Chrissie looks from me to the psychic and back again. "Maybe you shouldn't piss her off, Kat," she says in a low voice. "What if she puts a spell on you?"
I can't help but laugh at that one. "Oh, please, Chris," I whisper back. "She couldn't put a spell on a paper bag."
"That is where thou art wrong, my friend," the gypsy interjects, eavesdropping on our private conversation.
"Oh, really?" I ask in my best skeptical voice. "Then go for it. If you've got so much power, give it your best shot."
"Abu solstice Excalibur!" The woman suddenly recites her best Harry Potter-ism at the top of her lungs, following the "magic words" with a rather disturbing cackle. Thunder cracks as she waves her hands with a dramatic whoosh.
And for a moment, I'm legitimately freaked out.
Then the moment passes. I don't turn into a toad. I'm not suddenly sporting donkey ears. In fact, I'm exactly the same Katherine just-call-me-Kat Jones I was before she shouted her crazy curse. Except now perhaps a little less mad and a little more amused.
"Good try, sweetie." I pat the gypsy on her embroidered sleeve. "Maybe a few more years at Hogwarts will do the trick." I turn to Chrissie, who still looks petrified. "What now?"
"I…I think the rain has let up," she mumbles. "I want to get photos of the jousters."
Jousters, huh? As in sexy men dressed in armor and riding horses? That doesn't sound half-bad. A lot better than crazy fortune-tellers uttering curses, anyway. Determined to change my attitude and show Chrissie a good time, I amicably set the pointy hat on my head and take my photographer by the arm.
"Bring on the jousting!"
The jousting arena is at the far end of the fairground. The organizers set up bleachers on either side, kind of like a high school football field. We're a few minutes early and are able to snag front-row seats.
I steal a glance over at the end of the field, where the men are suiting up. Maybe it's due to my recent guy drought, but boy, do they look good. One in particular sports flowing black hair and a body to die for. He wears a crimson crest on his breastplate in the shape of a dragon. Yum, yum, double yum. I squint to get a better look and wish I had brought my glasses.
"The guy in the dragon armor is playing Lancelot," Chrissie informs me after glancing at her program.
"I'd be his Guenevere any day," I remark, taking in his broad shoulders and arrogant swagger. "I'm definitely digging his whole alpha-male vibe." He looks over, and I flash him a smile, then nudge Chrissie. "Get his picture."
She complies, snapping a few shots using her telephoto lens. "Wow, he looks even better up close," she murmurs. "Maybe you should go talk to him."
I laugh. "No way am I going to lower myself to knight-in-shining-armor-groupie level. Besides, I bet he's dumb as a rock. All brawn, no brains."
"You're such a snob. He could be a rocket scientist on his day off for all you know."
"Okay fine." I rip the camera from her grasp and look into the lens. Unfortunately, Lancey-boy simultaneously picks that moment to place his helmet over his head, so I don't get much of a view. "Oh well," I say, passing the camera back to Chrissie. "Guess it wasn't meant to be." I sigh dramatically. "Though I'll tell you what, something's gotta be 'meant to be' pretty soon. I'm like a born-again virgin at this point."
Chrissie giggles at my declaration. Easy for her to laugh. She's married to some Jersey-born beatnik and living a happy, hippie vegetarian existence in the Village. She met her poet in high school and has absolutely no idea what the rest of us go through trying to find a decent man in the tri-state area.
It's not that guys don't hit on me from time to time. It's only that lately there hasn't been anything worth hitting back. One would think in Manhattan there'd be cute guys up the yin-yang but no, only on Sex and the City reruns. In real life the scene is a lot more depressing.
Trumpets sound, presumably to mark the start of the tournament. Men and women dressed in silly costumes like Chrissie's scramble to find last-minute seats.
"Hear ye, hear ye!" A young man wearing a very fake gray beard, wizard cap, and star-covered gown walks into the center of the field. "Welcome, one and all, to King Arthur's Faire. I am Merlin, wizard of Camelot."
Oh, he's supposed to be Merlin, is he? I snicker, wondering who on earth did the casting for this place. First, there was the scary old bag who takes herself way too seriously and now, this teenager posing as an ancient magician.
