Man, I hate having all these trust issues. I'm, like, total damaged goods. I don't even know why Lance likes me in the first place. Probably just a sexual thing. He's using me 'cause I'm available and willing. I bet he never gives me a second thought once I go back to the real world. Or maybe he and his knight buddies will have a good laugh about the pathetic futuristic chick who let him fuck her against a tree.
Before driving myself absolutely nuts with self-pity, I close my eyes and manage to drift off into a troubled sleep. No dreams, though. In fact, I haven't had a dream since drinking Nimue's potion.
Sometime later Elen wakes me to say, in an irritated tone, that I've almost slept through my own banquet. Damn it! I rush to get ready and arrive at the banquet hall fashionably late. Well, I arrive at what I would consider fashionably late, which seems to actually be extremely late, since most of the food has already been consumed by the time I get there. When I look at the leftovers, I decide I haven't missed much.
Arthur invites me to take a seat at the head table, unfortunately next to Mordred. He even introduces me to the kid in a way that suggests he thinks it'd be a way-cool idea if the two of us hooked up. As if! Of course, to Arthur this probably seems a perfect scenario. What better bride for the future high king than the sister of his number one knight? Guess he doesn't get the fact that Mordred is way too young for me, and also so obviously more into dicks than chicks.
Speaking of my dear "brother," I scour the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lancelot's handsome figure, but he's nowhere to be found. A wave of disappointment washes over me. I assumed he'd be here. The rest of the kingdom is. Well, except for Guenevere, of course.
Guenevere.
Lancelot.
Oh, no. No, no, no!
I take a deep breath and will my rapidly beating heart to behave. No use getting all worked up over something that's probably a figment of my overactive imagination. Just because Lance and Guen aren't at the banquet doesn't mean they're off screwing around in her chambers. Even though that's exactly where Lance was headed the last time I saw him.
"Have you seen Lancelot around?" I ask Arthur, who sits to my left.
The king shakes his head. "Not since this morn."
"I hear your brother is a fine knight," Mordred butts in from my right.
I turn to him, a bit annoyed by his interruption. I have to find Lancelot and Guen. I don't have time to play nice with the boy prince.
"Yeah. He's pretty good." I turn to Arthur again, but Mordred grabs at my sleeve.
"D'you think he would teach me if I asked him?"
"Sure. I guess." I shrug. "Arthur—"
"Because I should very much like to learn to be a knight someday. Lancelot is so fine. So brave. The best knight in all the land."
I roll my eyes. I can see where he's going with this. He doesn't want to play swords. He wants to ... well, play with Lancelot's sword.
"Dude," I say, patting his arm. "I hate to break it to you, but he's straight."
"I beg pardon?" Mordred cocks his head. "Straight?"
"Yeah. He doesn't swing your way. He plays for the other team. He's a breeder."
"What does that have to do with ... ?"
"Look, Mordy. I understand why you think Lance is a stud. Everyone does. But trust me, he's not gay." Blank look. How can I put this delicately? "He doesn't, um, lie with other men."
Finally a look of understanding—mixed with horror. "Does the lady suggest that ... that I... By the gods!" Mordred says, his voice high and angry. He rises from the table, looking like he's about to throw a hissy fit. Oh, man. I should have kept my mouth shut.
"Look," I say, hoping to placate him. After all, he's Arthur's son, and heir to the throne—not someone I want to make an enemy of at Camelot. I gently pull him down to a seated position. "I didn't mean to imply that you were ... you know. Not that there's anything wrong with it,” I add hastily. "I mean, I have some great gay friends back home. Serge, for example. Best friend a girl could have. After all, who else would honestly tell me if my butt was looking fat, or if I was better off wearing strappy sandals or mules with a particular Dolce and Gabbana skirt?"
I realize I'm babbling. He has no idea what I'm talking about. "What I mean to say," I try again, "is that I'm not trying to question your sexuality or anything. If you want Lance to teach you to be a knight I'm sure he'd be happy to."
