I sit up and quickly take note of my surroundings, ignoring the pounding headache beating a painful rhythm at the back of my brain. I'm on a straw cot in a small circular room. It looks a lot like my original room in Camelot—the tower—but it's not. I climb out of bed, realizing someone has changed me out of the doeskin leggings and fur cloak I'd worn out riding. I'd be pissed off at this, except they've replaced the clothing with a black silk gown. Finally, back in black! Oh, dark color, I've missed you so.
But enough about fashion. The big question is, Am I here because someone has rescued me or because I've been kidnapped? I walk over to the door and pull.
Locked. Guess that answers that question.
Oh, who's kidnapped me now? This sucks. I can't believe this is the third freaking time I've been held against my will. Being a chick in the Middle Ages sure isn't very safe. And this time there will be no Lancelot to rescue me, since he's off fighting the Saxons. Wonderful.
The door opens and a very large, rather familiar-looking woman walks in, shutting the door behind her. She must weigh about three hundred pounds, and is dressed entirely in black. On her head is a huge, gaudy tiara with tacky colored gemstones. It's like she's worried that someone might mistake her for a person other than a queen and is trying to overcompensate for something.
"Madam," I say, attempting to be polite, "where am I?"
She smiles—not the nice, kind smile that one would hope for, but more of a sickly, evil-looking smile. "The name of this place matters not. Only know this: you are my prisoner, and you will be sacrificed for your sins on the night of winter solstice."
"What?" I cry, horrified. "You've got to be kidding me!" She wants to sacrifice me? Like, literally? Did they even do that back then? And what the hell "sins" have I committed?
"Do not play innocent with me, Katherine du Lac. I know exactly what you did. I put a truth spell on Lamorak, and he told me everything."
"Who the hell is Lamorak?" I ask, then remember. Lamorak was the knight Lancelot sent to tell Queen Morgause that her husband was ...
Uh-oh.
"You're Queen Morgause," I say, putting two and two together. I realize I should have remembered her from when she brought Mordred in to see Arthur. But that day I was more interested in checking out incest boy than his mother.
"Some call me that. Others use my faerie name, Morgan Le Fay." She laughs—make that an evil cackle.
Oh, this is not good. I'm in the captivity of Morgan Le Fay, uber-bad witch in all the King Arthur stories. Worse, she seems to believe I killed her husband. Which technically could be argued was a complete accident.
My heart is beating wildly with fear, but I try to play it cool. Maybe I can negotiate—talk her out of it.
"Look, I'm sorry about your husband's death. But it was a total accident. You can't go by what Lamorak says. He didn't even see it. He came by after Lot was already dead." She's not looking any more convinced, so I decide to try another tactic. "Besides," I say, "I don't know why you'd be all worked up over the incident. Really, I did you a favor. You should have heard what he was saying about you behind your back."
Morgause or Morgan or whatever it is she wants to be called narrows her eyes. "And what might that be?"
Ah, caught her interest. "Oh, he was saying all this stuff about how you were no good in bed anymore since you'd gotten, er ..." Wait—am I going to insult her more by saying this? "Since you've, um . . ."
"Gotten fat as a pregnant pig?" Morgause/Morgan asks.
A bit relieved, I nod. "I don't think he used those words exactly."
"Lot was a tyrant of a king and a horrible husband," the witch admits. "In fact, truth be told, I loved him not. Still, he kept me in fine jewels and allowed me to run his kingdom while he was off raiding and raping. Without him I must relinquish power to one of my sons—brats, loyal to Arthur, the lot of them. The independent kingdom of Orkney will now become nothing but another one of Arthur's provinces. So in my thinking, your actions are responsible for the demise of a kingdom. And therefore I believe you should pay."
"Don't you think Arthur will be a little pissed if he finds out you killed me?" I ask, trying to stay brave. "After all, I'm Lancelot's sister."
"He will not know what happened to you. Nor will anyone at Camelot. For all they know, you have been eaten by wolves."
Damn. She's right. Dear God, Kat. How are you going to get yourself out of this one?
