One Perfect Knight

by Judith O'Brien

  She awoke to the sound of birds.

  For a long moment, she lay very still, afraid to move for fear that everything would be revealed as a dream. His heavy forearm was wrapped protectively around her waist, and his face was buried against her shoulder.

  This was real.

  The rest of Camelot could very well prove to be a hallucination, a pleasant side trip of her own hopes and desires. But everything that had passed between them had been honest and genuine. Picture-book images of a fairytale town were one thing. The emotions and caring and, yes, love they shared hours earlier had nothing to do with fantastical castles or whimsical flowers.

  No matter where they had been-Camelot or Jersey City-it would have been every bit as enchanted. Because the sorcery came not from anything on the outside. It came from them, from their very souls joining. They alone possessed the magic.

  She dosed her eyes, bathed in an inner warmth and certainty that filled her with astonishment. It was a sense of yes, of course, this is what it should have been all along. This was meant to be. And this is what it will be forever.

  No matter what happened that day or the next day or the rest of her life, she had something to treasure, something rare and magical to cherish.

  For Julie Gaffney had finally experienced the one perfect night.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Julie sat up, realizing something was wrong, rubbing her sore elbows and wondering how she had managed to sleep on a stone floor all night. Immediately, she knew the uneasy feeling she had was because she was alone, not because she was on the floor.

  "Lancelot?" She spoke softly, then repeated his name, a little louder. "Lancelot?"

  He appeared at last, dressed for the day, hair damp and looking impossibly fresh, clean, and wonderful.

  "Good morning," he nodded as he laced his tunic.

  Suddenly, she felt shy and pulled the gown up around her chin. "Good morning. Where are you going?"

  "I need to train, Lady Julia. Breakfast is on the table, and I'll be back as soon as possible." There was something distracted about his manner, a brittleness that was so in contrast with the generous warmth of the night before.

  "Oh," was all she could think of to say. Grasping the fabric of the gown, she added, "Um, I hope it goes well."

  He looked at her for a moment with a strange expression. "Thank you," he replied curtly. He started to leave but paused. "I..." he began. Then he stopped, as if thinking better of whatever he was about to say, and he left.

  "That was odd," Julie said to herself. Strange as his departure was, she felt no morning-after weirdness, that awkward sense of "What was I thinking?" when seeing him in the unforgiving sunlight. Instead, she had been just happy to see him at all, no matter how briefly, no matter that she was sitting on the floor naked and holding a rumpled gown.

  Slipping the gown over her head, she stood and went to the table, where an assortment of breads and fruits were spread, looking very much like a still life too lovely to disturb.

  But hunger won out over art, and she took a roll made out of some sort of marvelous grain. What was it about the food in Camelot? Everything tasted better there, more intense, as if even the simplest of items had been infused with extra flavor.

  The simple roll. Although it looked like any other bakery roll, the texture was different, a crispness over a glossy sheen. The fragrance was fresher, potent and grainy, and then the feel when she bit into it, her teeth sinking past the crust and into the softness that managed to be airy and chewy at the same time. There was a pot of churned butter, and she spread it on the roll wantonly. The butter, too, was different, filled with a creamy flavor she had never imagined.

  She reached for a strawberry the size of a fist, bit into it, and the sweet juices ran down her chin, sticky and sublime. The perfume of the fruit was an explosion of sensations, tart and sugary and luscious, smelling slightly of the earth and slightly of nectar.

  Camelot had raised the Continental breakfast to an art form.

  She finished her meal, enjoying every last glistening grape, each bite of honeyed melon.

  For a while, she remained where she was, seated at the table with the remains of breakfast, looking at the room, at the stone walls and the large pieces of furniture. It was really quite magnificent, in a testosteronecharged medieval knight sort of way, like an Architectural Digest spread of a film director's rustic Lake Tahoe getaway. But it needed something, and she bit her thumbnail trying to figure out what was missing.

