One Perfect Knight

by Judith O'Brien

  "At last you wake."

  She turned, and there he was to her left, the suit of armor. Only now he was a man in a blue tunic, seated in an ornately carved highback chair. On his legs were leather boots that covered his knees, and one ankle was crossed over the thigh of the other leg.

  He was as undeniably handsome as she remembered.

  "Oh. It's you." Running a hand through her tangled hair, she was unable to take her eyes from him. Charisma, she thought. That's what he had. A movie star quality that made him impossible to ignore.

  Another thought occured to her. What had happened while she slept? One glance down at her blouse and jeans reassured her that she was still fully clothed. Only the bib was missing.

  "Okay," she said, hoping her head would stop aching. "What's going on here?"

  "That is precisely what I wish to ask of you, George." He emphasized her name with a slight snarl.

  "Hey, don't you dare put this on me. One moment I was in a restaurant in New Jersey, the next I was target practice for someone who thinks he's a charter member of the Round Table. Please tell me, who are you, and where am I?"

  "Come now. You know the answer."

  "No, I don't! Don't you see, I really have no idea what is happening to me." She was close to tears, and he stared at her for a few moments, as if judging whether she was really upset or simply acting.

  "Very well. I am Lancelot. And you, as you must surely know, are in Camelot."

  "Oh, please. I'm really not up for this kind of…"

  "And I must ask a similar question of you." He overlapped her response. "Who are you? And where do you come from?"

  He remained absolutely motionless as he awaited her answer.

  "All right," she sighed. "My name is Julie Gaffney, and I live in New York City."

  "You are from York?" He seemed momentarily confused. "Your accent is most peculiar."

  "Well, originally I'm from the Midwest, so I don't have a New York accent." With a grin, as if sharing a joke, she continued, "Your accent is strange, too. I thought you were supposed to be from France. You know, Lancelot du Lac, or whatever."

  His blue eyes narrowed. "You do know who I am, then. You claimed ignorance, yet you know who I am."

  "You're too modest. Everyone knows who Lancelot is, even in New York."

  "I am known in York?" That seemed to please him. "But no, I am not from France. Those in Camelot have a singular sense of geography. They assume anyplace that is not Camelot must be in France."

  "Rather xenophobic of them, no?"

  Again, his eyes narrowed as he watched her. "Well… yes. Of course." Then he leaned forward, both feet shifting to the floor. "So why did the citizens of York send a woman to pose as my squire?"

  Instinctively, she reached for where her bib had been, and felt her cheeks redden.

  "You are too modest." He smiled at her discomfort and then, in a casual tone, he added, "Why are you here?"

  Still mortified, she shook her head, trying to get the image of him discovering her gender from her mind." I… In all honesty , I don't know. Really. I was just…" Her voice trailed off as she heard a peculiar noise outside the stone room. "What was that?"

  Instead of responding, he remained still, watching her reaction.

  "That sound." Swinging her legs over the bed, she stood up, momentarily dizzy, then stepped to the window. There was a large tree obstructing her view, but the noise continued. "Horses. I hear horse hooves and carts."

  "It is market day," he said softly. She was not pretending, he realized. She was frightened.

  "Don't they have market day in York?

  "Where am I?" Her back remained toward him, but he could tell by her stiff posture that she was bracing herself for the answer.

  "I have already told you. You are in Camelot."

  She teetered just slightly on her heels, then braced her palms against the stone frame of the window.

  "What year is this?" Her voice was a bare whisper.

  "You are ill," he began.

  "What year is this!"

  "It is the year of our Lord four hundred ninety eight…"

  She did not hear what he was saying. There was a buzzing in her head as she took deep breaths, trying to steady herself, attempting to absorb the impossible information.

  Absurd facts wove into her mind. Did a place called Camelot really ever exist? She remembered a history professor in college saying that in all probability, Camelot was simply a myth used as propaganda by the royal houses of England, who all claimed blood ties with King Arthur. If there was a real King Arthur, he was probably an unusually successful Celtic chieftain sometime during the fourth or fifth century.

