One Perfect Knight

by Judith O'Brien

  Or was he angry at Malvern? Did he see through him?

  Malvern left the chamber as silently as possible. Uncertain. Frightened.

  It was early still. The castle was sleepy, the guards were changing posts. A young maiden-was she new?-rushed by with a silver pitcher, her face intent.

  Think, Malvern said to himself as he paced the corridor. Think.

  As he walked, he passed the king's closet. The young maiden with the pitcher must have just come from there. It was where the king usually slept, but this morning it looked untouched.

  Just one peek, Malvern promised himself Such luxury. Although the room was sparsely furnished, it was elegant, beautiful. The room of a man.

  No. Better than that. The room of a king.

  He was about to leave when something caught his eye.

  It was the sword Excalibur.

  Why was it in the king's closet? Usually, the magic sword was locked away. He had never even been alone with it, such was its power. For that sword, the mystical weapon, was the very key to Camelot.

  Arthur's own weapon. Just one closer look…

  There was a cloth resting on the hilt. Ah. That was it. The king did not sleep. Instead, he cleaned his beloved sword with that soft cloth. The jewels twinkled at Malvern, almost winking.

  What was the worth of this object? Impossible to calculate. It was precious enough for its materials. Add the sorcery, the history, Arthur's love of it… well. Only Guinevere herself was worth more to the king.

  What would he do without it? Where would the king be without Excalibur?

  Malvern did not think. He simply took the sword, wrapping it in the cloth that had been used to polish it. There was no one in the hall, and Malvern picked up his pace. Quickly. He had to get away from the castle quickly.

  Running now, he was at last outside, panting, his heart pounding with fear. He leaned against the trunk of an old tree.

  "What have I done?" His lower lip began to tremble. Think, he told himself. There must be something he could do, anything. He had to get rid of the sword. He had to…

  Then it came to him. Of course! A strange sense of calm flowed through his body and coursed through his limbs as his plan unfolded in his mind.

  It was nothing short of perfection. It was nothing short of brilliant.

  This was the key to his future. He wrapped the sword more securely, tempted to unwrap it and kiss the blessed sword.

  Not now. Soon. Very soon.

  He straightened and began to walk with a slow, deliberate pace. He knew exactly where he was going. He knew exactly what had to be done.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  The morning was glorious.

  Julie loosened the silk ribbon at the throat of the nightgown Lancelot had handed her when he led her to the room. Slipping from the bed, she spread her arms wide as if to embrace the world.

  That was exactly how she felt. The sun was full in the azure sky, there was a fragrance of spring everywhere, and never had she felt more alive.

  In the corner of the room, folded neatly on the chair, was yet another gown. How had it arrived?

  The same way Lancelot had produced both the nightgown and the green dress. The same way she herself had come to Camelot.

  The same miraculous way she had been in Lancelot's arms. Everything was a wonderful, enchanting marvel. It was all she could do to stop herself from twirling about the room in childish celebration.

  She skipped to the chair with the new dress. This one was a shade of blue that matched the sky precisely. The low, square neckline was softened by sleeves that puffed slightly before falling into graceful folds of an unexpectedly lovely yellow.

  "It's just like the sun and the sky." She sighed at the colors. Bordering the wide bell sleeves and the neckline were bands of embroidered silk. If possible, this gown was even more lovely than the green one.

  And when she tried it on, the fit was just as perfect, and the reflection in the mirror confirmed what she knew.

  But there was something else. Her complexion was glowing, first thing in the morning, with no makeup and very little sleep. And her eyes were brighter, more vivid. Had her lips always been shaped that way, with just a tint of rose? She touched her skin, then her hair, which was shiny and soft.

  It didn't matter if the changes were real or simply the product of sudden and unexpected happiness.

  She left the chamber and went down the staircase, really looking around at this place that was Lancelot's home. It was clean and simple and almost completely void of personality. There was nothing she could see that offered any hint about the character of the man who lived there.

