"That's lamb, right?" I let out a sigh. "Fine. Sure. Lamb." Normally I have sympathy for "bah, bah, black sheep," but I think I'm going to starve to death at this point, and the lamb stew sounds like the least horrible dish on the menu.
"Very well." Lance stands and walks over to the door, knocking once. The guy who brought the bread and beer peeks his orange mop inside. "John, bring Lady Katherine a bowl of the mutton stew immediately." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "And some spiced wine to wash it down."
Wine? Now we're talking. Though maybe I shouldn't have any. After all, if I ever get out of here, I've got to drive all the way back to Connecticut. And as they say: if you booze and you cruise, you lose.
I lie on my side, propping my head up with my hand, and wonder how long it will be before the man returns. The bread stares back at me. I roll onto my back and study the carb-free ceiling to avoid looking at it. Protein will be here shortly, I tell my stomach.
I feel eyes on me, and I sit up. Lancelot is still in the room, watching me with frank interest.
"What?" I demand, uncomfortable at being stared at.
"You are quite beautiful," he says matter-of-factly.
"Please. I bet you say that to all the damsels," I quip, trying to act cool while my traitorous heart is banging against my rib cage. I gotta get him out of here, and fast. "Don't you have something else you could be doing rather than hanging here with me?" What was it that medieval people did in their spare time? "Any dragons that need slaying, perhaps?"
Lancelot laughs and flops down on the bed, too close for comfort. "Silly girl. Dragons exist only in tales to scare children and entertain kings," he says as if speaking to a dim-witted five-year-old. "They are creatures of songs and romances, but certainly not real as you or I."
"Dude," I say, not quite getting his logic, "if we're talking reality here, how about the fact that Camelot was only a legend, too? I mean, I don't want to burst your delusional medieval bubble, but most historians think Camelot was no more than a rustic hill fort. King Arthur—if he existed at all—was probably this tribal chieftain in a.d. 500—way earlier than chivalry, knights in shining armor, glamorous castles, and all that shit."
To my chagrin, Lancelot chuckles. "You are an odd one, for certain."
I narrow my eyes. "Pot, meet kettle.”
"I ask you, then," the knight continues, not listening to me. "If Camelot is a fantasy, then what castle do we inhabit at this very moment?"
"How do I really know this is a castle?" I demand, getting angry. "For all I know we're in the basement of the Poughkeepsie Rotary Club."
"I do not know of what you speak, lady, but I can assure you this is indeed a castle—the very best castle in all the land, home of the mighty King Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, high king of Britain."
"Fine. If this is really a castle, I dare you to get me out of here and show—"
The stupid servant picks this inopportune moment to return with my food. After taking the tray from him, Lancelot brings it over to the bed and sets it on the side table. I take a look. Lest I harbor the vain hope of being free of carbs altogether, the stew sits swaddled in a bread bowl. But I'm pretty sure I can eat around it. I grab the wooden spoon and dig in, trying to dodge the globules of fat that float on the surface. The meat is disgustingly salty, tough, and way too garlicky, but I'm too hungry at this point to care. The wine's not half-bad, though. I suck down the cupful, my insides warming.
"You know," I say, my mouth regrettably full (a bad habit I've never been able to break), "you seem like an all-right guy, Lance. Cute, too. So why the medieval obsession? I mean, don't you ever get the urge to go live a normal life? Go out drinking with friends, meet a girl, play the stock market?"
Shaking his head, he pretends not to comprehend my words. Then, leaning over, he traces the corner of my mouth with his finger, his touch sending an unwilling shiver tripping down my spine. He pulls his hand away, and I can see he's removed brown stew sauce from my lips. And here I thought he was being romantic. How embarrassing.
"Don't you guys believe in napkins? Or are those yet to be invented?"
"You're not a Saxon spy, are you?" he asks softly, his husky voice effectively changing the subject.
"Funny, no, I'm not. I'm just an innocent girl who got hit in the head with a lance and then kidnapped by psychopaths whose grip on reality is in serious need of some superglue."
He looks at me with pity written on his face. "I am sorry for the way they treat you," he says. "You are far too beautiful to be locked away."
