I smile as she eagerly relates to Lancelot all I've told her. If this magazine-editor thing doesn't work out, at least I have a career in marriage counseling to fall back on. He, on the other hand, looks completely baffled at her newfound vocabulary of codependency, self-esteem, and midlife crisis. But then again, most twenty-first century guys are, too.
We arrive back at Camelot later that afternoon, and Arthur looks so happy to see Guen I think for a moment he's going to faint. When she waltzes up to him and plants a passionate kiss on his mouth, I'm almost sure he will. But somehow he manages to retain consciousness long enough to scoop her effortlessly into his arms and carry her off to his royal chambers, where I'm sure the two of them will sit and talk politics until dawn.
Ah, love.
###
Before I know it, summer turns to autumn, and the castle starts to get cranking with preparations for winter. And unlike at home that doesn't mean hitting Wal-Mart to stock up on everything under the sun; they've got to do it all from scratch. There's meat to be caught and smoked, blankets to be woven, grain to be ground and made into bread.
I try to make myself useful, but Guen has assigned me kitchen duty, which is not really my forte. More often than not I'm just in the way, and the cook shoos me out. I end up spending a lot of time with Lancelot, riding around the countryside on horseback.
I'm actually becoming a darn good horsewoman, if I do say so myself. Lance assigns me my own horse, which I dub Dior (after my hero, Christian), and even teaches me how to jump. At first it's totally scary—after all, if Dior throws me and I get hurt, I obviously can't go to the emergency room. But at the same time it's so darn thrilling—flying through the air on a horse—that in the end, I decide it's worth the risk.
We have a blast together, Lance and I. With him there's no pretense of having to act cool and aloof. I can totally be myself. I love that. I only hope he feels as free with me as I do with him. There is one thing that worries me a little, as our relationship deepens: he's never told me he loves me. To be fair, I haven't told him either—I so don't want to be the one who says it first! But I hope upon hope that he does. At least a little bit. 'Cause by this point I'm totally head over heels.
Honestly, I'm really starting to get used to this living in-medieval-times thing. Sure, there are things I miss: venti caramel macchiatos from Starbucks, microwaves, Seven jeans, central heating, and David Bowie songs. But many things I don't: alarm clocks, McDonald's burgers, reality TV, and country line dancing.
Sometimes I even wonder if, when the time comes, I'll want to go back. I mean, I can't help but imagine staying here, marrying Lancelot, and having some little Knights of the Round Table of our own. It wouldn't be so bad, honestly. But at the same time I miss my friends and family. I don't know if I could bear never seeing them again. Of course, by that token, how can I leave Lance? It's a total catch-22. I try not to think about it too much, but seriously, at times I lose major sleep over the whole thing.
One day Lancelot and I are out in the stables, grooming our horses, when the king's trumpets sound, summoning us to court. We exchange glances. What could this mean?
After all the nobles and knights are gathered, King Arthur calls out a courier, who has been standing in the back. The man looks like he's been riding for days, dirty and exhausted.
"What news have you, sir?" Arthur asks from his throne. To his right sits a well-dressed Mordred, in his new place of honor beside the king. Guenevere is not present; she's busy still organizing the winter preparations. A little workaholic, that queen, let me tell you.
"The Saxons who reside on the eastern shore are restless," the courier replies, still sounding a bit out of breath. "They've been attacking the good King Pellinore of Listinoise, raiding his people's livestock. The king begs Your Majesty send an army to oust the barbarians from his lands."
A cheer rises from all the knights.
"Why are they so happy?" I whisper to Lancelot. To me, the words bad guys attacking would seem a bad thing.
Lancelot frowns, his face troubled. "They are happy at the prospect of taking up arms," he whispers back. "Under King Arthur's peaceful rule, many complain of boredom. Evidently they would rather risk being run through by a sword than be forced to spend their lives at home with their wives and children."
We watch as the king rubs his beard with his thumb and forefinger, deep in thought. "However, Arthur is not of this mind-set," Lancelot adds. "After spending his younger years at war, uniting Britain by the sword Excalibur, he now longs for a land of peace, even amongst the savage, uncivilized Saxons."