  Then it came to her: a woman's touch. Lancelot's home was all rough edges and hard surfaces. And she grinned. That's what she would do while he was gone! She could look around for all of those little things that could soften a room, make it inviting and pleasant and just plain wonderful to enjoy.

  Funny, she thought as she stood up and cleared the table. She had never had an urge to be domestic before. The furniture in her Manhattan apartment had been bought from a showroom floor, accessories and accent pieces, carpet and ashtrays. She had just pointed to a room display, handed over her credit card, and forgotten all about decorating.

  But now she wanted to make Lancelot's house a real home. He'd be so surprised, so pleased. Or maybe he wouldn't notice a thing, being a man.

  Hands on her hips, she surveyed the room. Flowers. That's what she needed. Big vases of fresh flowers. But first, some fabric. That's what all the magazines and catalogs seem to do, drape yards and yards of fabric.

  The table. She nodded. Of course, the big table needed some fabric. But where would she get some?

  On a hunch, she went upstairs into the bedroom she knew was his. There was a massive double-door wardrobe, and she hesitated for just a moment.

  Was this the right thing to do? She wasn't snooping. She just wanted to see if there was any cloth, that's all. She threw open the door and found at least a dozen of his blue tunics. With a grin, she looked at them, the various hues, the slight differences in the material and cut.

  "Oh, Lancelot," she sighed. "You need to hit Brooks Brothers."

  She was about to close the door when she saw some cloth sticking out, preventing the hinge from working. Before shoving it back into place, she paused. Was this a bundle of cloth?

  With a yank, the whole bundle fell to the floor. "What the ..." she began, and stopped.

  Wrapped inside the cloth was a sword. Not only was it a sword, it was the most magnificent sword she had ever seen in her life, could ever even imagine. It seemed to radiate light and was studded with diamonds and sapphires and emeralds.

  And it was incredibly heavy. Yet holding it was an amazing experience, awe-inspiring and confidencebuilding at the same time.

  "Oh, no," she said aloud. "Lancelot, you've forgotten your sword." Then she smiled. He, too, must have been befuddled this morning when he left in a daze.

  Feeling like a wife chasing her husband to the train station with his forgotten lunch, she went in search of Lancelot.

  After all, how could he train properly without his sword?

  Guinevere braided her long hair slowly, gazing off into the empty space.

  What was wrong with Arthur?

  Perhaps he was ill. No, no. He would tell her of an illness. Just a fortnight ago, she had helped ease his tired muscles after a long day in the saddle.

  Maybe there was trouble at one of the borders. There was always the threat of some insurrection or other. But that did not make any sense, either. There was always a great deal of excitement when the knights heard of an uprising. And in truth, her Arthur had done such a wonderful job as king, those little skirmishes were as far between as they were insignificant.

  With a sigh, she selected a ribbon, a purple silk one. Arthur loved to see ribbons in her hair.

  There was a knock on the door.

  "Come in," she said absently.

  "Good morning, Your Highness." It was one of the new maids, a girl from up north with fresh scrubbed cheeks and freckles.

  "Good morning." The quee
n smiled. "How do you like Camelot thus far? I do hope you do not suffer from homesickness."

  "Oh, Your Majesty! I've never been so happy in all of my life! It is just wonderful, everything is just wonderful." The girl blushed, then bobbed a curtsy. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I almost forgot why I came to your chamber." Stepping closer, she handed the queen a folded parchment. "I found this outside your door. I don't know who left it, but I thought it might be important."

  "Thank you," the queen replied, taking the paper. Then she touched the young woman's hand. "And I'm so glad you like it here in Camelot."

  The woman smiled. The queen had just won over another subject, and the young woman vowed there was no better queen anyplace on the face of the earth. "Thank you, Your Majesty," she said as she backed out of the room.

  Guinevere opened the parchment: Meet me by our oak midmorning.

  She smiled. Arthur. It was at that tree that he had wooed and won her, and it had always seemed enchanted to them. The tree would work its magic, as would their love. She had not a doubt. Her sweet Arthur. And so she began to hum.

