"But you are ..." Arthur begins, evidently trying to put it delicately, even though he's no stranger to the kissing-cousins thing. "He is your...."
"Actually he's not my brother. No relation whatsoever. First time I saw the guy was the day on the jousting field. Listen, Arthur, I'm sorry we lied to you. It started out as a small thing. To protect me, Lancelot said I was his sister, 'cause I have no family around, and everyone thought I was some spy. Then we started getting hot and heavy, and it was too late to go back and tell you we made it up. Though we should have, I guess. Then we wouldn't be in such a mess."
Arthur ponders my words for a moment. "It does make sense," he admits. "And it explains well why Lancelot was so quick to abandon his post when he believed you to be in danger."
"Exactly." I nod. "He loves me. I love him. There's nothing going on with him and your wife. The whole Lance-and-Guen-thing is a total setup by Mordred. He even admitted it to me. He wants to make you look bad in front of your people so he can take over as king."
"I fear you may be right," Arthur says, rubbing his beard with his thumb and forefinger. "Guenevere and Merlin have been trying to convince me of Mordred's ill will for some time now. But I refused to see it. It is difficult for me to accept the fact that my own flesh and blood, my only son, would seek to destroy everything I have worked my entire life to create."
"No offense," I say carefully. "He may be your kid and all, but he's got a heart as black as his mother's."
"Aye," Arthur agrees. He stares down at the floor, kicking the stone with his boot. "Mordred was conceived through deception. Now in life he has deceived me as well. He is not interested in a father. He wants a kingdom—my kingdom. And while I would happily give it to him in time, he is not content to sit idle, waiting for his turn." He curls his hand into a fist. "And now it is my love, my Guenevere, who pays the price for my stubborn blindness."
"But Arthur, you're forgetting one major thing here. You're king!" I remind him. "You can free her. Just say the word. Unlock her cell. Let her go."
He shakes his head. "It may seem that simple to you, Kat," Arthur says sorrowfully. "And how I wish you were correct in that assumption."
"What do you mean?"
"Mordred has hardened the hearts of my knights against me. He has told them that because I seek peace instead of war, I am weak. He promises them battles that will conquer nations and create a British empire as vast as the one Rome once held. They are bored, thirsty for blood, and he excites them with his boastful predictions."
"Guess the soccer matches aren't cutting it then, huh?" Obviously David Beckham isn't a descendent of the Round Table. "I was so hoping some team sports would give them a healthier outlet for their violent tendencies."
Arthur stares off into space as he continues: "Now Mordred has framed Guenevere and my last loyal knight. If I set her free, he will say I hold my own household to a different set of standards than my kingdom. He will use that to turn the people against me, as he has already turned my knights. He will demand I abdicate the throne, and I will have no army to defend my right to be king." Arthur sighs. "He knows well that I must choose: my Guenevere or my kingdom."
"Yeah, but that seems like a pretty easy choice. I mean, no offense, but material things aside—"
"You see this from your heart, not your head," Arthur interrupts, rising from his seat. He walks over to the window and stares outside. "Yes, if I give up the throne and live out my days with Guenevere, I will die a happy man. But there are thousands of serfs living on the land under my protection. Who knows the brutality they will suffer under Mordred's rule? He wants war, which costs money. He will tax them to death. Beat them and throw them in the prison. Force them to become soldiers, destined to die on the battlefield." Arthur clears his throat. "So I am left with the decision: do I save one or thousands? My people, whom I have vowed on my life to protect? Or my wife, whom I love above all?"
Okay, I can see where he's stuck between a rock and a hard place. Geez. No matter what the Mel Brooks movies tell you, it's not always good to be the king.
"If it makes you feel any better, Lancelot got away," I remind him. "I'm sure he's concocting a rescue plan at this very moment." Either that or he's off sticking pins in a voodoo doll that looks remarkably like me.
Arthur turns from the window, a dash of hope clear in his eyes. "That is why I have come to see you, Kat. To ask your and Lancelot's assistance in rescuing Guenevere. I can officially sentence her to death to save the kingdom, but I refuse to let her die. I will do everything in my power to aid you. You and Lancelot must see that she is safe." He swallows hard. "Even if I am never to see her again, it will be enough to know that she lives."