  The house was empty, and in the main room was a trestle table laden with breads round and square. She picked up one as she glanced around the room.

  As beautiful as the day was, she was unable to forget completely the conversation with Lancelot. He did not believe her, not completely. He was not convinced she was from the future. And worse, he was only beginning to understand the danger his flirtation with Guinevere held.

  "I have to stop this," she said, tearing off a piece of the roll and eating it, only remotely aware of its delicious flavor.

  But how? How could a mere woman, the medieval equivalent of an unpaid intern, make an impact on someone like Lancelot? She had tried in earnest to speak to him, and it was a resounding failure. If only she knew someone. If only there was someone she could trust.

  Then it came to her, absurdly and clearly: Merlin.

  Although they had only spoken once, she knew that if she could express herself fully, he would understand the importance of backing up her story to Lancelot. Then all would be well. It had to be.

  She wondered how to find him. He must be around someplace. Perhaps there was a retirement home for elderly wizards. Maybe she could chant something, and he would appear in a puff of multicolored smoke. Or she could close her eyes and click her heels together.

  "I've lost my mind," she said aloud. And then she laughed, realizing that her wild thoughts were no more insane than the notion of an account executive from the Madison Avenue firm of Stickley & Brush taking a sudden, unannounced sabbatical in the kingdom of Camelot. She began to laugh harder, imagining the interoffice memo, something along the lines of "This year, Camelot. Next year, Brigadoon."

  Yep. She had definitely lost it.

  She picked up another roll and strolled outside, inhaling the sweet air and the fragrance of the strange blue roses climbing Lancelot's wall. Although there was no formal garden, no area delineated or marked as such, the whole outside seemed to be a vast, wonderfully planned landscape.

  "Hello, Lady Julia."

  It was the voice of a very young man, and she turned to see a boy of about fifteen who looked slightly familiar.

  "Oh, hello," she began. "I'm sorry. I don't seem to remember your name."

  "I know. It's confusing here. I'm Nathan."

  He had dark hair and freckles. The more she looked at him, the more familiar he seemed. Perhaps she had seen him at the banquet or walking about.

  "How are you enjoying Camelot?" Nathan asked, chomping on a handful of raspberries.

  "Very much, thank you. I have a question for you." She tried to sound as casual as possible. "Do you happen to know where Merlin lives?"

  He nodded. "Follow the footpath behind the castle. It will take you right to his home."

  "Thank you, Nathan."

  "You're welcome, Lady Julia." Then, with a bantering grin, he added, "Good day, Sir Knight."

  Automatically, she responded, "Good night, Sir Day."

  Nathan vanished into the bushes before she could say anything else. "Hey, wait a minute!"

  But he was gone.

  Was it possible? The young man seemed to be Nathan, Peg Reilly's nephew from Long Island. Only instead of being ten years old, he was at least fifteen or sixteen.

  This was absurd. More than absurd. This was insane. And the oddest thing of all was that the utterly absur
d insanity, the non sequiturs and oxymoronstaken together as a whole-made perfect sense.

  Rubbing her temples, she put it out of her mind. It was all so unbelievable, so complicated. Instead of dwelling on the lunacy of the situation, she decided to do something sensible.

  She went in search of Merlin the Magician.

  So involved was she with what she would say to Merlin and how she would act and the importance of the visit that she never saw the man who was waiting for her to leave. Hidden in the bushes, his eyes followed her every move.

  Just waiting.

  As Nathan had said, the home of Merlin was impossible to miss. In fact, Julie guessed that it was the only bona fide fixer-upper in the entire kingdom.

  She followed the footpath around the castle, noticing a peach orchard as she passed.

  She turned down a small slope, and there it was, Merlin's house. She knew it immediately, the slanted angle of the roof that seemed about to tumble over at any moment, the large chunks of missing plaster that exposed the framework of the structure. The place was a mess.