##
This sucks the big one. I still can't believe that I'm freaking captured for the third time since I've been in Camelot. I mean, really, that seems a little excessive, don't you think? Of course, this time things are much, much worse, 'cause, like, no one has any idea where I am, and also there's that whole I'm-going-to-sacrifice-you-to-the-goddess thing, which is clearly bad.
Why, oh, why didn't I stay in the castle like a good medieval chick? Why did I once again have to prove that I am a liberated twenty-first-century woman? Why was I such an idiot that I thought eating food that came from a stranger would be a good thing to do? Stupid, Kat. Truly, truly stupid.
I miss Lance. I wonder what he'll think when he comes back from the peacekeeping to find out that I disappeared without a trace? Will he go out and look for me? By then it will be way too late. I'll be dead—sacrificed to some pagan-goddess type. Will he mourn me? Find comfort in the arms of Guenevere? How long will it take him to get over me?
I toss and turn in bed night after night, unable to find comfort in sleep. When I do manage to shut my eyes for a few hours, I have fitful, longing dreams for Lance—being in his arms, having him whisper his love, only to be torn from his embrace with violent force. When I wake up I literally ache for him. It's such a weird, un-Kat-like feeling. Maybe it's because I'm pretty vulnerable right now—being this close to death and all.
I wonder if Lance is having the same kinds of thoughts and dreams as I am. When he's guarding Arthur from the Saxons, is he wishing he were back at Camelot, where he believes me to be? How much of his day is spent thinking about me?
I feel totally pathetic for wondering, but I can't help it. There's a lot of downtime being locked in a tower. In fact, I'm totally bored. There's absolutely nothing to do. I'm actually wishing I had some of that awful Camelot embroidery to work on. At this point having a needle and thread would rate right up there with going on a free Neiman Marcus shopping spree. I mean, I can be in fear of my life only so many hours of the day. The other twenty-three and a half I'm going out of my mind with inactivity. My kingdom for a Facebook feed.
After one particularly long day, the door creaks open and Morgause/Morgan appears. She's dressed in yet another black outfit, but this one looks pretty formal. She wears a long black veil as well, obscuring her ugly face. Behind her are two beefy-looking guards.
"Tonight is the night of winter solstice," she announces. "When the old ones sacrificed a virgin to ensure a fruitful season." Her mouth is covered by the veil, but I can almost hear her evil grin. "This year you will be that sacrifice."
"Listen, Le Fay," I say, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. "I gotta tell you, I'm not a virgin. In fact, I've had sex with, um"—I do a quick finger count—"nine different guys." Wow, that sounds like I'm a total slut. But I will gladly claim to be the whore of Babylon if it saves my skin.
"One so young as you has had that many lovers?" She sounds shocked.
"Hey! Look who's calling the kettle black," I say, a bit offended. "At least I don't sleep with family members."
"No matter," she says, quickly changing the subject. "I care not for the rigid rules of the old ones. Nor do I really believe the goddess will bless any crops. It is enough to see you die."
Shit. There goes that argument. I've got to get out of here—fast. I look around for a weapon and find only a cup of water left over from my lunch. I grab it and throw it at the witch in an irrational hope that the rules of Oz apply, and she'll suddenly start melting like the Wicked Witch of the West. Unfortunately for me, she gets wet but not a bit melty, and no
w looks even more pissed.
Morgause/Morgan gestures to the guards, who proceed to throw me down on the bed. I try to kick them, but one grabs my legs, effectively pinning me down like a mental patient in four-point restraints.
"Let me go!" I cry. What a waste of breath. Like they're going to say, "Oh, okay, since you asked so nicely, sure, we'll stop obeying our evil queen's commands and set you free." Not a chance.
They pull my hands behind me, and one ties a slipknot around my wrists. Then they do the same to my feet until I'm hog-tied. They lift me up and carry me out of the room.
I'm going to die.
Tears blind my vision as they lead me down the steps and outside the tower into the woods.
I'm going to be sacrificed.
The sound of druid chanting fills the air. We come to a clearing, and the guards lay me down on what appears to be some sort of sacrificial altar. I look around. Men dressed in black cloaks surround me, still chanting an evil-sounding chant.
