One Perfect Knight

by Judith O'Brien

  "Under your bed?"

  "Well, I'll wrap it up in something soft. It's just that in this town, anything of value should be hidden-or taken out of this town."

  He remained silent, merely raising an eyebrow as he handed her the legendary sword. She wrapped it in her one extra quilt and shoved it alongside mismatched shoe boxes and her old Barbie dolls. She returned to find him staring out the window.

  The view of the Manhattan skyline was usually thought of as a decorating element itself: It filled the length of the apartment, splendidly framed by her lavish curtains. Most people were drawn to the window and commented on how lucky she was to have such a spectacular view. But now she was seeing it as he must be.

  She wanted to explain that this had nothing to do with Julie. These were the trappings of success in New York City. This was not what she really wanted, not what she had aspired to as a child. Nor did anything before them define her values and dreams. It all seemed so unfamiliar and alien.

  And so very different from Camelot.

  "Where shall I sleep?" His voice was strangely flat, as if he had just discovered something unpleasant about a person he cared for.

  "Um, on the couch?"

  Her fancy bedroom, complete with the unmade canopy bed and designer chintz wallpaper, was visible from where he stood. She had hoped he would just assume he was sleeping there, with her. But that was too much to ask, especially tonight, after all he had been through. In time, maybe, he would grow comfortable with his new surroundings. Perhaps in time.

  He sat gingerly on the couch, staring straight ahead for a few moments. Then, with great effort, he pulled off his boots and stretched out. Julie scooted a pillow under his head, and he closed his eyes. She tucked a throw blanket around him, but he was too long, and his feet stuck out at the end.

  She took the blanket from her own bed and returned to the couch, and that barely covered his entire length. After clicking off the lamp, she stared down at him in the dim light.

  There was so much she wanted to say, so many things they had to talk about. Now was not the time.

  "Good night," she said softly as she watched his chest rise and fall. She thought he was already asleep and had turned to go to bed when she heard him reply.

  "Good night."

  Julie Gaffney, lately known as the Crone of Camelot, did not anticipate a good night. Not at all.

  At exactly three-fifteen, according to her brightly blinking digital dock, Julie realized she would not get any more sleep. It was her usual pattern-open-eyed panic about her job, guaranteed to ensure emotional instability fueled by caffeine the next day.

  In the semi-darkness of a city that never allowed complete blackness, she saw the number tumble to three-sixteen before switching on the bedside lamp.

  The light, fitful sleep she had managed had been full of nightmarish images, of Malvern and the danger to Lancelot and the terrible expression on Arthur's face.

  She sat up and punched her pillow. "And I'm not a crone," she whispered angrily. The Crone of Camelot, indeed. She slipped the brutally beaten pillow behind the small of her back and crossed her arms.

  There was no sound from the living room. She hoped that Lancelot was in a deep, restful sleep. He certainly needed one.

  Sure, he was in the wrong century, in a foreign land, with no way to rectify the wrongs that had destroyed an entire kingdom. But then, he did not have a major advertising campaign to present in the morning.

  A familiar sense of panic began to overtake her, all the more awful because after the life-and-death struggle she had just witnessed in Camelot, intellectually she felt wrong to care about something as ultimately meaningless as an ad campaign for an all-purpose cleanser. Still, back in her own bed, surrounded by her own reality, it was difficult to focus on the lofty ideals of fifteen hundred years in the past.

  What was she going to do? In a few short hours, she'd be in front of the clients with nothing to offer but a ripping yarn as an excuse.

  As quietly as possible, careful not to disturb Lancelot, she slid open the drawer next to her bed and pulled out a legal pad and a red pen-her favorite writing combo to bring out creative ideas. She took off the pen cap and tapped the point against the paper, making patterns with the dots. The digital clock flipped and flipped as the minutes passed, and all she had was a yellow pad filled with dots and doodles.

  Clearly, the creative ideas were not willing to be coaxed.

