by Webb, Peggy
"Win, Dragon," Lydia said, not knowing that he faced the best, that he was not supposed to win, that Lancelot had been chosen to wear Guinevere's colors because he was favored in the match.
Fired by love and determination, Dragon took his end of the field. Lance lowered, he thundered toward his opponent.
Heavy clash of wood against metal. Horses sidestepping, retreating, charging. The roar of the crowd. Intense heat. Sun beating down on coats of mail. Blinding sweat.
Flash of red. Lydia standing, cheering.
Dragon thrust. Lancelot almost came unseated. Dragon wheeled, charged again. But Lancelot proved why he was called the best. The force of his blow knocked Dragon sideways, and he saw the ground coming up to meet his face. Without the heavy armor he could easily have pulled himself back onto his horse, but weighted by metal it took superhuman effort, a strength he didn't even know he possessed, to regain his seat.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. They'd never seen a joust with two such determined, skillful opponents.
Again and again Lancelot and Dragon charged. The horses began to tire. Lancelot was more skilled, but Dragon had more stamina. He waited, feinted, sidestepped, waiting for fatigue to take its toll on Lancelot.
When he sensed the moment, Dragon charged, full tilt, target in view.
Lancelot tumbled. Astonished but delighted, King Arthur rose, cheering. Stunned, Guinevere sat beside him, her approval grudging and halfhearted. But it was Lydia who claimed Dragon's attention. She jumped up and down with excitement, and in her exuberance she turned to hug Percival, then Galahad.
Heads turned. Eyebrows lifted. A chill ran along Dragon's spine. He shouldn't have brought her. He should have left her safe in his castle where the oddity of her behavior was accepted because of Dragon.
In Camelot Lydia was a target. The least departure from the norm marked her. Dragon knew of only one way to protect her.
Casting aside lance and helmet, he spurred his stallion toward the stands, leaned down, and scooped Lydia up. Holding her in front of him like a trophy, he paraded the length of the field.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Protocol demanded that he present himself to the king and the future queen. Protocol demanded that Guinevere take her colors from Lancelot and give them to Dragon, the winner of the joust.
Knights who broke the codes of chivalry were subject to public disgrace ... or worse. Cowardice or misconduct could lead to having their swords and spurs broken, and banishment forever from the Round Table. If they were lucky. If they weren't sentenced to death.
Head high, Dragon continued his outrageous parade.
"Why is everybody so quiet?" Lydia said.
"I'll explain later." If he had a chance. If he wasn't hauled directly off to the dungeon.
Lancelot had removed his helmet and stood watching, astounded. In the deadly silence, the hoofbeats of Dragon's horse sounded like thunder and the clanking of his heavy armor sounded like the tolling of the bell atop the abbey.
It was Arthur himself who broke the silence. He rose from his throne and came onto the field, smiling.
"Well done, my boy." He shook Dragon's hand, then bowed before Lydia. "I want to meet the young woman who has turned the head of my most steadfast knight." His eyes twinkled when he smiled. "Some would say my stodgiest."
Dragon slid down and presented Lydia to the king. Though he hadn't schooled her, she executed a perfect curtsy. Relief flooded Dragon, and suddenly he felt not only the weight of his armor but of his position. Lydia would bear part of that weight by association.
For the remainder of their stay, she would have to be extremely careful. No more mistakes. Not even the smallest one.
The next time Arthur might not be around to grant mercy.
"I can see why Dragon lost his head." Arthur kissed Lydia's hand. "May I request the honor of your presence at my table tomorrow evening?"
"With pleasure, my lord," Lydia said.
The crowd roared their delight when Arthur personally escorted Dragon and Lydia back to the king's box, proving once again why he was beloved by all of Camelot. King Arthur not only had wisdom and vision, but he had a generous and loving heart.
Something inside Dragon righted. His ploy had worked. By breaking codes of knightly conduct, he'd deflected attention away from Lydia.
o0o
"What did I do wrong?"