  And it was also identifiable as Merlin's by the simple sign that read "Merlin's House."

  Tripping over a loose flagstone, she approached the door, which seemed to be in danger of slipping off its hinges. Before she could reach the house, the door swung open.

  "I've been expecting you," said Merlin. "Come in, Miss Gaffney. Or do you prefer `Lady Julia'? We never did establish your choice last evening."

  "I… either. I mean, thank you."

  He was wearing the same brown robe he had worn at the banquet, unless, of course, he had several identical ones with similar stains and tears. It was disturbingly possible.

  "My, what a lovely gown you have on," he commented as she entered his home. She smiled, trying to think of how best to approach the topic of Lancelot. Should she be direct? Or perhaps begin another subject before switching?

  Then he returned her smile, with his imperfect yellowed teeth, and she felt as if she had known hire forever.

  She did not have a chance to speak first.

  "I know why you are here to see me," he explained, brushing off papers for her to sit on a redupholstered stool. The room was low-ceilinged and dark, with dust swirling in the corners and a faded parrot cackling in the corner as it threw seeds across the room. "That's Charo," he nodded toward the bird.

  "Charo?" She repeated stupidly.

  "Yes. Now, let's get to the point." His accent was definitely English, straight from the Royal Shakespeare Academy. He was more British than anyone she had ever heard outside a Noel Coward play. He continued. "You are worried about your knight. And indeed, you are quite right in being worried about him. Quite right."

  Somehow, she wasn't surprised that he knew exactly why she had come. "Yes, I am worried. I'm afraid he's going to get into trouble, big trouble."

  "Precisely."

  They stood for a few moments, looking at each other. Charo tossed some more seeds. Then Merlin brushed his palms together.

  "Well, that's that. If you'll forgive me, I have some things to do. I believe you can find your way out."

  With that pronouncement, he stepped over to an enormous desk covered with papers and oddly shaped glass beakers, some with lavalike substances bubbling over small blue flames, others filled with clear or pastel solutions. There was a large basket of feathers, and he dropped two into a blue liquid, and a small mushroom shaped cloud puffed overhead.

  "Excuse me?" Julie asked.

  Merlin jumped. "Oh, yes?"

  "Can we talk a little more?"

  "No need, no need. You'll figure it out, my dear. It will all come to you."

  "How can you be sure?"

  He did not respond, stooped over his desk. He slipped a pair of strange-looking glasses over his rounded nose, the sort of glasses she had seen in practical joke shops, with spirals for lenses. Yet he was working intently, as if the glasses really helped.

  "Why am I here, Merlin?"

  He did not look up, and she was about to ask the question again when he answered. "You're here because you want information from me. Quite simple."

  "No, I mean why am I here, in Camelot?"

  Slowly, he raised his head, then removed the glasses, blinking a few times before he spoke. "The answer is within you, my dear. It's always been there. You just can't understand it yet."

  She thought of the night before, of the time with Lancelot. What was happening to her? What was happening between them?

  And what if she found herself forced from Camelot just as mysteriously and swiftly as she had arrived?

  "Please, Merlin. You alone can help me persuade Lancelot to proceed with caution. He doesn't believe he's in such serious danger. Not with the queen, not with anyone."

  "I'm afraid he'll find out rather soon, then."

  "But if you come with me, and explain where and when I'm from and that the warnings I am giving are not the product of an addled mind, we have a chance of saving him, of saving Camelot!"

  "The product of an addled mind, you said? Interesting concept, my dear. I don't believe I've ever thought of myself as addled, although perhaps you are not alone in your assessment of my situation. Thus, I thank you."

  Julie was again perplexed by his words but decided to press on. "So will you help me?"

  Again he blinked. "Help you with what?"

  "Help me explain to Lancelot why I am here!"

  "And why is that?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Why are you here?"

  "To ask you about Lancelot!"

  "No, no. I mean, why are you in Camelot?"

