One Perfect Knight

by Judith O'Brien

  She was about to say yes, absolutely, of course she would believe. But he stopped her.

  "Let me phrase this in a different manner," he explained in an avuncular tone. "Imagine if I appeared in your own chamber, wherever that may be."

  In her mind, she saw her bedroom in Manhattan, the dresser and the carpet and the drapes open to the city skyline.

  "Now," he continued, "what would you think if a man in strange clothing suddenly appeared and claimed to be from, let us say, fifteen hundred years in the past? What would you do, Lady Julia?"

  She could see it now, standing in her room and seeing a man dressed as a medieval knight step from nowhere.

  "I suppose I would have called 911," she admitted. "I would probably call for help."

  "Would you assume the person was perhaps ill?"

  "Yes," she said softly.

  "Or that perhaps that person might wish to do you harm?"

  "Well… I see your point, Sir Lancelot. But please, I'm not crazy or out to hurt you. I'm as confused as you are over this whole thing."

  "I doubt it," he mumbled. "Well, I do not believe we will be able to resolve anything at the present time. Perhaps you'll be able to recall your past after a hearty meal."

  "But I do remember where I'm from. It's just that you refuse to believe me."

  He ignored her statement. "Come. Let us go to the banquet, Lady Julia. I shall be pleased to attend with you, for you are ..:" He seemed to be grasping for the right words. "Tonight you must be…"

  What would he say? That she was beautiful? Elegant? Perfection itself?

  "You are my third cousin once removed," he said in triumph.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Well, how else can I explain your appearance?"

  "What do you mean, my appearance?" She touched her hair, the softness. Was he blind?

  "Your being here," he said gruffly. "I have to say something. Well" he grinned, crooking his arm"shall we?"

  "I… well." She hesitated. "Sir Lancelot, don't you notice anything different about me? Not just the clothes."

  With a frown, he surveyed her from the top of her head, slowly down her entire length. Then, with equal languor, he traveled from her slippers to her head once again.

  "I was right. Absolutely right." He nodded.

  "Yes?"

  "The other gown would have been too small for you." He brushed his hands together. "Shall we?"

  "Oh, damn." She shook her head with a small smile. "Might as well. I don't suppose you brought me a corsage.

  "A what?"

  "Never mind." She took his arm, and they descended a narrow, winding staircase.

  "You are exquisite," he whispered from just behind her ear.

  She had been busy gathering the folds of the gown. "Pardon me?" She looked into his eyes, and he smiled.

  "I just said watch the step." He nodded forward.

  "Oh. Thanks."

  And he touched the small of her back as they made their way to the ground floor.

  There was a large room with Persian carpets and a heavy cupboard with glittering gold plate on display, but before she had a chance really to survey the furniture, they had stepped outside.

  At once she was enveloped by sights and sounds and fragrances of such extraordinary magnificence she felt certain she had fallen into some wondrous dream. Lancelot smiled at her reaction, the response of all newcomers to the place.

  She spun to gape at the rosebushes that framed the doorway they had just passed through.

  "They're blue! Blue roses!"

  "I know they are," he replied, walking over a beautifully arched footbridge. Below was a sparkling creek with strange flora and rainbow fauna nodding with the current. A green and yellow fish with red fins jumped over a rock.

  "That fish! Did you see it? It looked like something from the Disney studios!"

  Casually, he glanced at the stream, just in time to see another fish, this one turquoise and purple, leap after the first fish.

  "Yes, Lady Julia. Those are indeed fish."

  Her mouth remained open, and with the tip of a finger he touched her chin gently to close it. Yet her eyes maintained the expression of such pure astonishment that at last he chuckled.

  "I see myself in your eyes," he said, guiding her past a marble fountain that was running with wine and surrounded by blossoms of impossible freshness and beauty. Another fountain offered fruit nectars, and there was even one for cool water.

  "I never imagined such a place could exist," she breathed.

  It was true. Camelot made the rest of the world seem hopelessly dowdy.