"It wasn't your fault. It was mine. I should have let Lancelot win."
Dragon and Lydia were in the king's castle, in the bedchamber assigned to Dragon. He'd risked his reputation and hers by stealing through the cavernous halls and whisking her back under cover of darkness in the disguise of a monk.
The alternative posed an even greater risk: leaving her alone for the night and risking exposure of Lydia. One small mistake could do it, one word, one action. A chambermaid could tell, a squire, another guest, one of Guinevere's ladies-in-waiting.
Dragon slid the hood from her head and cupped her face. "I let pride get in the way, Lydia. I wanted to win, for you."
She pressed her lips against his, and her kiss was full of fire and passion, the kind of kiss that incited, inflamed. Dragon crushed her against his chest, reluctant to let go, wanting more, needing more.
She reached for the laces on his tunic, but he stayed her hand.
"Not now. First we must talk."
"Later?" Her stance was provocative, her manner teasing.
He kissed her again, long and hard. "Later. You have my word."
He didn't remove her monk's robe, didn't dare. Her body would distract him. Instead he sat beside her on the bed holding her hand.
"You were not ready for a public appearance. I didn't take the time to coach you. I should have left you in the castle with Laird where you would be safe."
Fear came into her eyes, and he regretted his choice of words. But better she be fearful and careful than foolhardy and endangered.
"I'm trying so hard to blend in. Tell me, Dragon. What did I do wrong?"
"Only wenches of a certain reputation openly display affection for strange men in public."
"You mean my hugging Percival and Galahad branded me a harlot?"
"If you had not been in the box with the knights and their ladies, your actions would certainly have been interpreted that way. Being there gave you a certain immunity. Besides, Galahad has a reputation, himself."
"I'm not sure I like this century." She slid her hands inside his tunic. "Maybe I'll go back to my own."
Her touch electrified him, and he was suddenly light-years away from reason. Emotion clogged his throat as surely as it fogged his brain. And with his love came the fear that was never far from his mind: Could fate snatch her away as capriciously as it had sent her?
She'd said she knew the secret of her journey through time, but could she be certain?
"Don't say that." His lips in her hair, his hands cradling her head. "Don't even think it. You might tempt the Fates."
She shivered. "I don't want to tempt the Fates. I'd die if I lost you." With one of the sudden transformations he had come to know so well, she leaned back and favored him with a beguilingly wicked look "There's one other thing I have to say."
"Say it. Not that you need my permission."
They both laughed. "If you have something else to tell me, you're going to have to say it from your side of the bed."
He pressed closer, teasing her, taunting himself, testing himself. "Why is that?"
"Because if you keep touching me, I'm going to rip your clothes off and do something naughty if not downright sinful, considering which century I'm living in."
Her words were a stark reminder to Dragon of the important business at hand. There was so little time and so much to tell. He strode to the window, stared out at the sleeping city.
Could he keep Lydia safe? He couldn't afford doubts. Lydia needed his confidence to gird herself for the days ahead.
"Lydia, you're the most intelligent woman I've ever met. I know you
can blend in. I'm going to keep you by my side as much as possible, and when you're on your own, squelch your exuberance and your natural curiosity. Keep as quiet as possible. Watch the other women and imitate them, their mannerisms, their actions. Catherine, in particular. Sir Charles's wife. I'll point her out tomorrow."
She nodded. It was a good start. Already she was practicing discreet silence.
But would it work? Would it be enough? It would take days to train her, and even then he couldn't possibly predict every situation.
"In the tournament today you rooted openly for me when Lancelot was the one wearing the future queen's colors."
"You ought to see me at baseball games. I throw my hat in the air." He smiled at the picture she painted. "Besides that, you wore my colors and I wanted you to win. Wouldn't I have looked like a traitor if I hadn't rooted for you?"
"Yes. But you do it discreetly so that no one notices, particularly the future queen. The games are in her honor. You follow her lead."