Hope surges through me. "So let me free," I beg. "They'll never know it was you. Leave the door unlocked when you leave, and I'll be on my merry way." I put on my best pleading expression, the one I used back in college with bouncers who questioned my very fake ID. I bat my lashes for effect, hoping it's not overkill. "Pretty please with a cherry on top?"
Before he can answer, the door opens and the woman playing Guenevere enters. Great. There goes my one chance at freedom.
"How is she?" Guenevere asks, her voice wrought with concern. I give her a once-over. She's changed into a crimson velvet gown with fur trim, a long golden sash tied around her waist. Her blond hair is restrained behind some kind of black-netted cap. Up close I realize she can't be older than twenty. They must get college kids to do the acting for these things.
"Better, I think." Lancelot rises from the bed and walks over to the queen, giving her a slight bow before continuing in a low, but audible voice. "She's still a bit incoherent. Babbles on about the strangest things. But if this is madness she suffers from, I have seen nothing like it before."
"Poor child," Guenevere coos, approaching the bed— like I need her pity. And who's she calling a child anyway? I’m at least as old as she is, if not older. "Lancelot, leave us. I would like to talk to the lady alone."
No, Lance, don't leave! But, of course, he does. Gotta follow the queen's orders and all, I suppose. As he exits, he looks back, his generous mouth quirked up in a shy smile.
"Till we meet again, my lady Kat."
"Meow," I reply smugly. A shameless flirtation, I know, and one I've overused throughout my teens and early twenties. But I've yet to meet a guy who doesn't go all crazy over it. Hey, if you've got a name like mine, you might as well use it for all it's worth.
I turn to Guenevere and realize she has some kind of clothing in her hand. Not my designer duds, unfortunately.
"Lady, I apologize for the treatment you have undergone at the hands of the barbaric men who run this castle. They know nothing of a woman's needs."
She hands the garments to me. To my surprise and delight I find my cute little Kate Spade purse hidden underneath the clothing. I look up at Guen in astonishment. She smiles, putting a finger to her lips to indicate I should keep the bag return on the down low. "I have picked out a gown for you from my own wardrobe. I do hope you find it comfortable."
I pick through the articles of clothing. There's a shift dress, like the one I'm wearing, but this one is made of much softer linen like material. There's also a royal-blue, ankle-length tunic with amazingly detailed embroidery and tiny jewels seeded into the fabric.
"Where'd you get this?" I ask, examining it closely, suddenly the fashion editor again. I trace my finger over the perfect little flowers, songbirds, and butterflies with ruby antenna, all stitched into the sleeves and neckline. What craftsmanship!
"The dress itself was sewn by one of my ladies-in-waiting," she explains. "The embroidery is mine."
"You know, I'm a fashion editor at La Style." I look up. "And we're doing a spread on medieval clothing. I’d love to feature this dress."
Gotta give the woman credit; she's a good actress. Not one flicker of recognition crosses her face when I mention La Style. As if there's any woman on the planet who doesn't read or at least know about the world's premier fashion rag.
But hey, fine. She wants to pretend? I can play her game. In fact, maybe playing along will convince her to let me the hell o
ut of here. I'll show them that I'm a good actor, too.
"So," I begin, trying on a fake English accent for kicks. "I think thou shouldst know Sir Lancelot was in mine chambers earlier, flirting with me. Thou might wantest test to keepest better tabs on thy lover." "
If Guenevere looked surprised before, now she's staring at me as if I have a huge-ass zit on my face. "You are mistaken, lady. Lancelot is not my lover; nor has he ever been."
I smirk. "Right. Sure, he isn't. Don't worry; I won't tell anyone." Oops. Forgot the accent this time. Acting is harder than it looks! Oh, well. I'll just play the visiting American.
"Lady, you must be careful what you go on about." Guenevere looks stressed. "I am the queen, wife of High King Arthur, son of Uther Pendrag—"
"Yeah, yeah. I know the lineage. Lance told me. Don't change the subject. Everyone knows you're screwing him."
"Screwing?"
"Screwing, bonking, doing the dirty deed, the wild thing, making love? Whatever you want to call it." I'm almost enjoying the game at this point—especially her horrified face. She really is a good actress. Reminds me of early Gwyneth Paltrow, actually, with a little Dakota Fanning thrown in.