  "Damn," she mumbled.

  Maybe a glass of water would do the trick. Not bathroom water. Never bathroom water, so inferior to kitchen water.

  And by going into the kitchen, of course, she could sneak a look at Lancelot. Not that checking on Lancelot was her main objective. It's just that it was impossible to get kitchen water without actually visiting the kitchen. Via the living room.

  She stepped over to her closet, where her two bathrobes were hanging, the comfy terry one with frayed sleeves and a coffee stain down the front and the peachy pink one. Silk, with lovely beige lace insets.

  The peach won out, simply because it was lighter. That was the only reason.

  As softly as possible, she crept barefoot down the hallway and into the living room. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dark, and she coughed lightly, just lightly. Not that she wanted to wake him, of course. There was no movement from him.

  Another soft cough, although ever so slightly louder, seemed to emerge of its own free will.

  "Yes, Lady Julia. I am awake."

  "Oh, sorry. Did I disturb you? Didn't mean to."

  She heard him fumbling. "I can't light this lamp," he muttered.

  "No problem." With a flick of the wall switch, the room was illuminated.

  In triumph, she turned to him, and the smile left her face. He was sitting bare-chested on her couch, his expression one of such sadness that she was startled. She walked over and sat down beside him, careful not to touch his leg or arm, although she very much wanted to.

  "Are you all right?" The question seemed ridiculous.

  "I am unable to do anything here," he stated. "Unable even to light a lantern. Useless. Utterly useless."

  "That's not true."

  "You know very well it is." Although his words were emphatic, his manner was calm. "I am a man from another century. My life should be over. But here I am. Useless. Utterly useless." Then he turned to her. "Forgive me," he said softly.

  "Forgive you?"

  "Now I understand how you must have felt in Camelot. So out of place. So very different."

  She placed her hand on his shoulder. "But that's just it. I really didn't feel that out of place in Camelot. I don't know why, but after the initial shock of being there, it was all beginning to make sense. It's just that…" Her voice broke off, and she shook her head.

  "Continue. Please continue."

  "Maybe it's because I had an idea of what to expect from Camelot, once I realized that's where I was. I've read books, seen movies, always heard about the legend of Camelot. But you, for you, it's much more difficult. You're in a place you have no way of knowing about, because it is in the future. How could you anticipate anything in the twentieth century? This is a completely different place from what you could ever, in a million years, imagine. You are truly lost. Not only that, but you've been wrongly accused of some horrible, vicious crimes, with no way to clear your name. You have Excalibur here and can't return it to Arthur. Not to mention ..: "

  "Please." There was an undercurrent of anger in his tone. "Do you mind not comforting me at the moment?"

  "Oh, sorry."

  He took a deep breath and leaned his head back. Then he turned toward her. "Why are you unable to sleep? You're at home. You should be happy."

  She shrugged. "I'm nervous about work, I guess. I have a big presentation to give tomorrow and have no idea what the heck I'm going to do."

  "I see," he said in a clipped voice.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  He said nothing.

 
; "Tell me."

  "I thought perhaps the mayhem we left in Camelot would be the cause of your unease. The fact that you are viewed as a thousand-year-old hag."

  "Crone," she corrected.

  "Excuse me, crone. Or that I am an absolute villain. That Malvern is running about someplace, as evil in this time as he was in my own."

  His voice was rising as he spoke.

  "Or that we have the only hope for Camelot and the restoration of peace here, with us-Excalibur! I presumed those minor details would have plagued you."

  "Well, of course, they're bothersome."

  "Bothersome! Bothersome! Like a dog barking too early in the morning or a bit of soot in your eye!"

  "Of course not! It's just that I have a presentation tomorrow, and, well…"

  "Yes?"

  "Well, let's face it, Camelot was a long time ago, and my presentation is tomorrow."

  Immediately, she wanted to take back those words, but it was too late. She was exhausted; they had just slipped out.