"Did you see her face when she gave Lancelot her colors?"
"I saw nothing except an approachable, lively woman who appears to be a good match for King Arthur. It seems he has chosen wisely."
"She's in love with Lancelot."
Hair along the back of his neck stood up, and he gripped Lydia's shoulders.
"You must not tell the future. You must not."
"I didn't tell the future. I told something that any woman in love could see. It was written plainly on her face. Surely you noticed."
Dragon had attributed Guinevere's attentiveness to Lancelot to affection for her future subjects. Arthur obviously did, as well.
Lydia's shoulders slumped. "I thought if you knew, just that little bit, you could change things."
"Merlin warned against it."
Lydia sprang from the bed and paced the floor, then finally stood with her back to him, her head cradled in her arms on the stone windowsill. He stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders.
"Lydia, I didn't mean to be harsh."
She turned slowly, then wrapped her arms tightly around him. "What could be worse than what's in store for Camelot?"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There was music and laughter and dancing. The Maypole, bedecked with flowers and ribbons, was at the center of all activity. Pretty young girls in bright silk dresses danced around the pole while troubadours roved the crowd singing of the brave exploits of the knights of Camelot.
If Lydia closed her eyes, she could imagine herself back in the twentieth century at an elaborate garden party celebrating the marriage of close friends. But she was too full of happiness to close her eyes. She didn't want to miss a single moment, a single word, a single glance. Dragon was by her side, tall and gorgeous.
Sometimes she had to pinch herself to believe that all this was real, that she was actually in Camelot, in love with a knight. Not merely in love, but planning to spend the rest of her life with him, planning to marry and have children and grow old together.
In spite of what lay ahead.
She longed to tell Dragon, to prepare him for the future, but the previous night he had stopped her with a kiss.
"No more," he'd whispered. "No more talk of the future."
He had taken her to his bed, spread her upon the silk sheets, and covered her with his body. An old- fashioned term, cover. Altogether appropriate for him. There was such intensity about him, such presence that loving him was not merely an act of passion but a total surrender. He didn't merely enter her, he possessed her. She felt him with her whole body, as if he were part of her muscle and bone, part of her skin.
Her body thrilled to him, sang with the knowledge of him. It had always been like that between them, even in the stables when he'd called their lovemaking nothing more than a bargain.
He was erotic, lusty, insatiable. When the first blush of morning appeared he held her softly, his face against her hair.
"I must take you back."
"I don't want to go."
"I will come again for you tonight."
"Promise?"
"A knight doesn't need to promise. His word is his bond."
Garbed once more in the monk's dark brown habit, she'd held tightly to his hand while he whisked her along the still deserted halls. In her bedchamber he'd held her close, and for reasons more than passion she hadn't wanted to let him go.
Icy fingers gripped her heart, and she whispered, "What would you do if I begged you to stay?"
"I would stay." He cupped her face. "Don't you know that, Lydia? Whatever you ask of me, I would do."
She was tempted to beg, so tempted. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him softly on the lips.
"Go now. Quickly, before I change my mind."
o0o
In broad daylight with the sun shining on the Maypole and the dancers swirling around her, it was easy to forget the things she knew about the future, easy to narrow her vision, to focus only on Dragon and her love for him.
"Come, Lydia." Elizabeth, the young woman Percival had escorted to the Maypole took her hand. "Let's dance."
Lydia looked at Dragon for guidance, and he nodded. The previous night he'd told her of the ritual, that all the young maidens would dance in hopes of attracting the amorous attention of a young swain. And after all the dancing and singing, after the pole was completely wrapped in ribbon, a May Queen and King would be chosen.
Smiling, Lydia grabbed the end of a red ribbon, lifted her skirts, and began to frolic around the pole, oblivious to the raised eyebrows and the outright scowls of some of the nearby matrons. Caught in a tide of chattering young women, she swirled around, happy with the day, happy with the moment.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dragon move in close. She smiled and waved. Why wasn't he smiling?