Mordred stares at me for a moment, and then his face breaks out into a dapper smile. "Aye, very well. And what of you, sister of Lancelot? Would thou be interested in teaching me any lessons?" He leers at me, grinning, and actually gives me a cheesy wink. "I have been told I am a very good pupil."
Oh, my God, he's trying to hit on me! Could it be he's really not gay? No, he has to be. I have perfect gaydar. I picked my uncle John out of a lineup years before he came out of the closet. Just to be sure, I steal a peek at his shoes. Perfect match to his beige tunic. I'm so not wrong. He must just not realize it yet. Wow.
"No offense, Mordy," I start, mentally trying to summon all the "How to reject a guy in a nice way" articles I've read over the years. Problem is, I usually skipped those articles and went straight to the more pertinent "How to survive being rejected in a nice way" ones. "But I'm not interested in starting a relationship right now. It's not you," I add hastily, lest he get offended. "It's me."
He sighs, deeply and dramatically. He's so not not-gay. "Have you already given your heart to another, then?"
I have to think for a moment on how to answer that one. If I say yes, he's bound to follow up with a "who" question. If I say no, he's going to want to know what's wrong with him. I'm doomed.
"Actually, yes," I lie, making my decision. "A lover back in, um,"—where was I supposed to have come from again?—"Little Britain. We are engaged to be wed."
"I see." Mordred looks disappointed, but like he's buying it. He gets up from the table. "Please excuse me." Evidently now that I'm taken, I'm not worth talking to. Typical. He walks over to the other end of the table to where his mother sits stuffing her face.
Arthur leans over to me, having overheard the convo between me and Mordred. "I did not know you were betrothed, Kat. Who is the lucky fellow?"
Oh, great. I know I'm going to regret this. "A fine gentleman," I say, digging my grave a little deeper. "Named Serge." Of course, the real-life Serge would be more interested in Mordred than me, but because of my recent gay-is-okay spiel it was the first name that popped into my head.
"It is lovely to hear about two young people in love," Arthur says with a sigh. "I do not know if Queen Guenevere will ever forgive me for what has transpired today."
I give him a rueful smile. "She will," I assure him. "It just takes time."
"She was but a young girl when we were first wed," Arthur says, staring at his plate and picking at a chicken bone with his dagger. "So sweet. So shy. So very beautiful." He sets the knife down on the table. "I fell in love with her the minute I laid eyes on her."
Well, that's interesting. Arthur loves her. And I can tell he's being totally honest. His wistful eyes give it away.
"You must understand, Lady Kat, the incident with Morgause happened many, many years before I even met my Guenevere. And while many a king might find it pleasing to take on a lover, since I married the queen I have never lain with anyone else. I love her with all my heart and soul. She is the sunshine in my otherwise dark and tormented life. She gives me the courage and will to rule Camelot. Without her, I am nothing."
I raise an eyebrow at the declaration of love. Does Guenevere have any idea he feels this way? If she does, she hasn't let on to me about it. Then again, men can be so close-mouthed. I'm willing to bet twenty bucks he hasn't told her any of this.
“Does Guenevere know?"
"Pardon?" Arthur cocks his head.
"The stuff you're telling me. Do you ever say that to Guen?"
Arthur absently rubs his beard with his thumb and forefinger, lost in thought. “Unfortunately, I do not believe I have d
eclared my love to her for some time now," he says, his voice sorrowful. "At times, being high king causes me to be somewhat remiss in my husbandly duties."
"Don't beat yourself up about it," I say, playing shrink. "Sometimes when you're married for a long time your career can get in the way. You get busy. You stop hanging out together. You begin to live separate lives." Man, I sound like a self-help book. "But it's never too late. Well, I mean, sometimes it is, but in your case I bet it isn't. Guen just needs some TLC right now. Uh, that's tender loving care." I pat him on the arm. "Why don't you go tell her how you feel?"
"You are right. I must speak with her," Arthur agrees. "Immediately. Where is she?"
Which brings us back to the real question. "Last I saw, she was in her bedroom."
Arthur nods. "Page," he calls to one of the young boy servants. "Attend to the queen's chambers and ask her if she will join me."