My heart aches in my chest as I see the love practically radiating from his bearish frame. He really, really cares about her, as much as Lancelot cares about me. Or did, before I opened my big mouth and let him think I was in it only for the time travel.
"Guen is my friend," I tell Arthur. "I will do everything in my power to save her."
Arthur rubs his chin, thinking. "Here is what we will do. I will schedule a public execution at high noon. I will leave the castle gates wide-open and schedule the weakest guards to stand watch—ones who can be easily manipulated or overpowered to gain entrance. In the stables I will have the fastest horses saddled and ready to go. The other knights will be invited to stand at a place of honor on a high dais with me, so they will be nowhere near the pyre. This way Lancelot will be able to swoop in without battle, rescue Guenevere, grab a horse, and go."
I have to admit it's not a bad plan. "But you can't let on that you're doing this," I remind him. "You've got to pretend you want her to die. Like you're a totally jilted husband pissed off at her infidelity." It'd better be an Academy Award-winning performance, too, if he wants to convince Mordred.
Arthur nods. "Aye. 'Twill be a hard act, to be sure. For the truth is, I want nothing more than to hold her in my arms once again. To love her as she deserves to be loved."
My heart aches for him. For all of us. Why has fate been so cruel? "You will," I assure him, lying through my teeth. The last thing he needs to hear is that, according to history, Guen's going to be spending the rest of her days in a convent. "Someday."
"Perhaps you are right," Arthur says with a fond smile. "While Christians believe in heaven, Guenevere is still fond of the old ways, where a circle of love may be reborn anew every generation. If matched with true love in one lifetime, so shall one be reunited in the next," he explains, eyes shining. "Perhaps in my next lifetime I will find her again. Love her again."
"Yeah, exactly," I say, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but not believing any of this druidic nonsense about reincarnation either. "Still, maybe we should concentrate on saving Guen's butt this time around and not think too much about the future."
I know—that's rich coming from me, since I come from the future and all I ever think about is returning. But now it seems I've got to straighten out this mess before I can go back. Besides, to tell the truth, even if there were a way to return to the twenty-first century without Guen's help, I can't imagine leaving here without making sure she's okay. And, of course, I've got to straighten things out with Lance.
Arthur walks over to me and takes my hand. "You are right, Lady Kat," he agrees, pulling my hand to his lips and kissing it fervently. "And I am trusting you with her precious life."
Poor man. Such an awful position to be put in. This kind of thing used to always happen to Captain Kirk on Star Trek too. I'm glad I'm not the one stuck making the decision.
The annoying thing is, it could have all worked out so perfectly too, if not for a stupid case of mistaken identity. Lance and I could have gone back to the future. Guen could have lived happily ever after with Arthur. The people of Camelot could have been happy-go-lucky for the rest of their days.
Yup, it has to be said: sometimes destiny sucks.
###
Dior is exhausted by the time we've galloped all the way t
o Joyous Garde to find Lancelot. At least Elen's directions are better than Google’s, and we don't get lost once.
It's a beautiful castle, on the small side, and nearly hidden by a maze of climbing vines. But I'm not here to enjoy the architecture. I leap off my horse and run to the front door. Locked. I bang my fists against it, yelling. Please let him be here!
"Lance!" I cry. "Lance, are you there?"
The door creaks open. Lancelot stands on the other side. Unshaven. Dirty. I've never seen him look so tired. Old. Defeated. Not at all like a guy concocting a brave rescue plan.
"Kat," he notes, without a hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
I frown. "Lance, what are you doing here? They're going to burn Guen at the stake. We have to rescue her!"
He turns and walks back into the castle. I run after him. "Where are you going? Didn't you hear me?"
He slumps down into a chair and puts his face in his hands. "I should have listened to you when you told me about the rumors to begin with. Then none of this would have occurred."
I shake my head. "Doesn't matter now. Point is, unless we get back to Camelot, the queen's going to be executed."