  "The year of our Lord four hundred ninetyeight," she repeated, closing her eyes for a moment. The sounds of a medieval village pierced her ears, and the smells as well, pungent and sweet.

  King Arthur. Camelot.

  Her professor had said that at that time, success as a chieftain was measured in an ability simply to stay alive and not be axed by a neighbor or member of your immediate family. So the historical King Arthur would have been head of an ancient, marauding tribe of near-savages.

  The man behind her, Lancelot, was no savage. Furthermore, how could she understand his language? Why did he seem to speak with only a slight English ,wcent, more mid-Atlantic than most BBC productions?

  Suddenly he was behind her, and his hand, rough and strong and warm, touched her forehead. "You do not have a fever." he concluded.

  "No," in a way she wished she did have a fever. that would explain everything "How can I understand you? You have barely any accent. . I mean, I took a Chaucer course, and even he spoke and wrote in Old English. When did Chaucer live?" She felt herself losing control, and she twirled a piece of hair. Lancelot stared at her profile, watching as she wrapped the hair around her finger.

  "Good Lord, even Chaucer is eight centuries away," she said, her eyes wide. "None of this makes sense."

  "The blow to your head did addle you. I will return with a physician." Lancelot began to leave.

  "No, wait. Please, just help me out here."

  He paused, so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body.

  "I'm losing my mind," she mumbled to herself.

  "Well, if that be the case, there are far worse places to go mad."

  "I'm serious. I don't know how this happened, why I'm here." Finally, she looked him directly in his eyes. "Doesn't this seem strange to you? Suddenly, some woman dressed in clothing that must be absolutely bizarre to you appears before your eyes?"

  "Yes. But in truth, your own confusion is reassuring."

  "Why?"

  "Because no worthy enemy would ever send such a disjointed assassin."

  At last she smiled, and he returned the smile, and a warmth seemed to encompass his features.

  "I must go," he said. "You stay here and await my return. We will discuss this matter then."

  "Where are you going?"

  "It is not a woman's concern."

  He turned and began walking to the door.

  "You can't just leave me here! I'll leave, I'm going to explore, I'm…"

  "Remaining where you are," he said matter-of factly.

  "You can't keep me here!"

  "Yes, I can," he said simply as he stepped through the door. "Because, fair one, I'm locking you in."

  With that, the door closed, and she heard the tumbling of a metal lock.

  "Good point," she muttered to herself, wrapping her arms around herself as she gazed out the window.

  "Thank you," he replied from the other side of the heavy wood door. Then she heard the distinct sound of his footsteps retreating. And in spite of herself, in utter defiance of her situation, she allowed herself a small smile.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Lancelot's long strides carried him down the corridor with his customary authority, heels clicking on the polished marble floor. Sunlight streamed in jewel-like colors through the glis
tening stained-glass windows, illuminating the smooth stone walls, shimmering and vibrant against the sparkling surfaces. The guards in their brilliant red tunics stepped aside as one to allow him to pass through the massive double door at the end of the hallway, their metal pikes remaining firmly in their grasp.

  He was the last one to arrive. The others were already standing by their designated places at the enormous Round Table.

  The forty-nine knights acknowledged his entrance with nods, and as always Lancelot felt something deep within him stir to life. It wasn't just the sense of belonging, although that was certainly a vital part of his being. Nor was it the quiet satisfaction of knowing that he, Lancelot, was the king's chosen knight, the one man called on for counsel and advice, the soldier the king selected to ride by his side in battle as well as dine with at banquets.

  No, there was something far more basic. It was an overwhelming sense that what they were doing was important, that every citizen of Camelot was living proof of man's ability to dwell in harmony, with as little as possible of the baser elements that had brought down every other great empire.

  Camelot alone was different.