Probably would have been a lot better if he went himself, but hey, at least he's making some sort of effort. I hope Guen will appreciate it. If she's not busy banging Lance, that is. Jealous worry creeps back into the pit of my empty stomach. I suck down a goblet of wine and try not to think about it.
A few, minutes later the page returns—alone. The king rises from his seat. "Why do you return without the queen?" he demands.
The page bites at his lower lip, not looking like he enjoys his role as bearer of bad tidings to the king.
"The queen is not in her solar, milord," he says in a trembling voice.
"Well, then, perhaps she is taking a walk," Arthur reasons. "Go and look for her in her gardens."
"The thing is, milord," the page says, still stammering, "the queen's maid has informed me that the queen has left Camelot altogether." He swallows hard. "Promising never to return."
Chapter 14
Hang on, Kat. No need to panic. Just because Guenevere's gone doesn't mean Lancelot went with her.
"She's taken Lancelot with her," the page adds helpfully.
Okay, panic time. "Bastard!"
Oops. Did I say that out loud? The entire court turns and stares at me, then at Mordred.
"No, not him," I correct, annoyed. "Lancelot. And, uh, not in the literal sense.”
Man, Nimue was right about keeping the guy on a short leash. I give him time off to go visit the queen for one teensy-weensy afternoon and now they've both run away from home.
I clench my fists at my sides. How can he do this to me? Such a scumbag. Such a typical man. One minute he's all, "Oh, my darling, my darling," and the next he takes off with Arthur's wife. I am so going to kill him when I see him again.
"Lady Kat, have you information regarding this disappearance?" Arthur demands. Gone is the sweet Guen lover. He's back in high-king mode. And he looks pissed. To give him credit, it must be pretty darned embarrassing to find out in front of the whole kingdom that your wife ran off with your number one knight.
"You've got to be kidding me," I retort, a little insulted. "You think I'd allow her to run away?" Or let Lancelot accompany her? I think, but don't say.
Arthur nods thoughtfully. "Aye, I would think that you would have more sense than to let her go. However, the same might be said about Sir Lancelot. He is loyal to her to a fault and at times forgets that I am his king." He rises from his seat. "Guards, summon the knights. Saddle my steed. I want the entire country scoured if need be. Leave no stone unturned. My wife and Lancelot must be found." The hall erupts into action. When the king speaks, people listen, let me tell you.
But this kind of random looking doesn't really appeal to me. I need more information before I lead my own search party. After all, the kingdom of Camelot's at stake here, not to mention my all-inclusive first-class ticket back to the twenty-first century. I must find the queen and her knight before they do any relationship consummating.
Without bothering to excuse myself, I pull up my skirts and run to Guenevere's chambers as fast as my medieval slippers will carry me, (Which is admittedly faster than my Manolos would have, given the absence of the three-inch spiked heels.)
The door to the queen's apartments, luckily, is already open, saving me the trouble of having to slam my body against it this time. I burst in to find the same maid who had barred my entrance before, sitting quietly in a chair doing needlework.
"Wh-where is she?" I demand, bending over to rest my hands on my thighs—an attempt to catch my breath from the sprint. Being sick has done nothing for my stamina. I should start jogging around the castle or something.
The maid lifts her eyes and studies me seriously. "Where is whom?"
Oh, so she wants to play games, does she? I’ll introduce her to one the cops play in the twenty-first century. We call it interrogation.
I reach down and grab her by the neckline of her dress, yanking her to her feet. She drops her needlework and squeals in protest.
"I demand that you let me go!" she says, clawing at my hands.
I smile what I hope looks like a crazy, sadistic grin. "Not until you tell me where the queen is."
"Never." She purses her lips together in defiance.
Okay, now what? I can't really hurt her. Well, technically I can, but look at all the trouble I got in last time, when I inadvertently helped kill King Lot. And he was a bad guy.
Time for plan B. I let go of her and nod my head.
"Very good."
"I beg your pardon?" the young maid questions, squinting at me in confusion.