  They walked through the streets of a great walled city, the late-afternoon sun glowing with yellow warmth in a cloudless blue sky. Birds flew about, dotting the horizon with fabulous colors and songs unlike any she had ever heard, exotic yet familiar, as if fantasy had become reality. Vast buildings were set apart, constructed from the same pink stone as the walls, all twinkling as if made from diamond chips. The pavement was of the same stone, and it, too, glimmered underfoot.

  There was no dirt, other than the patches of rich soil from which spectacular flowers rose as tall as small trees, with blooms of such astonishing colors-reds blindingly brilliant, oranges so vibrant they glowed, and, again, the blues, royal and peacock and deep blues-she felt her eyes squint at the unaccustomed beauty of the sight. It was as if the color intensity had been turned up by some unseen twist of a knob. Everything was bigger and brighter and just better than anyplace else.

  The people themselves were no less magnificent. The clothing was simply cut, really no more than welltailored tunics, the women's dresses buffed the glimmering pavement, the men wore the same thigh-high boots and shorter tunics that Lancelot wore, in equally dazzling shades. The fabrics themselves were exquisite, shimmering with every movement.

  The attire almost overshadowed the people, but not quite. For in the faces of the people she saw such hope and joy and contentment, pure happiness that made every feature on every person shine.

  Horses trotted by, pulling carts made of fine wood or carrying a lady or a gentleman or a laughing child. Yet there was no manure, not a single bit in sight.

  "There's no horse manure," she stated, turning to Lancelot, who had just accepted a perfect red apple from a smiling vendor. There were vendors everywhere, with a staggering array of foods, steaming hot bread and elaborately decorated cakes, every sort of roasted meat imaginable, fruits and vegetables, from tropical mangos to roasted corn dipped in butter.

  But no one paid. The vendors were simply handing out the marvelous food, their fee apparently nothing more than a smile and a nod.

  "Of course, there is no manure. The horses go only outside the gates, beyond where today's tournament was held." He bit into the apple, a trickle of the juice running down his chin.

  "You mean the horses are toilet-trained?"

  He laughed. "Not exactly, Lady Julia. They prefer to do that sort of thing away from the city."

  "I don't understand. Isn't it natural for them just to go as they walk?"

  "Not in Camelot. They instinctively know." He shrugged. "The king has a saying, one I think can be understood only after a visit to Camelot."

  "Let me guess," she began. "The streets are so clean, you can eat off them?"

  "No." He held his face toward the sun, and Julie just stared at him, at the way the light played off his shoulder-length black hair, the way his very skin seemed to glow with vitality. Then he looked down at her with utter seriousness. "The king says we in Camelot have rendered the rest of the world obsolete."

  Julie was about to speak out about the sheer folly of such a statement, when she glanced around her, at the people, at the gardens that seemed to thrive on every corner. She realized it was not a statement of arrogance or caprice. It was simply a statement of truth.

  "Oh," was the snappiest reply she could manage. Lancelot seemed to understand, and he laughed.

  Julie looked up at the expanse of the castle, holding on
to his arm and the strength it offered.

  "How can the castle defend itself?" She knew enough of medieval life to notice the distinctive lack of any fortification. Then, even as she spoke, she realized she was not in the Middle Ages, nor was she in the Renaissance or any other time identifiable from her own paltry store of knowledge.

  This was Camelot, a place as timeless as it was strange, as foreign as it was familiar. Simply Camelot.

  "The castle does not need to defend itself," Lancelot explained. "That is why I am here, and the other sworn knights." He paused, staring up at the castle. "Should an enemy ever get this far, it would be too late. We would have already failed."

  A question suddenly occurred to Julie. "You've asked me this already, so now it's my turn. Why are you here, Sir Lancelot?"

  "Because there is to be a banquet tonight."

  "No, I mean here, in Camelot. What made you decide to leave your home and risk everything to be here?"