"Making love? I assure you, lady, that is not the case." Guenevere rises from the bed. "Lancelot is my champion, my chosen knight, to be sure. But he is far from my lover. He is like a brother to me."
"Whatever you say, Guenny."
"Besides," the queen says, turning to face me, “I am very much in love with my husband."
"Yeah, well, from what I can see, your husband's a useless puppet at the hands of that idiot Merlin."
Guenevere's eyes widen and she grabs my hand, sinking to her knees. Her voice lowers to a hoarse whisper. "Do not utter such words about Lord Merlin too loudly." She looks around, panic written on her face. "He has his spies everywhere."
"Why's everyone so afraid of an old man?"
"He is no ordinary man, Merlin," she informs me, still using her whisper—perhaps for dramatic effect. "The Christians call him the son of the devil. A cursed druid living backward in time—growing younger as the years pass, instead of older."
"So, like, if he's evil, then why's Arthur all into him?"
Guenevere sighs. "Merlin fostered the king from a young age, taught him everything he knows. Used his magic to ensure that Arthur became high king. The old druid can do no wrong in my husband's eyes." She lowers her gaze, staring at the floor. "But I see a different creature brewing beneath the surface of the kind, devoted mentor he pretends to be. Merlin knows more than he tells, and isn't afraid to twist the strands of fate to achieve his desires."
"Yeah, I got that impression."
"But, lady, you must not believe that Arthur himself has any ill intentions. He is kind and good and loyal. He rules with a strong but gentle hand, and the people love him for that. It is only when it comes to Merlin that my husband lacks good judgment."
I'm so carried away with her tale that I almost forget she's making it all up. "Wow, you've really researched this stuff," I tell her, impressed. "Are you like an English-lit major or something?"
She looks at me strangely and shakes her head. "Lady, I must depart. I will come back and visit you later."
"Listen, Guen," I say, grabbing her arm. "Could you please get me out of here? Or at least tell me what they plan to do with me? Is this some kind of weird reality show? If so, how do I get voted off the island? I've got a huge deadline, and my dog hasn't been fed, and, well, I'd really like to go home," Tears of frustration well up in my eyes. "I promise I won't tell on any of you or go to the police. What do you say?"
She gently pulls her arm away. "It is not my right to free you, lady, for I was not the one who wanted to make you captive in the first place. But I will promise to speak to Arthur on your behalf. There are times," she says with a sly wink, "when a woman claims power over her husband that no other man, be he mortal or magician, can overpower."
"You go, girl," I say amicably, trying to restrain my sarcasm. She leans over and embraces me in a warm hug. I think about pulling away—I'm not big on hugs—but decide that might piss her off.
"Enjoy the gown," she whispers in my ear. "I will return shortly."
She exits the room, and I hear the lock click behind her. With nothing else to do I shed my tunic and slip on the undergarment and dress, tying it with a silk sash.
Unfortunately there's no mirror in my prison, so I have no idea what the outfit looks like on me. It feels kind of cool, though heavy, with its floor-length skirt swishing as I walk. If I wore a dress like this every day I'd never again have to use the Thighmaster.
I lie back on the bed, resigned to my fate, and pick at the bread bowl, carbs be damned. Too bad the wine has run out. I could use another gallon or two after all that's taken place today. I really hope Guenevere was serious when she said she'd go talk to the guy playing Arthur. I cannot see myself trapped in this room for another day.
I hear the now-familiar click of the lock, and I sit up in bed. Who's here this time? Hopefully not that creepy Merlin. I wait for a minute, holding my breath, but no one enters. I strain to hear noise from outside. Nothing. Walking over to the door, I place my ear to the wood. Silence. Cautiously I press against the door. It creaks open.
After peeking around each corner to ensure the coast is clear, I slip out the door and onto a torch-lit spiral staircase.
Someone has set me free.
Chapter 3
Round and round and round she goes. Where she stops, nobody knows.
The old rhyme echoes through my head as I cautiously step down the dark, dank, circular stone stairs. They weren't kidding when they called this a tower. It's totally skyscraper height. Of course, I'm not moving all that fast, since I'm unaware of what's around the bend. I'm so not going to risk getting caught again.
