A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  "What fun!" Guenevere falls in behind me, trying to swing her hips like me. She's giggling so much she trips. "Sorry," she apologizes as she falls into me and nearly knocks me over. "I am not used to the shoes." She looks down at the two-sizes-too-big Manolos strapped on her dainty little feet. "Though they are quite lovely, I must say. I only wish I could own a pair. Perhaps several. Are they made in different colors? I should like one of each."

  Ah. The first designer-shoe addict. Eat your heart out, Carrie Bradshaw.

  "Stand up straight. Don't giggle," I order. "Models are serious. They don't smile; they pout. Like this." I stick out my lower lip, narrow my eyes, and glare. Guen attempts to mimic my serious face but can't stop laughing.

  "Maybe you're not model material after all," I tease, shaking my head in mock dismay.

  "No, no! I can do it. Wait." She dons a serious expression and starts walking again, sashaying her hips from side to side.

  I clap my hands. "Now you've got it! Yeah, baby. You're too sexy for this crown, too sexy for this crown," I sing. "Too sexy to, um, frown." Yeah. Not bad for a rhyme on the fly.

  She turns back to me, her eyes wide. "What on earth do you sing about?"

  "I'm a model, you know what I mean, and I do my little turn on the catwalk," I croon, on a roll.

  Guen puts her hands over her ears. " 'Tis not music!"

  "I know,'" I sing, switching tunes, "it's only rock and roll, but I like it."

  "Stop, stop!" she begs, shoving a hand over my mouth to stop my murderous rendition of the Stones.

  "I wike it, wike it," I sing on, muffled by her hand. "Es I dooo."

  I stop. Guenevere lifts her hand away, shaking her head in amusement. "You are too funny, Kat. Thank you for the clothes. I love them. The things from your world are so wonderful. I only wish I could see the place for myself. It sounds heavenly."

  Her words spark instant melancholy. It sounds heavenly. And it is, isn't it? All this time I've been getting used to the Middle Ages, I've forgotten all the stuff I'm missing out on. No matter how nice everyone is here, truth be told, I still prefer the rudeness of New Yorkers. No matter how good I get at horseback riding, I miss driving sixty-five miles an hour. (Okay, maybe eighty-five...) I can get used to roast pigeon, but I prefer filet mignon. Mmm. Filet mignon. Especially from Ruth’s Chris. Mmm.

  I miss my life. My home. My mother, my little sister, my brothers, my dog. I miss my magazine even—each shallow, fluff-filled page. I miss the bitchy models and my even bitchier editor. I miss telling the public that pink is the new brown, boots are the new flip-flops.

  I want to go home.

  Guenevere catches my frown and puts a comforting arm around my shoulder. "Soon," she says, all giggles gone. "You will be home soon. Summer solstice is but one moon away."

  I look up in surprise. "One month? That's it?"

  "Aye."

  Suddenly my sadness magnifies as I realize what I'll be leaving behind. While I may be able to do without horseback riding and roast pigeon, I am devastated to think of never seeing Lancelot again.

  “You are thinking of Lancelot, are you not?" Guen asks gently.

  "I'm that obvious, huh?"

  " ‘Tis a shame that you have found true love, only to have to abandon it so soon," she says, stating the obvious. "Maybe you should stay."

  "Believe me, I've thought of that," I say. "Many, many times. I imagine Lancelot and me growing old together here at Camelot. At the same time, I can't pretend I don't miss my world. I miss my life. I don't belong here." I sigh. "The decision is totally giving me an ulcer."

  "Maybe Lancelot will come back with you?"

  I look over at her in surprise. "Do you think that's possible? I mean, if he wanted to, is it physically possible?"

  "I do not know, Kat. But I would ask Merlin. Perhaps he could devise a way."

  "Yes. That's it. It's perfect," I say, excited. "Then we'd never have to part." And Nimue and Merlin would never have to worry about Guenevere and Lancelot getting together. "He'll love the twenty-first century. I know he will."