  The moment she saw Arthur at their special tree, all would be right. She just knew it.

  Lancelot could not get an image out of his mind. And as he settled with his back against the old tree, he realised that he had no desire to rid his mind of that image.

  It was, of course, a vision of Lady Julia, the way she looked that morning with the sun shining behind her, streaming through the heavy glass, bending and arching as it touched her, drenching her skin and hair in a golden glow.

  Golden. That was the word for Lady Julia. She was a golden creature.

  Yet for all of her ethereal qualities, she was still a woman, a real woman, as he had suspected all along. And as the previous evening had confirmed.

  Lady Julia. Julia. He closed his eyes, smiling at the memory.

  He didn't care that Malvern was late for their training. Malvern had suggested that tree as their meeting place, asking Lancelot to help him with some new weaponry of his secret design. And so there he was, in partial armor, lounging under an old tree. He hoped Malvern would join him soon, for the breastplates were fiercely hot and uncomfortable.

  Poor Malvern. Lancelot felt obliged to help him, the misfit knight, the one with no friends. Perhaps Malvern had truly managed to design some wonderful piece of armor. Maybe. Just maybe.

  The smile faded as the unwelcome visage of Malvern entered his mind. Lancelot was beginning to believe that Lady Julia was right about Malvern.

  And secretly, he was just beginning to acknowledge the possibility that she was, indeed, from the future. How, he didn't know. Why, he didn't know, either. But he had seen sorcery with his own eyes, had witnessed some of Merlin's spells.

  So why was Lady Julia's tale so difficult to believe?

  And then he knew the reason.

  It was because Lancelot did not want to believe she was from the future. He would rather she was just a slightly addled young woman. For if that was the case, she wouldn't vanish back into her own time.

  That was it. That was the fear that had been haunting him. And strangely, once he articulated the fear in his mind, it seemed to lose some of its power.

  He had seen the expression on her face last night, that morning. She would not leave him willingly. Of that he was sure.

  Lancelot crossed his arms, eyes still closed, and waited for Malvern's arrival.

  Malvern cleared his throat softly, waiting for just the right moment. He walked cautiously, hoping to gain the king's attention without undue clatter. That was one thing he would have to work on. He would learn to move gracefully, regally, as would befit his new status as the king's most trusted knight.

  The king did not take note of his arrival.

  Again, he cleared his throat, a little louder this time. It was vital that all went smoothly this morning. He glanced over his shoulder just to assure himself that he was, indeed, alone with his sovereign. No one else could hear what he was about to say. There could be no witnesses to give testimony later, to swear against Malvern.

  Finally, Arthur turned to him, and Malvern very nearly gasped. Never had he seen a man so altered! There were dark circles under his eyes, lines bracketing his mouth. But it was his posture that was so striking. Instead of his usual patrician-straight stance, he seemed bent just slightly, shoulders a bit rounded.

  A dangerous new thrill uncoiled in Malvern.

  What if the king became unable to rule? What if he became so incapacitated the other knights were forced to turn to the most trusted of them all?

  Malvern's own posture stiffened. It was more important than ever that he be established not only with Arthur but with the others. And soon. Because from the looks of Arthur, it was uncertain how much longer he could be a viable king.

  "I fear I have some bad news, Your Highness."

  The way the king looked up, eyes dull, listless, made Malvern fight to keep himself calm. This hadn't been in his plan, not originally. All he had wanted was to see Lancelot destroyed.

  But fortune, it seemed, had grander plans for Malvern. And who was he to turn his back on fortune?

  "Yes?" The king had been watching him. "You have news?"

  Malvern nodded. "I have reason to believe that even as we speak, the queen is meeting her lover, Lancelot, at the old oak tree."

  "The tree by the peach orchard?"

  "Yes."

  "But that is our tree. It is ours." The king seemed to be speaking only to himself, disbelieving, stunned.

  "Now it is their tree, Your Majesty."