"Today you will witness feats of wonder that will amaze and entertain. Valiant knights, brave and bold, fiercely fighting to win the favor of their lady, Queen Guenevere."
"Yeah, yeah, we get it. In the name of chivalry and all that stuff," I mumble to Chrissie. "Enough intro. Bring on the hot men on horses."
But Merlin keeps droning on, and I soon find myself drifting off, unable to concentrate on his long-winded ramblings, his voice lulling me into a strange trancelike state. My eyes blur, and I start to get dizzy. I waver a bit, almost feeling as if I'm going to faint. Odd.
I shake my head to try to wake up, get oriented.
"Are you okay?" Chrissie studies me with concerned eyes. "You look pale."
"I'm fine." The dizziness fades as quickly as it began. "Maybe I'm dehydrated or something. Too many buy-one-get-one-free margaritas last night."
"Let me get you some water." Chrissie rises from her seat and walks toward the refreshment stand. After a moment's contemplation of her extreme niceness, I turn back to the ring.
Merlin's endless speech has somehow miraculously ended, and knights on the sidelines mount their trusty steeds. As they gallop into the ring, the front row seems like it might have been a bad idea. I'm not a big fan of horses and find myself far too close to crashing hooves for comfort.
Two knights line up on either side of the field, grasping long wooden lances capped with steel tips. Each knight is covered in heavy plates of armor from head to toe, offering protection, though not much maneuverability. Even the horses wear armor over their heads, making them look like metal monsters.
A bell rings, and the horses charge, their thundering hooves echoing through my already pounding head. The knights lower their lances, each preparing to bash his weapon into the other, in an attempt to knock him off his horse.
Slam! The lances whack against the shields, splinters flying everywhere. The green-crested knight falls from his horse. He runs to the sidelines and grabs a stick with a chain and spiked metal ball on the end. I have to admit, he's pretty agile considering the fact he's in full armor. I watch as he swings the mace like it's some parade baton, guarding his space, while the blue knight, still on horseback but now wielding a sword, circles him. Gotta admit, the whole thing is rather exciting.
The green knight manages to hook his chain around the blue knight's sword and wrenches the weapon from his grasp, sending it flying. The blue knight jumps off the horse and somersaults to his blade, grabbing it mid-roll, and stands ready to face his opponent. I lean forward in my seat. I know it's all fake, but it really is a pretty good show.
Where's Chrissie? I look around. Must be a long line at the concession stand. Too bad, 'cause she's missing everything.
After much clashing and bashing of weapons, sparks flying as metal slams against metal, the blue knight succeeds in cornering the green knight, sword to his throat. The first joust is over, the blue knight victorious. High on a far platform, the woman playing Guenevere, wearing a green velour gown and heavy gold metal crown, claps and tosses daisies to honor her champion.
"Blue knight, thou art brave," Merlin declares, this time riding into the ring on a white horse. "But art thou willing to challenge the realm's most gifted sportsman? A knight above all others? I give you Lancelot!"
The crowd cheers and whistles and whoops as the red-dragon knight gallops into the ring, waving a flag with a matching crest. From the starry-eyed gazes of the other women in the audience, it's obvious I'm not the only one who finds him hot.
The blue knight accepts the challenge, mounting his horse
and acquiring a new lance from his squire. Another helper hands Lancelot his lance, and they line up, ready to charge.
At that moment, pain stabs behind my eyes, and my vision blurs again, right as the two men are set to run. I want to watch, but instead I'm forced to squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to get rid of the dizziness. The roar of the crowd only makes it worse. I press my fingers against my temples and try to stand. The pain is nearly unbearable. I've got to find Chrissie.
Once I'm on my feet, nausea overtakes me, and I stumble forward, not sure whether I'll throw up or faint. I close my eyes, willing myself to stay conscious. What is wrong with me? All I can think of is the gypsy curse. Her words: Thou wilt surely die this day!
But that's stupid. This is just a major coincidence. I've got a migraine. I'm not dying. I take a few more steps to clear my head.
"Get back!" a man yells, and I open my eyes, only to realize he's talking to me. In my delirious walk I've somehow wandered halfway onto the field, right as the jousters have come together for their first run. Suddenly a huge chunk of wood—splintered from one of the lances—flies through the air like a javelin, directly toward my head. I put up my arms to cover my face, but I'm too late. The lance hits me square in the forehead, and I see stars, then blackness.