As she came closer she saw the direction of his gaze, saw him mouth the words, "Your skirt." Chagrined, she glanced at the other dancers. Sedate and proper, they danced with skirts sweeping the ground. Not a single one of them had lifted a skirt. Not only had she lifted her skirt to remove all possibility of tripping, but she'd revealed a good length of leg.
Quickly she dropped her skirts, but was it enough? Was the damage already done? The heart went out of her for dancing. Her steps slowed, faltered. The girl behind bumped into her.
Suddenly the crowd began to chant. What were they saying? Were they calling for her punishment? Lydia was too upset to know.
She felt a strong hand on her arm, felt herself being pulled out of the circle of dancers.
"Stay close beside me." Dragon held her hand in an iron grip.
"What now? What are they going to do to me?"
"Shh. This is not about you. They're calling for the queen and king of May Day."
"Guinevere . . . Guinevere . . . Guinevere." The crowd chanted. Then, "Arthur . . . Arthur . . . Arthur."
Dragon leaned close to whisper, "Chant with them."
Arthur and Guinevere appeared together over the crest of the hill, riding pure white horses bedecked with flowers, and Lydia forgot everything except the thrill of seeing two legends come to life. Arthur was every inch the beloved king, and Guinevere was more than a worthy bride—she was his equal. Regal and beautiful, she acknowledged the homage of the crowd as her just due.
"See how the future queen glows," a woman behind Lydia remarked. And it was true. But only Lydia saw the direction of Guinevere's glance. He leaned against a tree, casually, as if he were bored with May Day and all its activities. Lancelot. The man who would woo the queen and betray his king.
o0o
At the banquet that evening, Lancelot sat on the king's left, Guinevere sat on his right. And beside the future queen sat Dragon and Lydia. Torches glowed in the great banquet hall, and the table groaned under the weight of food. Arthur's three hunting dogs sat under the table close by his feet, tails thumping as the king slid tidbits to them, hunks of venison cooked slowly over a spit, small pieces of quail, bounty from the king's last hunting expedition.
&
nbsp; There were toasts and laughter and backslapping. Even Lydia came in for her share. She was replete with food, more than a little tipsy on mead, and groggy from the smoke that came from the torches.
Dragon reached for her hand under the table.
"It will be over soon," he said. Then, "You're doing fine."
And she was. She'd made no major mistakes since the early-morning dance around the Maypole. If she could get through the next hour, she could relax in Dragon's arms.
What disguise would he bring for her tonight? A nun's habit? A priest's garb?
Lancelot stood, glass uplifted. "To the future queen of Camelot," he said. "Fair Guinevere."
His gaze touched hers briefly, and Dragon's hand tightened on Lydia's. Had he seen the look Lancelot and Guinevere exchanged? It was filled with pure longing.
Lydia wouldn't think about that now. She was too tired. Her eyes were stinging from smoke, and she desperately needed to remove her contacts. She discreetly rubbed her eyes, then joined in the cheers that followed Lancelot's toast.
"And to the king," Dragon added, lifting his glass. "Our beloved Arthur."
"Hear, hear." Percival, sitting next to Lydia, stomped and clapped and yelled, then slapped her on the back.
To her horror her left contact became airborne. It popped out of her eye, sailed across the platter of venison, and landed in Lady Catherine's plate.
There was so much noise and general confusion that nobody noticed until Lady Catherine and Sir Charles sounded the alarm. She screamed, and he plucked the bright blue lens out of his wife's plate, then held it aloft.
"An eye!" he yelled. "It's Lydia's eye."
Lydia watched, frozen, as word spread down the length of the banquet table. "Lydia tossed her eye into Lady Catherine's plate."
Amidst the confusion Dragon leaned close, his face thunderous, his voice urgent.
"Take the other one out and hand it to me." She hesitated. "Now. Quickly. Be discreet."