"But at the same time, he can't just have them go around taking out his subjects’ cattle," I conclude.
"Aye." Lancelot nods. "So he is stuck, as you are so fond of saying, between a rock and a hard place."
I think for a moment, then get an idea. "Hey, Arthur," I call out. "Why don't you try to go mediate with them?"
The entire court turns and stares at me. As a woman I'm supposed to keep my mouth shut in court. But obviously no one else is going to speak, and hey, if I have a good idea, why should my being of the fairer sex mean I have to keep it quiet?
"What is it you propose, Lady Kat?" Arthur asks, accepting my break in protocol. After my single-handedly saving his marriage, he owes me a favor or two.
"I think you should go talk to their leader and find out why they're breaking the peace. They've got to have some reas—"
"Lady, go back to your embroidery and leave war talk to the men," Mordred interrupts. "There is no speaking to the Saxons. They are uncouth barbarians who care for nothing but violence."
Did I mention what a pain in the neck Arthur's son turned out to be? He alternates from hitting on me to insulting me on a daily basis. Also, he's so eager to become king someday that he has an opinion on everything. And he riles up all the bored knights with his brazen "when I'm king of Britain" speeches behind King Arthur's back. He's a total thorn in his father's side.
"Nay, my son, Lancelot's sister is right," Arthur says in my defense. I give Mordred a triumphant smile. He sneers at me. "Mayhap the Saxons have a reason to be breaking the peace."
"They could be starving, and have, like, no food for winter," I propose. "After all, they're stealing cattle, not murdering townsfolk."
"True." Arthur nods. "The oracles have predicted a long winter. Perhaps they worry for their children."
"May all their bairns die of starvation. I will make a necklace of their bones," Mordred says gallantly. The knights cheer.
"Silence!" Arthur commands in a loud voice. That shuts them up. Arthur is, of course, still king, even though the knights aren't all into his peaceful ways. "Hear this," he says, addressing the courier. "Tell King Pellinore that I will raise an army of five hundred, along with my closest knight companions. We will camp on the borderlands, and I will request an audience with the Saxon leaders. I will attempt to learn the reason for the attacks. If they are unwilling to talk, then we will fight."
More cheers from the peanut gallery. I know they're betting on the fact that the Saxons are uncivilized barbarians who have no idea how to talk peace. I hope Arthur will be able to prove them wrong by uniting the Britons and Saxons under one rule. I mean, it's got to happen at some point in history; how else would the whole WASP thing come to pass?
After court breaks for intermission, I find Lancelot at the back of the room. He looks distressed.
"Hey, Lance," I greet him. "What's wrong?"
He frowns. "Mordred. That boy is trouble. He should never have been declared Arthur's heir. He is nothing like his father. May Arthur live forever; I cannot imagine Mordred taking the throne."
"Yeah, he's a total jerk, huh?"
"He riles up the younger knights against the king. It is treasonous. But Arthur will not hear it. He loves his son and is blind to his evil ways."
"Well, at least Arthur won this round," I say, trying to sound optimistic.
"True. Though you do know what this means, do you no
t?" Lancelot asks.
I sigh. "You're going with them."
"Aye. I am Arthur's first knight. I must stand by his side during negotiations."
"Do you have to?" I don't mean to be selfish, but we have such little time together. "How long is this going to take?"
"It could take months."
"Months?" I cry. I'd been thinking days. "How many months? I'm only going to be here for, like, seven more."
"I cannot predict. It depends on whether or not we go to war," Lancelot says, leading me down the hall.
"Can I come?"
"Nay. The king would never allow it."
"This sucks," I pout. Lancelot opens the door to his chambers and ushers me inside. After he closes and locks the door, he takes me in his arms. I press my head against his solid chest. "I am so going to miss you."
"Aye, my darling," he whispers. "No more than I will miss you."