  A lingering doubt gnaws at my insides. Will Lancelot really love the future? What will the twenty-first century hold for a man whose talents consist of fighting with swords via horseback? He's a superhero here in Camelot. Will he be a laughingstock back in NYC? And if so, can I really justify asking him to come back with me? Will he be miserable? But we love each other. Isn't that enough? Can't we build a life together? A fulfilling twenty-first-century life?

  "Kat, you look troubled."

  "I just don't know." I shake my head. "I don't know what to do."

  "You cannot make the decision for him," Guenevere reminds me. "Talk to him. Discuss your feelings. Open up and explore the possibilities." Now she's spouting the psychobabble back at me. I taught her too well.

  "I will. Thanks, Guen."

  "Now, please excuse me while I change clothes for court. Arthur has ridden to London for more peace talks. 'Tis up to me to rule over tonight's dinner."

  "You're not going dressed like that?" I tease.

  She shakes her head. "This outfit is for the king's eyes only."

  "Oh, boy. He's in for a surprise when he gets back from peacekeeping. I'm sure he'll love it."

  "I do hope so." She smiles. "Kat, you have done so much for me. How can I ever repay your kindness?"

  "Don't worry about it," I assure her.

  "No. I do worry. If not for you, I know not where I would be right now."

  I do. She'd be fornicating with Lancelot. I must admit she does owe me one, and she doesn't even know the half of it. Because of me she's three for three: happy, in love, and won't get burned at the stake.

  "Seriously, I'm glad to help."

  "I want to give you a gift," she says earnestly. "To thank you." She rummages around her chambers until she finds a long purple gauzy sort of fabric. " 'Tis my most special veil," she says in a reverent whisper, holding it out to me.

  "Guen, I can't take your veil. You love this veil. You wear it all the time. It's your favorite," I protest, refusing to take it from her outstretched arms.

  "Are your shoes not precious to you? And yet you gave them to me without a second thought," she insists.

  She's wrong about that. I had second, third, and fourth, thoughts about giving up my Manolos. But I finally decided I'd just raid the freebie closet at La Style for another pair when I got back.

  "But isn't there some rule that only queens can wear purple?"

  "Ha!" Guenevere snorts. "You are the last person I would expect to care about rules." She stands on her toes to lay the veil over my head. It falls down over my face, gauzy and light. "It looks beautiful on you. You simply must keep it, or I shall be dreadfully offended."

  "Fine. You win."

  "Ooh," Guen says excitedly. "You have to wear it when you go visit Lancelot tonight! For they say the veil was spun using magic threads by the fey folk who made it. The woman who wears it will be irresistible to her true love."

  "Guen, darling, when are you going to learn that I already am irresistible?" I joke, lifting the veil and folding it over my head so I can see better. "But thanks. I'm sure it'll knock his socks off."

  "And his tunic as well?" Guenevere asks, her eyes sparkling.

  I laugh appreciatively. "Yeah, baby. I'm sure he'll be completely unable to keep a stitch of clothing on when he sees me in this sexy veil."

  But, I think as I thank Guenevere and walk down the hall to my room, it's not whether I can seduce him out of his clothes that I'm worried about now.

  It's whether I can convince him to come back to the future with me.

  Chapter 19

  I lie in my bed, pretending to sleep, waiting for my midnight rendezvous with Lance. I ponder over how I'm going to phrase the whole your-time-or-mine conversation. The more I think about it, the more I convince myself that he's got to come back with me.

  I mean, look, I've finally met the guy of my dreams. Someone loyal, strong, sweet, giving, loving.
I could go on and on. And call me shallow, but I dig a guy who, even after almost nine months, makes my heart go pitter-patter like a schoolgirl's. No guy I've dated has ever come close. He is the complete package. Michelangelo's David, sculpted in flesh. So what if he's from another millennium? Obviously destiny (i.e., Nimue and Merlin) brought us together. So why does that mean that once we're finished changing history we have to break up?

  I slam my head into my pillow, trying to get comfortable. I don't want to break up. I know he doesn't either. So why let a little thing like a millennium keep us apart? And since I've already spent quality time in the Middle Ages, isn't it only natural that it's his turn to come visit my little world?