"Milady?"
A sexy, deep voice prompts me to open my eyes. I'm lying on my back on the ground, staring up at the most gorgeous blue eyes I have ever seen. I mean, lots of people have blue eyes, but this particular pair is the color of sapphires, sparkling in the sunshine. Mmmm.
"How do you fare?" the man asks. His calloused fingertips brush against my forehead as he lifts a wisp of hair from my face. The sensation sends a shiver down to my toes. I drop my gaze and notice the Adonis is wearing a suit of armor with a red dragon crest emblazoned on it. Ah, the guy playing Lancelot. His medieval garb looks a lot more real close up. My very own knight in shining armor. Maybe this whole getting-hit-on-the-head thing could work out in my favor after all. If only it didn't hurt so much.
I force my focus away from those eyes to better assess my current situation. I try to sit, but a stabbing pain at the back of my head causes me to rethink that notion. I lay my head back down and moan. That flying wood must have hit me harder than I thought. Just great. I'm a real damsel in distress now.
"Ow," I cry, closing my eyes in agony. "My head kills. I think I might need a doctor."
"Page, send for Lord Merlin immediately," a concerned female voice commands in a bad British accent. I open my eyes. Behind the blue-eyed man stands a petite blonde woman wearing an authentic-looking purple silk gown and a sparkly tiara. Probably the one playing Guenevere, though I could have sworn she was wearing a different outfit before.
But never mind her. I turn back to my hero, Lancelot. Chrissie was right—he does look a lot cuter up close. His long black hair, blowing in the slight breeze, makes my stomach do flip-flops, despite my headache.
Where is Chrissie, anyway? I try to turn my head to get a better look at my surroundings, but the pain proves too great.
"Rest, lady. The Lord Merlin will attend to your wounds shortly," insists the woman.
I frown. What's this about Merlin? Don't they have a first-aid tent or something? I'm certainly not getting medical treatment from the fifteen-year-old who introduced the jousting.
"Hey," I protest. "I don't want to be treated by some kid." Then again, maybe they have two guys playing Merlin today. One who in his spare time serves as an NYC EMT, hopefully?
"I am not sure what you speak of, lady," the Guenevere wannabe says, furrowing her brow. "Lord Merlin is certainly no baby goat. He is the most powerful druid in all of Camelot and well versed in the ways of magic."
"Goat? What are you talking about? Oh, I get it. Kid. Goat. You're still doing the role-playing thing." These people really take this stuff way too seriously. You'd think it'd be all fun and games until someone loses an eye—or gets hit in the head with a flying lance. I hope they have good insurance, because if I've sustained any serious injuries, I am so suing this place.
"Could we cut the medieval crap for one second?" I ask, starting to get annoyed. "I'm hurt. I need a doctor. A real one, not a magic one. Maybe even an ambulance." I scan the crowd. No reaction, only blank stares. The Lancelot guy has risen, and I see him whispering with Guenevere.
I fumble for my purse and manage to pull out my cell phone. Screw them. I'm calling 9-1-1 myself.
No reception. I forgot we're out in the boonies. They must not even have cell phone towers here. My day is getting better and better. I close my eyes, succumbing to my fate, at least until Chrissie returns. Voices whisper furiously around me, perhaps assuming I'm unconscious and unable to hear.
"Where did she come from?"
"Out of thin air, I should think."
"She is dressed more like man than woman."
"What would Bishop Mallory say?"
"Could she be one of the fae folk, caught between the worlds?"
"Don't be daft. She is as human as you or I."
"Then with what strange talk does she go on about?"
"Perhaps she's mad?"
Sick of the conversation, I open one eye, then the other. A crowd of medieval-garbed folk has gathered around me. I check for any non-freaks but don't see a single normal-looking soul. Just great.
"Can we go back to the twenty-first century for, like, one minute so I can get help?" I suggest, the pain in my head throbbing. "Then you can go on with your little fantasy world?"
They stare at me as if I'm the village idiot. "Aye, it definitely appears she may be addled," whispers Guenevere to Lance. "Poor child."