###
The army and knights take off, leaving us womenfolk stuck at the castle. Merlin's here, too—he's too old to fight in a war and, according to Arthur, too valuable to risk losing. But the old magician spends the majority of time holed up in his tower and we barely see him. At one point I approach him to do magic tricks for the court—in an effort to help pass the time in an entertaining fashion, you understand. But he refuses me outright. You know, for an all-powerful wizard, he really comes across as an old fuddy duddy.
The next month is boring as hell. Because I have no job, I find myself with a lot of downtime. After all, being a lady-in-waiting isn't that demanding a career. It's a lot easier than being a magazine editor, anyway, which involves writing and interviewing and traveling. Ladies-in-waiting ... well, they pretty much just wait, though for what I've yet to figure out.
So yep, winter in Camelot is no fun. First of all, there's no central heating, obviously, and the castle is always damp and freezing. It's also extremely boring. With the wind whipping up the snow, no one goes outside. Instead they stay huddled together by the fireplace, content to embroider everything in sight and spend hours weaving boring tapestries. As if the walls aren't already tackily covered in them.
There's not even anything to read. The ancient scrolls in the library are all written in Latin and unfortunately smarty-pants me took French as a foreign language in high school, saying, why should I study a dead language like Latin?
"Guen," I say on one particularly brutally boring day. "I can't stand it anymore. I'm going completely stir-crazy."
"Aye," she says sympathetically, looking up from her embroidery. She must have embroidered every dress in the kingdom by this point and never seems to get bored with it. "The winters here are long, I know."
"It's a beautiful day outside. I'm going riding."
She looks shocked. "Kat, you know that you cannot. It is too dangerous."
"I'm not afraid of a little snow. Besides, Dior has four-hoof drive." I laugh at my little joke, wishing that once in a while someone would get my humor.
"I do not mean from the snow. The danger comes from the marauding bandits and enemies of the king. Do you not remember what happened the last time you went out alone? You were kidnapped. This time Lancelot will not be there to save you."
"I don't need a man to save me," I retort, my feminist side quite offended. "Besides, that time I was on foot. Dior is, like, the fastest horse in Camelot. No bandit's going to be able to catch me while I'm riding him."
"At least take an escort," Guenevere begs. "A company of guards to protect you."
I frown. "They'll cramp my style. Listen, Guen, don't be a worrywart. I'll be fine."
She shakes her head, knowing better than to bother arguing. "Do what you will. But please, for my sake, be careful. I do not want to be the one to answer to Lancelot if anything were to happen to you."
"Yes, Mother," I say sarcastically, then bite my tongue. Calling Guen Mother, even in jest, is cruel.
After apologizing for my stupid joke, I head for the stables and saddle Dior. He's delighted to go out riding— chomping at the bit, you might say—and soon we're off.
The day is cool and clear. The fur cloak keeps me warm enough, and Dior's clearly psyched to be running free. Evidently he's been suffering from the same cabin fever as I have. We head down into the valley and then circle around the village to the paths in the woods. The scene is breathtaking—a winter wonderland. The pure white snow blankets the landscape, with no black dirt from cars to dirty it up. Icicles drip from tree branches. In delight, I start humming a Christmas carol, until Dior starts snorting in protest over my admittedly bad singing voice.
As Dior carefully makes his way through the icy woods, we come across what in the summertime is a gentle stream. A peasant woman, her face obscured by a hooded black cloak, is on her knees, trying to break the ice with her white fist. She's not having much luck.
"Ma'am," I call down to her. "What are you trying to do?"
She looks up and I see her face. She's got a million wrinkles, and her eyes seem to recede back into her skull. When she sees me, she bows low. "My lady," she murmurs. "I was merely seeking to fill my cup." She lifts a hollowed-out wooden bowl for me to see. "But the ice has swallowed the river."
Poor woman. There really was a huge class difference back in the Middle Ages. Not that there isn't in the twenty-first century, but at least most people have running water. Well, in America, at least—I guess that's not true in some third-world countries. Okay, fine. We're totally as classist in the twenty-first century, if not worse.