  " I didn't really mean that."

  "Yes, you did. Of course you did. I'm irrelevant here, a living antiquity. An unwelcome reminder."

  "Of course you're not! It's just that I need to straighten things out here. I'm back home, and that means I have responsibilities."

  "Something, of course, I would know nothing about."

  She hugged a pillow in exasperation. "You know what? I'm not saying anything else for the rest of my life."

  He said nothing. Finally, he said, "I believe that is a good decision."

  The anger was gone. In its place was not defeat but simple fatigue.

  "Everything is so different here, in your time," he began. "I'm ignorant of even the simplest things. Staircases seem to be beyond me. How to light a room. Me, Lancelot. I am useless, helpless."

  "No, that's not true at all." She reached for him, hesitated, then touched his shoulder. "No. You're the best of men, the most noble. You've always been," she murmured against his arm, which she was now grasping.

  "I've always been… continue," he urged.

  As she spoke the words, she realized the truth. "You've always been my ideal, my dream."

  He closed his eyes, then clasped her hand tightly. "You, Lady Julia, are the only person on the face of this earth who believes in me."

  Their hands entwined, she stared at his fingers, hers, where one began and the other ended, and in spite of the vast difference in the size and the texture of their skin, it was almost impossible to tell.

  "The funny thing is," she said, almost hypnotized by their hands, "I have always believed in you-even before I met you."

  Time seemed to stop as they sat in long silence.

  "You should go to sleep," he murmured.

  "So should you."

  Closing her eyes, she decided to say what she had been thinking, preparing herself for the probable answer. "Would you like to come into my room?"

  "Yes."

  "What was that?"

  "I said yes. I would very much like to come into your room."

  Rising, she turned and pulled him to his feet, and they walked slowly, her arm around his waist, his arm over her shoulder, pressing her close to his side.

  In her bedroom, she slipped under the sheets first, and he followed, causing the bed to creak. Carefully, she reached for him, more to comfort than for anything else.

  They lay very still together, falling into the rhythms of each other. She touched his face, her palm caressing the planes and angles, and gently, very gently, she pressed her lips against his cheek.

  He moved, and his mouth covered hers, and suddenly the notion of simply comforting each other vanished. What began as a light kiss deepened, and he rolled on top of her, his weight heavy and reassuring. His mouth left hers and traveled down her neck, leaving a trail of warmth searing its path. She gasped, and her back arched. He slid his hand beneath her, pressing her closer to his mouth.

  Her hands clutched at his bare back, and with a single motion, he pulled her nightgown off and tossed it aside. Her breathing was shallow, and she felt a warm tightening in her lower body. Her hands were in his hair, alternating between combing it with her fingers and twisting it. Just the feel of his soft locks was sensual to her, sending tremors up her arms. And in an instant they were joined together. And at that moment, their world was every bit as glorious as it was in Camelot. Afterward, they lay exhausted, the sheets tangled around their legs and the cool night air drying the moisture on their skin. Her head lay on his chest, and his breathing began to even. As he held her close, she felt him smile in the darkness.

  "What's so funny?" She returned the smile.

  "It's good to know that some things have not changed. And perhaps, just maybe, I'm not so utterly useless after all."

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  Morning arrived.

  Julie luxuriated in bed for a moment, Lancelot still asleep. With his eyes closed, his face so restful against the pillow, he looked so very young. But that was deceptive, for when she looked closer, she saw threads of gray in his hair and lines fanning from the corners of his eyes.

  It had not been her imagination the day before when she had noticed something different in his features. Nor had the change been a result of the sudden trauma of finding himself in another place and time.

  Lancelot was, indeed, growing older at a rapid pace.

  She touched his hair, and he stirred but did not wake.

  And then she glanced at the clock. It was just after seven. Next to the clock was the legal pad filled with little red dots, the extent of her work, all there was of the presentation she had to give in a matter of hours, minutes really.

