from looking into the future that Lancelot digs the forbidden-love stuff, which is why he's "scheduled," as she puts it, to have an affair with Guen. So instead of telling him to stay away from the queen, she tells him to stay away from me, knowing full well that will drive him right into my arms.

  If Nimue lived in the future, she'd be one good shrink. Or someone's mother.

  Which brings me to my next question. "By the way," I ask, trying to sound casual, "how does one go about bringing someone back in time?"

  Nimue shakes her head; she's clearly not going to tell me. "Some mysteries are better left unrevealed, Katherine. But know 'tis not an easy task, and not one to be done on a whim."

  Damn. Guess I won't be starting timetraveltours.com when I get back, then. Another great medieval moneymaking opportunity down the drain.

  Focus, Kat. This is your life here, not some multilevel-marketing business scheme.

  "So Merlin's been in on this the whole time, too?" I ask. Question three of the three million I am dying to ask her. "Why did he lock me in the tower, then?"

  "Because we knew that Lancelot, being a chivalrous knight, would let thee out." Nimue smiles. "Leading to a time when the two of you would be alone. A time to fall in love with each other."

  "Wow. You guys thought a lot about this, didn't you?" If I weren't so pissed at being played as their pawn, I'd be impressed by the elaborateness of their plan. I mean, coordinating a twenty-first-century kidnapping—that alone must have taken some doing.

  "Katherine, I know 'tis troublesome for thee, but do know that our intentions are nothing but honorable. We wish only to save our land. Save our people." Nimue's eyes take on a distant look. "Help us, Katherine Jones. Thou art our only hope."

  "Yeah, yeah, Princess Leia. Me and Obi-Wan. Only hope. I know." I shake my head. This is so freaking bizarre I can't even get my head around it all. "I just wish someone had asked me first. Then I could have at least packed a decent overnight bag with toothpaste and tampons."

  Nimue laughs softly as she studies me with those emerald-green eyes. Before she can give a response to my rather witty statement, a knock sounds at the door. She instructs the visitor to enter the hut. One of the white-robed blond priestess clones comes, bearing a mug filled with a steaming liquid.

  "Here, drink this," Nimue says, taking the mug from the priestess and putting it to my mouth. The priestess exits.

  I purse my lips and make a face. "What is it?"

  " Twill stop the dreams. And 'twill make you well."

  Yeah, right. I wasn't born yesterday. It's probably poison or something, knowing this lady. Well, actually, I guess it wouldn't be, since she needs me to help her. Considering all the trouble she's gone through transporting me a thousand years into the past, I guess I'm saf
e as can be. She obviously needs me alive.

  "This will really make me better?" I ask, giving it a suspicious sniff. As much as I'd like to tell her and her plans to go to hell, the bottom line is that she's the only one who can help me get back to the twenty-first century. So I have to humor her—for now.

  "Aye."

  "Okay, then. Cheers." I down the liquid. It tastes like shit. "So what about the dreams, anyway?" I ask, suddenly sleepy again. This stuff works quick.

  "Not dreams. Visions. Visions of what will happen to the queen if thou dost not succeed in winning Lancelot's heart."

  They certainly do put a lot of stock in the supernatural. Then again, Nimue's admitted she knows how to transport people back and forth through time, and can change her facial features at a moment's notice, so I guess it's paid off for her. I wonder if I asked real nicely if she'd give me Olivia Wilde’s eyes and bone structure.

  In any case, I don't want her overly concerned just 'cause of some weird dream I had. "You know, I wouldn't worry too much," I tell her, stifling a yawn. "I mean, I have fucked-up dreams all the time. They never come true. Even the ones I wish did. Like one night a couple weeks back, I dreamed me and Channing Tatum met in this dark alleyway, and he threw me against the wall and—"

  "But"—Nimue interrupts my erotic-dream retelling before I even get to the good part where Channing rips off my clothes—"this time thou had the visions after looking into the Pool of Dreams ... a bad omen that 'tis more than a dream. Also, the fever that rages inside of you makes me even more suspicious." She narrows her eyes. "Something is still wrong."

  Oh, great. I had a feeling she'd say that. "Like what?"

  "I do not know. However, I pray that when thou arrives back in Camelot, thou keep Lancelot on a short string. Do not let his eyes stray from thee for even a moment."

  I frown. "I'm really not the possessive type."

  "Katherine, I am not interested in thy traditional habits with men," Nimue rebukes. "The fate of Camelot, and thus thy future, is in thy hands. Do not take the responsibility lightly."

  "Okay, okay," I mutter. Talk about putting on the pressure. Normally if a guy doesn't go for me, it's, like, death to a pint of Ben & Jerry's, not the whole freaking world. I close my eyes, wanting to sleep, wanting to forget everything she just told me.