"Hey, I know. I'll have Dior—that's my horse," I explain, petting Dior's neck, "stomp on the ice and break it for you."
The old woman's face alights. "Oh, milady, please do not feel you must go through all that trouble to help an old woman."
"It's no trouble," I insist, feeling rather magnanimous. Why, if I were a ruler of medieval Britain, I'd be the one who helped all the peasants. The people would love me. I'd be known throughout the land as Katherine the Generous.
I instruct Dior to step forward, and his hooves easily break through the ice, revealing the running stream below. The woman gets on her knees and fills her cup, bringing the liquid to her dry lips. I feel like a superhero.
"Thank you, milady," she says, gushing with joy. "I did not know what I would do before you came. Please accept my gift of thanks." She reaches into her robe pocket and pulls out a small, shiny apple.
My mouth waters at the sight of it. It's been a long time since I've gotten to eat any fruit, and I'm probably halfway to scurvy by now. One of the things that sucks about medieval times is that there's no supermarket to get fresh, imported produce. If you can't pick it off a tree, you're not eating it.
"But I don't want to take your food," I protest, remembering that she's the poor starving peasant, not me. "I was happy to help."
"Please do not disgrace me by turning down my gift," the woman begs. "It is an honor to share the fruit of my labor with such a fine lady as yourself."
"Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?" I laugh, reaching down to take the apple from her outstretched hand. She watches me eagerly as I take a large bite. Yum! The cool, crisp juices from the fruit delight my every taste bud, and I'm already taking another bite before I even swallow. "This is a good apple," I say, my mouth full of fruit. Then I realize I'm talking to no one. The old woman's disappeared. That's weird.
I finish the apple and toss the core onto the snow. It's biodegradable, so it's technically not littering. Then I urge Dior to keep walking.
As we walk the trees grow denser, blocking out most of the sunshine. I feel like we're in a dark cave. Still, we press onward. I begin to feel a strange tingling in my head and my stomach. A sort of nauseous, sleepy feeling. The sidelines of the path begin to soften around the edges. But still Dior presses onward.
I think about turning around, going back to the castle, but I find I lack the energy to voice the commands. My tongue is thick in my mouth, swollen. What's wrong with me? My brain is slow even to form t
he thought. One part of me thinks I should be panicking, but my heartbeat seems too lazy to race.
The apple. Was there something wrong with the apple? The hobbled old peasant woman I'd helped? Why had she been trying so hard to get water under the stream? Why didn't she simply scoop up a cupful of snow for refreshment? Too late I ponder how a peasant woman in the Middle Ages acquired a shiny, red, delicious apple in the middle of winter, when all of the castle's fruits and vegetables are soft and moldy.
Tricked? Poisoned?
You know, I should have paid more attention to my fairy tales as a child. This is exactly what happened to Snow White: she ate a poisoned apple given to her by an old peasant woman, then fell asleep until she got kissed by the prince. If I fall asleep, will Lancelot kiss me awake? And would that work, anyway, considering he's not a prince? Or would Mordred have to be the one who kissed me? Gross.
Dior stops. I look around. We've come to a small clearing. The snow has disappeared. In fact, it's rather warm and humid here. I know I should be urging him back to the castle, but instead I end up sliding off my horse and looking around.
The trees that surround the clearing seem to close in on me, their branches extending into creepy animal claws. The sky darkens, and I hear strange music in the rustling of the wind.
The whole landscape seems to sparkle and fade in and out of focus. The only thing I can compare it to is the time I took acid at this party back in college. Except that was really cool, and this is terrifying.
I'm so tired. Maybe I'll sit for a moment. Or lie down. I need to take a nap. And it's so warm here. The pine needles blanketing the ground are soft. What happened to the snow?
I close my eyes. My last thought before drifting to sleep is whether I'll ever wake up, and I feel wonder at the fact that I really don't care if I do.
Chapter 16
I do wake up. Unfortunately I don't wake up where I fell asleep or back at the castle or some equally non-bad place. In fact, I have no idea where I am.
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 21