  Besides, he has to admit that the twenty-first century is a tad bit cooler than medieval England. It's got stuff like Krispy Kreme doughnuts, IKEA, and IMAX movie theaters for a start. Sure, it may take some getting used to. He'll have to learn slang, figure out how to type, and come to terms with the fact that the world is round. But hey, I got used to roast pigeon. (It really does taste a lot like chicken, by the way.)

  Yes, I determine, Lancelot will like modern-day America, if only he agrees to give it a chance. Now I've just got to convince him to do so. But he loves me. And if that's true, he'll do anything possible to make sure we don't spend even a minute apart, won't he?

  I think it's about midnight—they have no clocks, of course, so I'm stuck estimating. I slip out from under the fur covers and pull back the curtains of my canopied bed. All is quiet. Nosy Elen is sound asleep and snoring in the next room. Good. I tiptoe across the floor, slipping into my shoes and grabbing Guen's veil. She says it makes the wearer irresistible, and I'm going to have to turn on the charm big-time to convince Lance to pack up and move.

  I open the door, cursing the squeak and remembering another great, formerly unappreciated invention: WD-40. I peer out into the hallway. No one. I slip the veil over my head. At least this way if I run into anyone, they'll think I'm the queen and won't ask questions.

  I've got a long walk. The knights live clear across the castle from the ladies and the queen. I guess it's supposed to make sure everyone behaves themselves, but it's a pain in the ass when you're trying not to.

  I reach Lancelot's door and knock lightly. Footsteps approach and his also-WD-40-less door creaks open. I smile underneath the veil; he's shirtless, and I have to resist the urge to reach out right then and there and run my fingers down his perfect chest. I can tell he fell asleep; he has major bed head and his eyes have that half-sleepy took I love.

  But instead of smiling at me, his eyes widen. "Oh, I am sorry. I am sorry. I ... You woke ... I mean ..."

  Huh? We were scheduled to meet up. Why the surprise?

  "Are you hurt? In need? What brings you to my chambers at this hour? Is it the king? Is he unwell?" Clear and utter panic crosses his face.

  I suddenly realize he thinks I'm Guenevere 'cause of the veil. Too funny. I'm half tempted to keep up the charade. At least his fluster assures me he certainly has no intimate relations with her majesty. Not that I doubted the guy. Well, at least, not anymore.

  "It's me, silly!" I say, throwing back the veil.

  His jaw drops. "I thought..." He shakes his head. "That veil..."

  "Yeah. Guen let me borrow it. Sorry—didn't mean to scare you like that." I step inside, and he shuts the door behind me. "Still, you'd think you'd recognize that I wasn't her. I mean, I'm a good three or so inches taller, for one thing."

  He draws me into his arms, silencing my rebuke with a hard kiss that takes my breath away. He's always doing things tike this. And I, the sucker, usually give in immediately, succumbing to the pleasure and forgetting what I was about to say.

  But today I have other things on the agenda. I pull away, walk over to the bed, and sit. I look down at my hands. They're shaking. Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?

  He joins me at the bedside. "What is it?" he asks, perhaps sensing my unease. He strokes my knee with a warm hand, and I nearly give in to the seduction once again.

  Focus, Kat. This is important.

  "I need to ask you something, Lance," I say, placing my hand over his to stop the stroking. This, of course, invites him to instead intertwine my fingers with his, his thumb lightly grazing my palm. The shivers start again.

  "Anything, my love." He squeezes my hand. I stare at the floor, feeling his questioning eyes on me, but I can't look up. One look into his eyes and I’ll lose it. Discussion first and, if all goes well, making love afterward. Man, I can't wait till the afterward part.

  What if he says no? Then there can't be any afterward, can there?

  I shove the negative thought from my head and clear my throat. He won't say no. He loves me. He's pledged his loyalty. He already nearly lost his job and got banished from Camelot for me.

  "Summer solstice is only like a month—er ... moon— away," I remark casually, still staring at the ground.

  "Aye." Out of the corner of my eye I can see his nod. "Do not think I have not thought of it. Especially on nights when I have been away from you. Wasted nights that could have been spent in your arms."

  Aw. He's so romantic. Maybe once we're back in the twenty-first century he could hold motivational seminars for guys who don't know how to talk to women. I can see the Learning Annex catalog advertisement now: Chivalry 101. Taught by former knight in shining armor Lancelot du Lac.