  The King shook his head, as if to alter the news, as if to take back the words.

  "Perhaps we should go there." Malvern kept his voice silky. "Perhaps we should watch."

  "No." He wiped his mouth with the back of 1 ir, hand, distracted. "No, never. I cannot see that. I will not see."

  Malvern remained calm. He could not panic, noi now, when he was so close to everything he deserved.

  "Come with me…"

  "No!"

  This was not what he had expected. The king way losing his sensibilities too quickly, before Malvern had a chance to establish himself.

  "I may be wrong, Your Highness. If that be the case, there is no need for you to worry about Guinevere or Lancelot. No need at all. Perhaps we will be most happily proven wrong."

  "I refuse to spy on my wife."

  "Your Majesty, such a base word for finding out a truth! Maybe my sources were wrong, and…"

  "What sources? Who told you all of this, Malvern?"

  "It matters not." Malvern offered a vague, conciliatory smile.

  "Tell me!"

  He managed to keep the smile on his face. "It is someone new in your service. It really matters little."

  Arthur seemed distracted, as if unable to add dissimilar thoughts to his already burdened mind. "Let us go. Let us see what transpires under our oak tree."

  "After you, Sire." Malvern held his hand before him, offering the way.

  But Arthur paid little heed.

  Lancelot was half-asleep, the sun pleasant and clean on his face, his mind conjuring visions of Julia.

  "Sir Lancelot?"

  At once he was on his feet. "My queen." He bent over her hand, his armor clanking. "Forgive me. I was not expecting you."

  She laughed. "Oh, Lancelot! This is most humorous! You see, I received a note from Arthur to meet him here, by our tree."

  Lancelot joined in her laughter. "I'm afraid it may become rather crowded. I'm meeting Malvern here to train."

  "Malvern? Why, Sir Lancelot, I'm rather surprised. I did not know you were special friends with the Prince of Darkness."

  "Is that what you call him?" Lancelot grinned.

  "Among other things. I'm sorry, but I simply do not trust that man."

  He looked down at his queen, so lovely in the breeze, her hair tied with purple ribbons.

  And all he could think of was Julia.

  "It is most interesting you f
eel that way, Your Majesty. You are the second woman within the span of a day to offer the same opinion."

  "And would that other woman happen to be, Lady Julia?"

  Lancelot felt his face flush, and the queen placed her hand on his forearm. "How wonderful, Lancelot! Please, tell me more! I am in a mood for a tale of romance."

  "I… I don't know where to begin," he started, then laughed. "I don't know where to begin, because I have yet to figure out how it happened. One moment, my life seemed empty, and the next, well. I feel full to the point of bursting. I just don't know what the nature of the fullness is."

  "Lancelot." She stepped forward. "I'm so happy for you, so very happy indeed. You deserve joy, and the two of you seem so very right together. She is a beauty, my knight. But there is something more. I see it in her eyes, in her carriage. She's a rare one, and I am looking forward with great pleasure to knowing Lady Julia.°,

  Lancelot felt a tightening in his throat. This was what he had been searching for-not an ideal of a woman but Lady Julia. Now his life felt whole. Now he could be the knight he had always dreamed of being, the most honorable, of the very best service to his king and queen and countrymen. And all because he was no longer alone but with his Julia, his partner, his life mate. He would ask her to marry him the moment he saw her again.

  Hang Malvern! Training could wait! New weapons could rust!

  Now he was complete.

  A feeling of such perfect happiness, such pure exultation in the world, washed over him that he leaned over and kissed his queen's hand.

  "Thank you, my dear queen," he whispered. "I can only but…"

  Then there was a terrible, animal-like roar. "No!"

  Lancelot's first thought was that a wild man was about to attack the queen. In a blaze of movement, he positioned himself before her, shielding her from danger.

  He had no sword, just the breastplates, and he looked about frantically to find a weapon.

  "Arthur?" the queen asked. "Arthur!"

  And Lancelot stopped, realizing the mad thing was his own king.