  They had come from many countries and lands, this magnificent gathering at the table. They had come seeking a place where justice was revered and the good deeds of one individual were celebrated by all. They had come searching for a realm that honored human nature's best and most noble instincts, while quelling the coarser elements that threaten to taint and destroy even the strongest intentions of the most valorous human being. And, to a man, they had vowed to preserve the ideals of Camelot and its king. They almost moved and breathed and thought as one.

  Almost.

  "How kind of you to grace us with your presence, Sir Lancelot," muttered a voice so softly only Lancelot could hear the words clearly.

  He did not have to turn to ascertain the speaker.

  "Malvern," he said as both an acknowledgment and a continuation of his thoughts. Malvern seemed to possess a character that was unique in Camelot, but unfortunately not in the rest of the world.

  He was a most unlikely choice to be invited to this table. The other knights had been forced to prove themselves not only to the king but to the rest of Camelot as well. There had been tournaments to which every citizen had been invited, and careful scrutiny of each potential knight's moral and ethical judgments. The vast majority of those who attempted to join the Round Table were rejected, although most were more than pleased simply to remain in Camelot as ordinary citizens.

  But Malvern was different. His father had been a page with Arthur when they were children. When at last Arthur rose to be king, Malvern's father, then on his deathbed, had asked King Arthur to watch after his only boy. Arthur vowed to do so, and gladly. Young Malvern was soon employed as a page, then as a squire, before becoming a knight himself.

  Yet he did not fit in with the rest of the men. There was something different about him, a fleeting darkness in his eyes, an occasional display of bad humor, that made the others instinctively pull back. In short, he was not trusted with the absolute certainty the others enjoyed. And Malvern, in turn, did not trust anyone else.

  The king had not yet arrived, and the knights stood still, awaiting Arthur, some resting their fingertips upon the rich wood of the immense table, unconsciously feeling the solid might of the piece. It was centuries old already, this mythical table, found preserved in a bog not far from the kingdom. But it was Arthur who had insisted upon its use, upon the fairness of the shape, so that no knight was above or below another. The king himself had polished the wood, exposing the magnificent inlay and the shades of red and brown and yellow that fanned out from the table's center in triangular shapes. As the years passed, the table seemed ennobled, as if an object could absorb the strength of those who rested their hands upon its surface.

  And then the king entered.

  All of the knights straightened at the sight of Arthur.

  The king was easily the tallest man in the room, a stately bearing to him as if he had always worn a crown. On his head was a simple gold circle with a few small stones, rather than a lavish, gem-encrusted piece. His clothing was no more spectacular than anyone else's, his manner straightforward and unvarnished. His face was angular, the nose large but well shaped. A full brown beard circled his chin and jaw; not a jot of gray could be seen. He was a paradox of wisdom without great age, much younger than many who saw him for the first time expected. Still, he seemed to carry himself with a rare majesty. This was not just a man . This was a king.

  "Men," he said simply, urging them to take their seats in the carved chairs. There was the scraping of the legs against the floor, the settling of the knights, the clanking of side arms, and then silence as they awaited Arthur's words.

  The king did not sit at the Round Table. Instead, he sat by himself at a separate table, as if emphasizing both the ultimate loneliness of his position and the difference between his knights, no matter how elevated, and the king.

  After they were seated, he lowered himself into the enormous cushioned chair.

  "Now, do any of you have news of the realm?"

  He always began the regular gatherings in that way. A few of the knights nodded yes, and one by one, around the table, they spoke their news.

  "Young Carter from just beyond the walls fears he saw an army of giants approaching from the west," stated one knight. "Normally, I would not bother you with this news, Your Majesty. But Carter was my squire for a time, and he is intelligent and not at all inclined to be fanciful."

  There was a murmuring of concern, but the king merely smiled. "Young Carter? Is that not the same youth who has become betrothed to the baker's eldest daughter?"

  "Why, yes, it is, Your Majesty," said the knight.

  "When did he see this army of giants?"