  Lancelot glanced at her, his head tilted slightly as if viewing from a different angle might help clarify the question and the thoughts that led to it. He paused, then sat down on the edge of a wine fountain. Patting the space next to him, he urged Julie to settle as well.

  The reflection of the deeper blue of his tunic made his eyes darker as well, from cornflower to sapphire. His leggings and high boots were black, the same midnight shade as his hair and eyebrows.

  "Unlike you, I know the answer." His voice was probing, firm. "But first, Lady Julia, why do you imagine you are here? Perhaps we both came to Camelot for the same reasons."

  Julie paused, not certain how to answer. Why was she there? Then it came to her, the most logical and crazy response of all: the truth. "I really don't know exactly. But maybe it's because I've believed in Camelot all my life. I just failed to realize it. In the back of my mind, it has always been here, always existed, although the reality is far better than I could have imagined. I went about my life feeling half empty, only half satisfied-like wearing only one glove on a cold day. Something was missing. And then, suddenly, here I am. I really don't know much more than that, Sir Lancelot. Just here I am."

  Lancelot was staring at her with his Crayolacolored eyes. And she met his gaze with her own, watching as an almost silver beam of recognition seemed to light his stare from behind.

  "It was precisely like that with me," he began. "I do not recall much of life before I arrived here as a young man. I do remember dirt and mud and sickness and hunger. I remember a woman, not my mother but a woman with whom I must have been in love. Yet if that had been the case, I would have recalled her more fully-she wouldn't be just an image in the mist, impossible to reach. She must have been a dream."

  He stared straight ahead for a moment. Then, as if startled back to the present, he continued, his voice again solid and certain. "Those things I do remember. But they fade with every day I remain in Camelot. And I think we are both here for the very same reason, Lady Julia. The same reason children dream of Camelot, the same reason men great and small know the story of this place."

  "What reason is that?" She could barely speak.

  "Because we believe in Camelot."

  He took a deep breath and continued. "We believed in its existence when others told us it was myth. In our hearts, we knew it to be a true and just place, which is what everyone knows. But we also believed, emphatically and even against all evidence to the contrary, that Camelot is a real place. And thus, we are here. We are here because we believe."

  Julie nodded, understanding that his words were absolutely true. Inexplicable, perhaps, but true.

  "Does that mean you've come to the conclusion that I'm probably not a threat to you or to Camelot?"

  Instead of answering, he simply shrugged. His face was again unreadable, and she realized he was still not sure of her intentions. And his mistrust hurt her. For some reason, she wanted his trust, longed to have him look at her without the unmistakable alertness that never seemed to leave his expression.

  Lancelot rose to his feet and gestured with a nod toward the castle. "Come. I'm hungry."

  A light breeze blew a fragrance of sweet wine from the fountain and fresh flowers. The air itself was delicious.

  With one glance over her shoulder at the splendor of Camelot, Julie and her knight entered the castle. As she stepped through the wide, arched doorway, her automatic reaction was to tighten her grasp on Lancelot.

  "Wow," she murmured.

  She glanced up at the ceiling, so very high she could barely see the paintings on the top. The interior of the castle was even more sumptuous than the exterior, but by then her senses had all but gone numb. There was only so much splendor she could take in at one time.

  And then they were in the Great Hall.

  It was like a massive Technicolor dream, in a spectacular, larger-than-life setting. The long tables were laden with every food imaginable, and a few beyond even the powers of fantasy. Large joints of roasted meats, steaming platters heaped with glistening vegetables, ornately embellished pastries and cakes, all resting upon lush tapestries and gold-embroidered cloths.

  And the people, the citizens of Camelot. They, too, were more vivid than ordinary folks. They seemed to glow with health and joy, all of them, no matter what their age or gender or position in the kingdom.

  Lancelot guided her to a chair,- and she settled with relief. They were up front, with a view of the entire hall.

  "I will return shortly," he said softly. "Remember, should anyone inquire, you are a distant relative of mine." Then he left.

  She needed the time to herself As if in a dame, she simply watched the swirl of activity around her.