  "No," she groaned, hopping off the bed and grabbing clothes-any clothes. All she could think about in the shower was the presentation.

  Of course, there had been times in her career when she had been unprepared. But never, absolutely never, had she arrived at a major client meeting with nothing except a legal pad filled with red dots.

  She went through her morning routine with mounting panic.

  And still, Lancelot slept. That was the one good thing about the morning, she thought. At least Lancelot was getting his much-needed rest.

  Tearing off a piece of paper, she wrote him a note and placed it on the pillow.

  Dear, dear Lancelot,

  I'm at work. Make yourself comfortable while I'm away, and help yourself to anything in the apartment. But please, please do not leave here until we can go over a few things…

  Love, the Crone

  She smiled, rereading the note. And then, the unwelcome reality of her day hit her with full force as she grabbed her briefcase and her dotted legal pad and left a slumbering, naked Lancelot to face a battalion of humorless cleanser manufacturers and her advertising colleagues.

  Sometimes life was just plain unfair.

  "Gentlemen." Julie smiled as they filed into hey office.

  In the two hours between arriving at her office and this dreadful moment, Julie-the wunderkind of brilliant, last-minute ad pitches—had indeed been productive. There were now seven pages of red dots instead of only one.

  No one else at Stickney & Brush knew how bad things were. Everyone, from the pathetically confident art director to the naively cheerful assistant account executive, assumed that Julie would manage to produce a viable idea. There was something sad about their happily expectant faces, she reflected. They were eagerly chatting with one another, digging into the boxes of doughnuts she had requested, and filling coffee cups. Well, at least they would get something from this meeting, if only a free breakfast.

  They really had no idea, poor saps.

  One by one, they grew silent and glanced up at their leader. Julie stood alone, hands braced against the front of her desk. She had a sudden urge to ask for a blindfold,

  "Well," she began. "Please. There are more doughnuts for everyone. Lots more. And for those of you trying to cut down, here's a bag of doughnut holes."
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br />   There was a round of good-humored chuckles. "Anyone for a jelly-filled?"

  There were a few more chuckles, a few head shakes. The president of Shine-All had an upper lip coated with powdered sugar.

  "Welcome to my office," she began. "I hope you all had good weekends. Mr. Swenson? Oh, great! Yep. Well, I myself took a little side trip. Anyone else go away this weekend? Yes, David! Where did you go?"

  The assistant in the art department shrugged uncomfortably. "Um, I went to my parents' place."

  "How great! Where is that again, David? I know we've talked about it lots of times."

  "Pennsylvania. Just outside Philadelphia."

  "Oh, that's terrific. I'll bet you had a fabulous weekend, eh? Those great pretzels, cheese steaks. No wonder you look so rested. Must have been one boffo time!"

  "Not really."

  "Why not?"

  "I was there for my aunt's funeral."

  There was a thundering silence. "I'm sorry, David. I hope… oh, no. Please, here's a tissue."

  She reached behind and handed him a fistful of tissues, and he sobbed quietly into them. Finally, after a loud sniff, he looked up at Julie and offered a watery smile.

  "Are you all right?" she asked, mortified at causing him pain and embarrassment.

  "I'm fine, Julie. Thanks."

  "Okay," she said with false cheerfulness. "Well. Let's see. Shine-All is a fabulous product, as we all know. Its illustrious history harks all the way back to the turn of the century, and ..:"

  Her intercom buzzed, and Julie paused and smiled apologetically. She wanted very much to kiss the intercom but resisted the urge. It was the receptionist.

  `Pardon me, Julie, but there is someone here to see you.

  "Thank you, Audrey." Julie looked at her calendar, but there were no ten o'clocks scheduled for that morning, only this meeting. "Please tell the person there must have been some mistake. This meeting has been scheduled for weeks."

  Then Julie went back to the front of her desk, this time with the legal pad.