I open my mouth to protest, but suddenly the sea of people parts, and an ancient man with a long gray beard and a gnarled cane approaches me. Is this the Merlin guy they were talking about? Well, at least he's not fifteen. Maybe they have different Merlins, like Disney has different Mickeys. I hope this one isn't as crazy as everyone else seems to be.
He studies me with an odd look in his piercing green eyes. "Where did this woman come from?" Okay, not a good sign.
"She appeared from nowhere," Lancelot informs him, evidently not ready to take the blame for his lance's wayward actions.
"Actually," I interrupt, "I was hanging quite nicely on the sidelines when his big lance thing splintered and came flying at my head." No need to admit to my walking out onto the field, in case of future lawsuit. Had I signed any kind of waiver? I hope not.
Lancelot's eyes narrow. He reaches beside him and picks up his lance. Not a splinter on it. Running his hand up and down the smooth shaft, he says, "I know not what the lady is going on about, sire. But she was hit by no lance. As I said before, she appeared out of nowhere, already bleeding when she collapsed on the field."
My face heats in anger. "That's such a lie. You're only saying that so you won't get sued." I meet Merlin's eyes. Will he believe me? "He probably did a lance switcheroo while I was out cold." What a jerk that Lancelot guy is. Forget the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing, the beautiful blue eyes. Underneath it all, he's exactly like the rest of the sorry male race—from Mars!
"Hmm." Merlin's eyes fall on my abandoned cell phone. He reaches down and picks it up, turning it over and around in his fingers, a look of wonder and surprise clearly written on his face. He presses a button. The responding beep makes him jump a little, dropping the mobile on the hard ground.
"Do you mind? That's a four-hundred-dollar phone," I protest, to no avail. The old man's clawlike hands grab the handset off the ground and stuff it into his robe's pocket. "Hey! That's mine. You can't—"
"What is the trouble here?" a rich baritone voice demands. The crowd parts again, this time also bowing their heads in reverence. A blond, bearded man, probably in his mid-thirties, dressed in red robes and wearing a large golden crown, approaches. He looks down at me and then to Merlin with questioning eyes.
Merlin shoots me a suspicious glare, then turns back to the crowned man with a sly smile. "We
've caught an intruder, Your Majesty. A spy from another land."
"Oh, give me a break," I moan, unable to take much more. I'm in pain—physically and mentally at this point. All I want to do is go back to Connecticut. Where the hell is Chrissie?
"She certainly does not have the voice of one born in Camelot," the king guy agrees, though his tone is cautious. "And her clothing is very strange indeed."
"She is not a spy, Arthur," Guenevere pipes in. "She is just a girl. I will admit she may be a bit odd. Perhaps simple—or mad, even. But I think not—"
"Spies can come in all shapes and forms, Your Majesty," Merlin interrupts. "You cannot be too careful these days. Many outside the civilized lands of Camelot wish to do you harm. What better plan than to send in an innocent-looking girl to win your heart and gain your trust, all the while feeding back your intimate secrets to her barbarian Saxon lover?"
Oh, yeah, whatever, loser. I can tell Guen doesn't like the guy either, from the dirty look she shoots him behind his back. Not that Arthur notices. It's obvious he respects Merlin's opinion more than that of his wife. Men. If he's acting anything like the real Arthur did, well, it's no wonder Guenny ends up finding love in the arms of Lancelot.
"Indeed, we should practice caution," Arthur admits. "Lord Merlin, what do you suggest we do with her?"
"Take me to a hospital. Please!" I beg, starting to get a little worried at this point. Blood's been trickling from the gash in my forehead for at least ten minutes now, and I'm feeling more than a little faint. The throbbing pain at the back of my head hasn't let up either. I might have a concussion. And they're all standing around, acting! It's like a nightmare, but I can't wake up. "Chrissie!" I call, a lump forming in my throat. Don't cry, Kat. Don't let these losers see you cry. "Chrissie, please help!"
But Chrissie is nowhere to be found. The only answer I get to my calls is from Merlin, who folds his arms across his chest, a smug expression on his wrinkled face. "I think we should lock the infidel in the tower."
Friends ForNever Page 19