  She was really there, in Camelot, she told herself once again. It had become almost a chant, a mantra to grasp and hold, like a prayer.

  Camelot. She wracked her mind trying to recall any details she could regarding the place.

  In junior high school, she had read and savored all the mystical novels by science-fiction writers and the Victorian epic poems. Yet the specifics that had so entranced her at thirteen eluded her as an adult. All she could recall was the tale of young Arthur, of his meeting with Merlin, being tutored and schooled and trained by his mentor, and his eventual triumph as the mighty and wise king. From there, the myth branched out into many versions. Every land seemed to have its own interpretation, variations to suit each country and each regional taste. The French Arthur was more romantic and passionate, the German more disciplined. Lancelot was either a victim of Guinevere's treachery or a faithless playboy. But the gist was always the same: Arthur wooed and won the beautiful Guinevere. They married and became paragons of virtue. Then a knight arrived, a man as mysterious and virtuous as he was handsome and dashing.

  And the young Guinevere, alas nothing but a weak female after all, fell in love with Sir Lancelot. And something was rotten in the state of Camelot.

  From that moment on, the magic of Camelot turned into mud. Again, the legend was open to all sorts of renditions, but one thing was constant. The affair, whether it was pure or lustful, destroyed the kingdom and its people.

  Julie took a deep breath, wondering what point in the scenario they were up to at the present time.

  How much time was left for this enchanted land? How many more days until the fragile enchantment was broken forever?

  Hundreds of people were dining at the banquet. Colorful cloths covered the tables, banners hung overhead with magnificent tapestries over the fireplaces. It should have been unbearably warm in the Great Hall, but it was perfect, just perfect.

  So she took a deep breath and continued to survey the hall, the wonders that were in every corner to savor and enjoy, just there for the asking.

  Thus far, the king and queen had not yet appeared. Lancelot had explained that they would arrive later. They did not want to interfere with their subjects' comfort in any way, and so they delayed their own entry into the hall until the thirst and hunger of the masses had been slaked.

  Then there was
a trumpet blast. It did not sound like a normal trumpet its tones were deeper and richer, more velvet and mellow. As one, everyone in the hall stood up, Julie a mere beat behind the rest.

  And into the hall, to thunderous applause, walked King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.

  Julie had seen, on television, the impact of a president on his people. She had heard the strains of "Hail to the Chief' and watched as the press corps or administrative assistants dutifully sprang to their feet and applauded. This was different.

  Unlike the reception offered to a head of state, even royalty, this was more like the unrestrained acclaim after a once-in-a-lifetime theatrical performance, the opening night of Olivier as Hamlet, or the first startling performance of Oklahoma! or Brando and Tandy in A Streetcar Named Desire. This was the way it must have been the night a young Leonard Bernstein took the baton from an aging maestro. This was the Beatles on Ed Sullivan.

  This was nothing short of unfettered adoration.

  She could see them clearly now. By his side was a tall woman, slender and graceful as a dancer. When she turned, Julie could see a face not of great beauty but of tremendous character. She, too, was younger than expected. Upon watching her smile and touch hands, speak quietly with a woman with a child and then caress the child's bare head, Julie revised her original opinion.

  Guinevere was beautiful.

  Hers was not a cookie-cutter beauty or a trendy look that goes in and out of style with the change in hemlines. Queen Guinevere possessed a loveliness that dwarfed mere prettiness. There was a glow about her, an aura. And then her face lit up with recognition. A warm smile turned her fine lips. She extended her hand.

  And Lancelot, Julie's Lancelot, received that hand with reverence and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. Slowly, he turned her hand and pressed his lips to her wrist.

  Julie glanced around her to see if others were as stunned as she was, but no one else seemed to notice. Perhaps that was a typical greeting in Camelot. Perhaps, as someone new, she was simply unaware of the custom. But from the queen's furious blush of pleasure to the intensity in Lancelot's eyes, Julie doubted it very much.