  "It was the night before last."

  "Just as I thought. That evening, Young Carter was feted by his future in-laws. I believe he was, well, overserved of the wine. And you may note that to the west is where the common haystacks are piled."

  The knight's cheeks turned red. "Forgive me, Your Highness, for wasting your time…"

  "Nonsense, Sir Eliwlod. I thank you for any information you may have. You are all my ears and eyes when it comes to Camelot." He then smiled at Eliwlod, eliminating the young knight's embarrassment, and nodded to the next man with news.

  Lancelot wondered if he should mention the girl, the woman, who had come to him that morning disguised as a squire. Was it important?

  The next knight was speaking, and Lancelot rubbed his jaw, thinking about the woman. Surely a stranger in disguise who creeps within the walls of Camelot is worth discussing. Perhaps she was sent by some enemy. Maybe her purpose was to infiltrate the innermost center of Camelot.

  But he was reluctant to mention her.

  "Lancelot, have you any news?" The king was always astute, and the other knights turned to Lancelot.

  "No, Your Majesty." He smiled easily, but that masked a discomfort he felt in the pit of his stomach.

  Never before had he been less than forthcoming in front of the King and his brother knights. It was more than unpleasant, and a stab of anger at the young woman caused him to clench a hand beneath the table.

  Another knight continued, but the king's eyes remained for a few moments on Lancelot.

  Should he need to mention the stranger, Lancelot reasoned to himself, he would certainly do so. He was simply sparing the king's precious time.

  The meeting continued as usual. At the conclusion, King Arthur motioned for Lancelot. It was not an extraordinary request. Often Arthur would seek out Lancelot for his opinion or expertise on certain matters.

  "Lancelot," the king began as the others filed from the chamber.

  Malvern stalled, making himself the last one out, able to hear what transpired between the king and Lancelot.

  "Your Majesty." Lancelot stepped closer. "What may I do to help you?"

  "Well, it is not myself I am
concerned about." The king placed a hand on Lancelot's shoulder, and as they spoke, the two became oblivious to the presence of Malvern.

  Lancelot's brow creased slightly as he listened to Arthur. "I don't know what you mean," he said simply.

  "It's you, Lancelot. I'm worried about you."

  Before he could respond, the king held up a hand. "Listen to me, please. Hear me out before you answer.

  Lancelot nodded, and the king continued. "It is not that I am displeased with your service as a knight. Nothing could be further from the truth. As always, you are the most skilled of any knight, and my most trusted. It is your personal life that concerns me."

  "My personal life?"

  "Yes. It seems to me that there is a certain aimlessness at your core. Only I notice it now, but I believe that in time that sense of drifting will encompass you and perhaps lessen your strength both spiritually and bodily."

  "I honestly don't understand, Your Majesty."

  "This concerns me, Lancelot, mainly because I myself have experienced the same feeling. At one time, I, too, began to feel a futility in my daily life, as if I were performing my duty well enough, but deep down in my soul I did not know why. There seemed to be no purpose to my life. I struggled by day to make the lives of others run smoothly, and I struggled by night wondering why I felt so empty."

  "And why was that?"

  "It was so simple, I almost laughed. In fact, I did, and still do when I recall my ailment. Lancelot, you need a woman."

  Lancelot was about to speak when Arthur again bade him to be silent. "No, I don't mean just any woman. I am aware of how my knights spend their idle hours, and I know that you have not been wanting in quantity. But that is not the same thing, Lancelot. Not at all. And at times I believe a large variety is what exacerbates the feeling of loneliness. What you need is someone special, someone who can both soothe your soul and excite your senses at the same time. Someone who anticipates your needs, and someone in turn for you to need. In short, you require a Guinevere."

  Lancelot thought for a moment, pondering what his king had just said. "Your Majesty, nothing would give me more pleasure than to find a woman such as the one you just described. And add to that beauty and intelligence, and I see only one problem with what you have just said."