  It was all she could do to keep herself from throwing her arms up in exasperation. "That's what I'd love to know!"

  "Indeed? Well, then that's certainly something to ponder."

  "Do you know why I'm here, in Camelot? Is it for me or for Lancelot? Or is there another reason?"

  His thin lips curved slightly into the ghost of a smile. Gone was the scatterbrained magician, and Julie very nearly stepped back from the sense of power he suddenly seemed to exude.

  "I know the answers to all of your questions, Lady Julia. Now you must find the answers for yourself: That is the only way."

  Fragmented images swirled in her mind like photographs strewn on a floor. She saw her hand resting on Lancelot's arm, the expression on his face when it was so close to hers she could feel him. The images dissolved into feelings, the way his skin felt against hers, his breath against her ear, then the tumultuous emotions, and she swallowed hard and looked back at Merlin.

  "You know the answers, my dear. You just need to discover the questions."

  Then he returned to his desk, slipped the glasses back over his eyes, and began working once more. She had been dismissed, with more questions than she had entered with.

  "Thank you," she said weakly. "Um, I'll just let myself out."

  Charo screeched and threw part of her perch as Julie backed away. A bleeping sound began, like a telephone ringing, but she barely noticed. Outside the day was still magnificent, although she was oblivious.

  For as wonderful as Camelot was, she was beginning to realize that maybe, just maybe, Lancelot was the most remarkable thing there. He was not a man who did anything in half measures. Nothing but a full tile effort would ever be good enough, would ever satisfy Sir Lancelot.

  And it was possible that no matter what she said or did, he would continue to charge headlong into disaster.

  The instant she set foot in Lancelot's home, she knew he was there. The emptiness she had felt that morning was gone, replaced by a presence that seemed to fill every corner and permeate each square inch.

  "Julia."

  His voice washed over her like a cool breeze, invigorating, intoxicating. Then he came down the steps, and she reached behind to steady herself.

  Had there ever been such a man?

  "Hello." Her voice was as unsteady as she felt.

  "Are you unwell?"

  "No. No, I'm fine."
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  He was clad in yet another blue tunic. But this one was slightly more tailored, accentuating his form to perfection. There was something else about him, a larger-than-life quality that made him absolutely magnificent. It was a unique blend of personality and Physical appearance, strength of character mingled with strength of body.

  "Your gown is lovely." He reached out and touched her sleeve.

  "Oh, thank you," she replied lamely.

  And then he laughed, and she did as well, at the absurd tension that had somehow made them feel awkward, made her feel awkward. With that gentle sound, all of the uncertainty simply melted away.

  "There is to be another banquet tonight." His hand remained on her sleeve. "Would you wish another gown for the evening?"

  "No, no. This one is just fine. Perfect, really."

  "It is not the gown," Lancelot said softly. "It is you. You who are perfect."

  His hand slid up her arm and rested for a moment on her shoulder, then against the bare skin of her neck. It was a vulnerable spot. A man of his size and power could easily cause harm, and as his thumb stroked the column of her throat, she marveled at the feeling. For instead of fear or concern, all she felt was joy and security. No matter what, he would protect her.

  Then he frowned slightly. "The lace in the back is coming unfastened."

  "The hazards of trying to dress myself," she said lightly, then realized how it sounded. "I mean… well. You know what I mean."

  He nodded, and without hesitating, he undid the velvet lace, pulled both ends tighter, then tied it into a bow. "There." He gave a satisfied pat. "I fear I make a far better ladies' maid than you make a squire."

  "Well, that's something to consider if the Knights of the Round Table ever go out of business." The instant she said the words, she wanted to take them back, but it was too late. "Lancelot, you know I was just joking."

  "Were you?" A darkness came over his expression, as if he were suddenly in a faraway place. Then he offered a flash of a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Shall we away to the banquet?"

  "I… yes. Of course." She accepted his arm, and together they walked to the castle, small talk masking any matters of substance they carefully avoided.