"What can I do? I cannot fight a whole army." He sighs deeply, picking at a fingernail. "I cannot fight my fellow knights and my king."
"Lancelot du Lac, this isn't like you," I protest, hands on my hips. "You're the bravest, noblest, most chivalrous knight in all the land. You don't just sit around and let your friend die because of a stupid misunderstanding. What would Arthur—?"
"Arthur," Lancelot interrupts, "thinks I betrayed him."
"No, he doesn't. I had a long talk with him. He totally knows you and Guen would never hook up. In fact, he's counting on you to go rescue her. He can't, 'cause it will destroy the kingdom and stuff, and so that leaves you. If you don't save her, no one will, and she'll die. You don't want her to die, do you?"
"No. Of course not." Lancelot stands up and walks over to the far wall. Pressing his hand against it, he bows his head. "But there will be an army guarding her. The knights will be out for my blood. They think I killed Agravaine."
"Well, yeah, but they have to understand it was total self-defense," I argue.
"No. It was not."
I scrunch my eyebrows. "It wasn't? Then—"
Lancelot turns around, meeting my eyes with his bloodshot ones. "Mordred killed him—stabbed him in the back to make it look like 'twas me." He clears his throat. "He wants to ensure I am not pardoned for my supposed rutting with the queen. Sex is one thing. Many a man can forgive a night of passion. A violent murder of one of my sworn brothers, however, is a sin worthy of death. An eye for an eye, as the Christians say."
I pace the floor, trying to think of a plan. "Still, there's got to be a way to help Guen. Arthur's setting it up so it's like a big public execution—gates thrown open, knights out of the way, stuff like that. He's going to make it as easy as possible for you to rescue her. And, of course, I could help, too."
"Why? What's in it for you?" Lancelot asks angrily. "Ah, I know. You need Guenevere alive so she can send you back to your future."
I stare at him, horrified. Is that what he really thinks? Does the man I love more than anything really believe me to be such a monster?
"I need Guenevere alive because she's one of my best friends!" I say furiously. “I need Guenevere alive because she's innocent and doesn't deserve to die for something she didn't do. How can you stand here and say I'm only interested in what she can do for me? How"—I choke back a sob—"dare you? Is that what you really think of me?"
Lancelot sighs deeply. "I do not know what to think anymore. However, it does not matter, I suppose. Whatever your motivation, you are right. The queen must not die for something she did not do. And as a knight loyal to Arthur, it is my duty to protect her at any cost." He walks back to the table and sits. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You may depart now and inform the king he need not lose sleep over that matter."
Oh, he thinks he can get rid of me that easy, does he? "No way," I protest, plopping down on a seat next to him. "You may not believe me, but I care about Guenevere, too. And, like it or not, I care about you. I'm sure as hell not going to sit back and watch you bumble this rescue because of your stubborn refusal to believe I'm telling the truth. As you said yourself, you can't fight an army alone. So, like it or not, I'm helping."
Lancelot snorts. "I hardly think a woman—"
I shoot him a glare. It's so obvious he's being all chauvinistic in hopes I'll get mad—maybe even take off. After all, me being a kick-ass twenty-first-century chick is what drew him to me in the first place.
"Puh-leeze. I've said it before and I'll say it again," I proclaim. "Girls can do anything boys can do ... usually better."
He raises an eyebrow. "Can you fight with a sword?"
Oh, he's going to pull the whole men-are-stronger-than-women argument. Figures. "No. I can't," I say honestly. "Though I'm pretty handy with a stick sword." I grin, trying to lighten the mood. No luck. Why are men so pigheaded? "Okay, fine. You got me there. I'm not an accomplished swordswoman. However, I can do other things."
"Like?"
"Like ..." Come on, Kat. You can think of something. "Like create a diversion."
"Diversion?"
"You know, to distract everyone. Then you can swoop in and rescue her."
"And what do you plan to do?"
I tap a finger to my temple, trying to think. "I could whip off my dress and dance naked on the Round Table."
Lancelot laughs bitterly. "While I imagine that would certainly distract some, I am not sure 'tis enough—no offense—to detract from a burning."