"Guenevere said you were loyal to her. Guess she was right," I explain in my most businesslike tone. "She sent me to test you. To make sure you would not, even under threat to your life, tell anyone where she's gone."
The idiot maid beams, her brown eyes alight with joy at the compliment.
"What's your name, miss?" I query, straightening her neckline for her.
"Ina, milady. I have been with the queen since she first came to the palace. And I would rather die than let anything happen to her."
"Yes, yes. Of course," I say in an absent voice. I study her thoughtfully for a moment. "Though you gotta wonder: if you two are that tight—that close, I mean—then why didn't she take you with her?"
Ina looks slightly offended. "She would have, lady. But Lancelot—" She stops, probably wondering if she's revealing too much.
"Yeah, I hear you. I know how those knights can be," I say, not missing a beat. Damn it, where did they go and what are they up to? I mean, if Lancelot's supposed to be, like, my boyfriend, why wouldn't he at least give me a heads-up before going away on a "business trip"?
"Oh, no, milady. Nothing against Lancelot," Ina hastens to explain. "He likes me."
"Yeah, yeah. Of course he does."
"He simply said that I was not needed, since Guenevere already has servants residing at Camelot Cottage. Therefore I should stay here to tell whoever comes calling that the queen has left."
"I see." Bingo! I can barely restrain from hugging her. After all, I'm supposed to already know this information.
"However, they promised they will send for me when they are settled in." She sniffs, tears welling up in her eyes. "I miss her already."
Hmm ... Now that I know where they are, what should I do? Go after them? How will I find my way? I obviously can't Google Maps it this time.
An idea does one of those lightbulb things above my head. Seriously, sometimes I'm such a genius, I can't stand it.
"Cheer up, Ina. That's why I'm here."
"I beg pardon?"
"Yeah, they told me to come collect you on my way to the cottage. Guess Guenevere couldn't bear to have you gone. So pack your bag and let's be off."
"Oh, milady!" Ina's eyes shine through her tears, making me feel a little guilty about my deception. But desperate times and all that. "I shall pack at once."
"Cool. After you pack, can you hook us up with some transpo—I mean, can you acquire some horses for the journey? You do know the way to the cottage, don't you?"
Ina's face falls. "I am sorry, milady. I do not."
>
Sigh. So much for that plan.
“But my brother, who lives in the village, does," she adds helpfully. "He could be our guide."
Whoo-hoo!
"Great, Ina. You arrange it all and come to my room when you're ready. Third door down to the left. I'll be waiting." I pause. "And Ina, I don't have to remind you to keep this all on the down-low—er, to keep quiet, that is." Man, talking medieval is exhausting.
She nods enthusiastically, and I turn to walk out into the hallway and head for my suite. I hope Ina will be quick about it. I've got to get to Camelot Cottage soon, before something bad happens.
I need to get there before Guenevere and Lancelot start falling in love.
###
Ina's brother, a short, dumpy-looking dude with stringy black hair, does a decent job of leading us to Camelot Cottage. We get lost only once. Despite my pleadings, he refuses to ask for directions. Guess that annoying male trait goes back a ways. But to give him some credit, he does eventually find the trail again, and about an hour later we cut through a clearing and find the cottage.
Cottage is really a misnomer for this place. It's more like a Mini-Me of Camelot the castle: white stone walls, small turrets waving dragon flags. It's even got its own little moat around it. Cute.
I have to say this Camelot Cottage looks nothing like the same-named Catskills establishment I once stayed at. Despite its adorable name, the New York one turned out to be nothing more than a no-tell motel, like dozens of others on the street. The lumpy bed even had one of those cheesy vibrating things. Since it rained most of that vacation, my boyfriend and I went through a lot of quarters.
There had better not be any bed vibrating taking place in this Camelot Cottage.
I climb off my horse and race to the front door. Will I catch them in the act? My heart squeezes, and I realize my hands are shaking. I pray that I'm wrong, but how can I be? The heartbroken queen took off with her favorite knight— the one, lest I forget, destined to fail in love with her. What else are they going to be doing? Playing Yahtzee?
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 19