  His hand lets go of mine, and his fingers trail up my forearm. I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation. I wonder if he'd be interested in taking a class on tantric sex when we get back. I always wanted to try it, and I bet he'd be amazing.

  "I don't want to lose you," I say, opening my eyes and turning to look at him. Our gazes connect, and I once again marvel over the pure sapphire of his eyes. Forget motivational speeches; he could be a male model. I could introduce him to some agents. We could feature him in La Style or maybe our brother magazine, MenX. That is, if I want to share him. Maybe instead I'll lock him in a closet and keep him all to myself. I grin wickedly at the thought.

  His hand has now reached my shoulder, and he plays with strands of my hair. "What?" he asks, of course not understanding my smile.

  "I love you." Simple, open, honest. Yet I could never have said those words that way before I met him.

  He smiles back at me. "No more than I love you; I am sure of it. You are sunshine and rainbows to me. How can I ever let you go?"

  "Then do you think ..." I draw in a breath, hope bubbling through my stomach like so many clichéd butterflies. "I mean, if it were possible...."

  "Aye." He reaches out to catch a tear I didn't notice falling from my eye. My desire for this to work out consumes me, and his ready agreement to change his whole life for little old me makes me a little emotional. "I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you."

  "Really?" I'm thrilled. This was so much easier than I thought. He doesn't even need a lick of convincing! He's practically packed for the trip. Oh, what was I so worried about? Of course he'd want to come with me. He loves me. I love him. We're destined to be together. He's not going to let a little thing like time travel stand in the way. "Oh, Lance," I bubble, "this is wonderful. I'm so glad you feel this way. I'll talk to Merlin in the morning and make sure it's possible. Oh, I'm so happy. I was afraid—"

  He silences me with another one of those breath-stealing kisses, and this time I don't resist. I throw my arms around his neck with wild abandon, pushing him back on the bed. After reaching down to hike up my gown, I straddle his thighs and continue to ravage him with kisses.

  I'm so happy I could sing from the rafters. He's going to come back with me! I'm going to get to show him all the wonders of the twenty-first century. He'll love it.

  I sit up, too excited to kiss and not talk. I’ll buy you all new clothes," I say. "I bet you'd look stunning in Armani. And you'll get to meet Gucci, my dog. Of course, you'll want to get a job eventually. Maybe you could be, like, a bouncer at a nightclub or something. U
se all that physical prowess of yours. Though I have no idea how I'm going to wrestle up a Social Security card for you. But if the illegal immigrants can get fake ones, I don't see why you can't. Or maybe they'll pay you under the table."

  His eyes darken, and a shadow of confusion flickers over his face. "Slow down, Katherine," he says, sitting up. "I have no idea as to what you are going on about."

  "Sorry." I grin, dotting his nose with a kiss. "I guess I'm getting carried away, blabbing on and on. It's just that I'm so psyched. I mean, it's not every day that a guy agrees to change millennia for you."

  "Kat—"

  "Guess that's how we know it's love though, right? Love sweet love. You know, I always used to swear I'd never fall in love. Too much risk, I guess. Like, you give so much of yourself to one person and then if they let you down— which they so often do—you've left yourself vulnerable and hurt. But our relationship is different. I mean, you're willing to leave everything behind to be with me. I love that."

  "Kat, I didn't—"

  I put a finger to his mouth to silence him. "Wait. I'm not finished. I want to tell you everything that I feel before I lose my nerve. I'm in love with you, and for once I'm not scared to admit it. I know you won't hurt me. Sure, it'll be tough at first, living in a new time period, but we'll make it work. Because with you by my side I feel invincible. To paraphrase the great Sonny and Cher, 'they say our love won't pay the rent'—or mortgage actually. I've got a condo—but 'I've got you, babe.'" I lean over and plant a great big kiss on his lips. It's actually tough to purse my lips, as I'm grinning ear-to-ear.

  "Kat! Listen to me!" he cries, pushing me away. I stare at him in surprise. He stares back, his eyes wild. What's wrong with him?