The steps end at a heavy, splintered wooden door, which opens into a narrow stone corridor. Only torches, bracketed to the walls on each side, light the room. A slight breeze from cracks in the stone inspires the flames to cast disturbing, flickering shadows on the ceiling.
The whole thing is very Goth, and I'm sure would appeal to those who favor black lipstick and vampire fangs. To red-lipped, fang-free me, however, it seems depressing and not at all feng shui. I mean would it be such a crime to throw in a few windows here and there to give the place some natural light? Between the hall and that tower room, this place is a total candidate for Trading Spaces. Though I wouldn't let whoever decorated it near my already very classy one-bedroom.
I tiptoe down the hallway and come to another door. I pull it open a crack and peek through. On the other side of the door is a great hall. And when I say great, I mean huge, not particularly nice. In fact, it's kind of gross, really. There's a fire pit in the middle of the room, for one thing, making it unbearably smoky- They don't even have a proper chimney for ventilation—just a tiny hole in a very tall ceiling. That has got to be against the building's fire code.
A variety of ragamuffins, dressed in what I'm assuming must be peasant medieval gear, huddle around the fire, holding their hands close to the flames. Evidently these people drew the short straws when it came to doling out acting positions. Or maybe you work your way up; year one you're a peasant, year two a servant, and so forth, until you've got enough seniority to apply for the queen or king position. Who knows? All I can tell is that, peasant or princess, the only apparent requirement for acting at King Arthur's Faire is that you have to be certifiably nuts.
They've even got a bunch of mangy mutts running around, begging for food. As one lifts his leg, relieving himself on a wooden stool, I am reminded that my poor black Lab, Gucci, is at this very moment stuck inside my apartment either desperately crossing her legs or letting loose on my new Pottery Barn sofa. I'm praying for the first, but know her too well not to expect the latter. Good thing for her I'm a sucker for big brown eyes and possess an economy-size bottle of Febreze.
Of course, here a puddle of pee fits right into the whol
e atmosphere, in good company with the bones and feathers already littering the ground. It's not a bit sanitary, and the sickening smell of smoke, burned meat, and mildew makes me want to barf.
Things look a little nicer at the far right end of the rectangular hall. About a dozen men and women in fancy dress sit behind a long wooden table (surprisingly, not a round table), drinking from silver cups. On the wall, behind the "royalty," hang elaborate cloth banners, all adorned with the sign of the dragon, like the one Lancelot wears on his chest. You know, for a creature they insist is make-believe, they certainly use it a lot in their decorating.
A servant type presents a tray heaped with colorful fruits and cheeses to the head table. A musician sits in one corner, playing some kind of harp like instrument, while another stands at his side, juggling. You can barely hear the music over the raucous voices and laughter that echo through the hall. Everyone seems to be having a blast, even the people stuck over by the dog pee. The only thing I can compare it to is a kind of medieval-themed rave, minus the dancing and drugs.
I have to admit, I'm actually rather impressed by the elaborate setup. I'm no expert, of course, but everything seems so authentic! Not like the fair itself, where half the stuff was totally cheesy. Evidently once the tourists go home, the real party begins.
At the head of the table, sitting on intricately carved mahogany thrones, are Guenevere and Arthur. On Arthur's right is the old guy playing Merlin, looking unhappy and constipated. On Guenevere's left I see an empty chair. Perhaps belonging to Lancelot? I scan the room but see no sign of the hunk. Oh, well.
Okay, enough voyeurism. How to get out? I shut the door and try to think. I can't just waltz right through the main hall, of course, though this is the only door I've come across.
Or maybe I can! There's got to be a hundred people in the room. With all the noise and smell and smoke, no one's going to notice one little girl waltzing through.
The key will be to do it with an air of confidence, as if I'm one of them, like when I used to sneak into the VIP sections of trendy Manhattan nightclubs. If you walked past the bouncer, head held high like you owned the place, he would assume you were one of the crowd. If you appeared nervous, he'd smell your fear and say you weren't on the list. (Which is so embarrassing!) Of course, it also helps to have the appropriate attire. There, that means the latest Versace. Here, they seem to favor long, shapeless gowns. Thanks to Guenevere I've got just the thing. They'll think I'm one of the actors.
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 3