I sigh. "You're probably right." What would be big enough to get everyone's attention? Ooh, ooh, I know! "What about a bomb?"
"A what?" At least he's listening to me.
"Well, it's this thing that explodes. Like, um, a burst of fire. Everything blows up," I explain. "When I was in first-year home ec at Brooklyn Community College I accidentally blew up the kitchen when mixing cleaning chemicals to clean milk mold out of an old bottle. Believe me, it got everyone's attention, including the school's chancellor. In fact, I almost got expelled."
"Where would you get one of these 'bombs'?"
"I'll make one. Somehow." I frown, realizing I have no idea how I'd do that. I mean, I know mixing bleach and ammonia makes an explosion, but I don't have access to Clorox here. There's got to be another way, though. Where's The Anarchist Cookbook when you need it?
I brush a strand of hair from my face as I try to think. My hair's grown so unruly lately. Guess it's lack of regular conditioning. Of course, it's probably a lot healthier since I no longer blow it dry and use my limited supply of hair spray only on special occasions—
"That's it!" I cry, grabbing my purse and rummaging through it. I pull out my travel-size can of hair spray and check the label. Flammable. Avoid heat, fire, and smoking during use until sprayed hair is fully dry. Thank goodness I refused to listen to all the environmentalists at work who ragged on me for not switching to the pump kind.
"What is that?" Lancelot asks, walking over to check out the can.
I smile broadly. "Lancelot, my dear, meet Aqua Net. Savior of Camelot."
Chapter 22
You'd think there's a carnival in town, the World Series taking place, or Elvis performing live from beyond the grave, the way people have turned out for the burning. I mean, this has got to be bigger than Kate Middleton marrying Prince William. Everyone who's anyone—and some who aren't—have all dressed in their queen-burning best and have made the trip to Camelot. It's sick—really sick, if you ask me, which of course no one has.
The courtyard is filled, the pyre piled high; they could probably burn a dragon with the amount of wood they've stacked. Talk about overkill. And Mordred's front and center, looking as eager as a little kid ready to toast marshmallows when the coals get hot. Everyone else is milling about, talking excitedly. If they lived in the twenty-
first century they'd be total rubbernecking ambulance chasers.
Arthur sits on a makeshift throne, high on a platform above the courtyard, flanked by his knights and Merlin. Even from down here I can see he's trying to compose himself, to keep the illusion of being in power. But there's no doubt in anyone's mind who's running the show: the little bastard Mordred, giving orders down on the ground. He's acting like a celebrity, basking in all the attention from the ignorant peasants.
Trumpets sound. It's starting. My quickening pulse throbs under my wrists. Will this work? It has to. There's no plan B.
Cheers and jeers erupt as Guenevere is led into the courtyard, dressed in a simple shift dress. Her golden hair hangs tangled over her pale face. Her hands are bound in front of her, and I can tell she's finding it difficult to keep her balance as the guards escort her to the stack of wood—her intended grave.
She stops in front of me, shooting me a desperate look with her heartbreaking eyes. "Kat," she whispers. "I am sorry I could not help you. Maybe Nimue ..."
I'm awestruck. Here she is, moments away from what she believes will be her last breath, and she's still concerned about me. My heart lurches, and I want to reach out to hug her, whisper the plan in her ear, tell her not to worry, that I would never let her die. But the guard shoves her forward, causing her to fall onto her knees. Then he roughly grabs her by the arm and yanks her to her feet.
"Get up, ye filthy whore!"
His brutality toward the sweet, innocent girl pisses me off, and as the man pushes by me I can't help but stick out my foot to trip him. He falls flat on his face, causing several bystanders to snicker. Scrambling to his feet and whirling around, red-faced, he tries to figure out who's to blame, but I'm already making my way through the crowd. He's lucky I have to keep a low profile, or I would have so kicked his ass.
I head to the outer gates to deal with the guards, balancing a pewter cup of mead in my hand. I can't believe they even had the nerve to open up a medieval-style concession stand. If they had the technology, they'd probably be selling souvenir cups and "My Grandma went to Guenevere's execution and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” paraphernalia.
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 28