I'll never see my family again. My Lancelot.
"Please," I cry. "I'll do anything. Just let me go." I have no pride at this point and try begging for my life, knowing it's pointless. I have zero bargaining power. Nothing they'd want.
I'm going to die.
I look up. Morgan stands above me, holding a long silver knife high above my head. The veil has fallen back from her face, and she stares down at me with, evil eyes, chanting loudly in some foreign language.
Lancelot. My love.
I close my eyes. Funny, but I'd rather not watch as the knife comes crashing down, splitting my throat in two. I pray to God that death will come quickly, that if there is a heaven, I could go there instead of some druid-sacrifice hell. I can barely breathe, I'm so paralyzed with fear.
Please, God. Someone. Save me. Please. Please, plea—
"We are under attack!"
The chanting suddenly stops, replaced by cries of pain, cutting into the night. I open my eyes, straining my neck to see what's going on from my prostrate position. Men in black cloaks run frantically about, and I see them fall one by one, screaming in agony.
My heart thuds in my chest. Am I being rescued? By whom?
"No! He will not save you," Morgan cries, raising the knife. But before she can bring it down, thus ending my life, she screams and falls forward, landing on top of me. I'm crushed by her three hundred-pound frame.
Bleh!
I squirm around, trying to get her off me. Blood—her blood—splashes onto my gown and face. It's like a scene from Friday the 13th. Totally gross. But, of course, much better than if it were, say, my blood.
Suddenly the witch's lifeless body is pushed aside, and I'm swept up in strong arms—arms I'd know anywhere.
"Lancelot!" I cry.
The helmeted knight looks down at me for a moment, nods, then mounts his warhorse, still holding me like a baby in his arms. He urges the horse forward, and together we gallop into the night. Behind us I hear the druids screaming, but the horse easily out gallops their chase on foot.
After about ten minutes of high-speed horse riding, the knight slows his steed with a low-voiced command. The horse comes to a stop, and the knight slides off, pulling me down with him. He places me gently onto the ground and removes his helmet. I cry in joy to see the familiar black hair tumble from his helmet. Lancelot. I knew it was him! He pulls out a knife from his boots and cuts my bindings. As soon as I'm free I fall into his outstretched arms, rejoicing in everything that is him: his hot breath against my cheek, his musky scent, his solid chest.
"Oh, Lancelot," I sob, unable to hold back the tears. "I thought I was going to die. They were going to kill me. She knew I killed her husband, Lot, and she said—"
"Hush, my darling," Lancelot whispers, his words tickling my earlobe. "She is dead. And you are safe."
"How did you find me?" I ask, pulling away to meet his beautiful eyes. I see that he too is crying. I reach up to brush a tear from his stubbled cheek. "I thought you were negotiating with the Saxons."
"Aye," he says softly, running a hand through my hair. His touch gives me the chills. It's been too long since I felt him. And I honestly thought I never would again. " 'Twas a strange course of events that brought me to you." He leans in to kiss me on the cheek. "We were camped out on a hilltop, waiting for negotiations to begin. Things were uneasy, and Arthur had told us to stand guard; the Saxons could reject our treaty of peace and attack at any moment. I drew last watch and they bade me sleep till 'twas time to take my post. I went to my pavilion, thinking of nothing but how I missed you. How I longed to touch you again. To hear your sweet voice in mine ear. To ride and talk and make love."
I sigh contently. He did miss me. How could I have doubted it?
"I fell asleep soon after, thoughts of you still occupying my mind. That is when the nightmares began to take hold. Ugly visions of you, collapsing on the forest floor. You, locked in a tower. You, sacrificed on that altar." He shudders as he remembers. "Then I opened my eyes and saw Nimue standing before me, as clear as you are here now. I knew not if I still dreamed or had awakened.
"She told me you were in grave danger and that if I loved you, I must go to the Forest Perilous immediately, or I should never see you living again." He swallows hard. "I woke soon after and did not know what to do. 'Twas coming on the time of my watch. And the next day I was to stand by Arthur's side as he conducted the negotiations. I was at a loss, truly. Should I disobey the king, my liege, for a vision? What if 'twas nothing but an ill dream, brought on by foul rations?"
"You chose me," I whisper in wonderment. The workaholic, the one who insists the king comes first, obviously decided to abandon his lord and come rescue me—even though he wasn't even positive that I needed any rescuing. I'm touched. No, that's too small a word for what I feel. I'm honored. Even that does not describe the depth of my feelings.
"I chose you," he agrees, leaning forward to kiss me softly on the lips. "I will always choose you."
If this were a movie, this is where the music would swell. This is the "You had me from hello" in Jerry McGuire. The "We'll always have Paris" in Casablanca, and a thousand other cheesy movie one-liners that always make me burst into tears over the power of love that, until this moment, I thought existed only in Hollywood's imagination. But now, as I feel like my heart has grown three sizes (like the Grinch after he heard all the Whos down in Whoville singing that annoying Christmas song even though they didn't get any presents), I realize that true love really does exist. And that I feel it for Lancelot.
"I love you, Lancelot," I murmur.
I'm saying it first. I never say it first. It's too much of a risk of getting hurt. I would normally rather die than have a guy stammer and stutter after I open up my heart. But now I can't help it. I think if I didn't say it, my new big heart would have literally burst.
He pulls me close, burying his face in my neck. "Kat, my darling. I am truly honored to hear those words. I have waited so long to say them myself. I was afraid you would think me rash to declare my feelings for someone I knew not long. But I am deeply and utterly in love with you. I cannot even remember how I once lived an empty, lonely life before you came into it, and dare not think of a future without you by my side."
He loves me! He loves me! I want to dance and sing and spout poetry, I'm so excited. Instead I kiss him. Long. Hard. Passionately. Wanting to eat him alive. He loves me. He truly, truly loves me. He risked everything to save me.
The thought sobers me for a moment, and I pull away from our kiss. "Will you be in trouble?" I ask, a little worried. "Is Arthur going to be all pissed at you for abandoning him?"
He frowns. "I should think so. My act was one of treason. But the king is a kind, just man. When he hears that I acted only to protect my sister, I see not how he could fault me for my actions."
"You've got a point. And I'll back you up."
"However, I must tell you, my love—even were it that I am stripped of my very knighthood, 'twould have been worth it t
o save the life of my true love."
"Your true love. I like the sound of that." I grin and kiss him again. Arthur and his knights will have to wait. Lance and I have some catching up to do first.
Chapter 17
After dropping me back off at Camelot with a stem warning never to leave the castle by myself again—as if I hadn't already learned my lesson from kidnapping-and-near-death-experience number two—Lancelot prepares to head back to Listinoise in case the peace talks are not going well. But before he can even change clothes, a courier arrives to the palace with a message for Guenevere.
"The king sends his love, my queen," the courier says, reading from his scroll. "And says he was able to ratify a new treaty of peace without any violent negotiations."
"Praise be to the goddess," Guenevere exclaims. She's been acting all tough, in control, and queenly, but I know in her heart she's extremely relieved to hear that her husband's out of harm's way.
Since the army is on their way back, Lancelot decides to stay in Camelot. He's a bit distracted, but I'm sure it's only due to the fact that he knows he's going to get ripped a new one when the king returns.
To keep his mind off of it, I decide to sew together some leather strips and create a crude-looking soccer ball. After all, I know for a fact that sports cheer guys up from just about anything. (Well, except when their team loses, and they end up walking around like big babies for weeks on end, moaning about the stupid, biased umpire.)
"We'll make this end my goal," I say, pointing to the space between two crumbling Roman statues in the courtyard. "And that can be yours. When you get your ball through those posts, you get a point. Whoever has the most points wins."
Lancelot nods, grabs the ball from off the ground, and runs through the goal. "Point?" he asks.
I sigh. "No, no, no! I forgot to mention you can't use your hands. Just your feet. And we really need a goalie— someone to block the goal." I look around and see Gareth, the youngest of the Orkney knights, and the only one not sent to Listinoise. I explain the concept, and he eagerly takes his place at my goal. Lancelot, in the meantime, recruits his own squire to stand guard in his end.
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 22