A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  Actually, that's kind of a liberating feeling. For once in my life there's no one to impress. No one I need to worry about thinking I'm uncool. I don't give a damn what anyone here thinks of me, and that includes cute-but-boring Lancelot. If I want to act like a fool, I can. And no one from Manhattan ever has to know. What a beautiful thing.

  Several of the men, who were staring with shocked faces, have now come out to join me. Their movements are clumsy at first, but they gradually, under my instructions, start feeling the beat. I feel like Rose in that Titanic movie, when she goes below deck to dance with the regular folks.

  "Come on, Lancey, dancey!" I cry, waving my arms in the air. But Lancelot only shakes his head, determined to be a party pooper. I grab one of the greasy men's hands and twirl around.

  The men evidently dig the twirling thing, and soon I find myself being spun by multiple partners, each eager to have his turn. I start to get kind of dizzy. Maybe I need more wine. I grab the bottle off the table and take another swig.

  "Come on, Lance!" I beg, grabbing his hand. "Dance with me." He pulls his hand away. Spoilsport.

  The men around me are dancing like medieval men probably never danced before. I wonder how much effect my teaching them to dance will have on the history of the world. I mean, would teaching them the Electric Slide lead to world peace, World War III, or just a bad dance-craze footnote in history? Since I'm not sure, I decide against it. After all, in my opinion the whole line-dancing thing is stupid no matter which millennium it's danced in, and besides, it's not like the band's playing disco.

  You know, I'm having too much fun to worry about these kinds of future consequences anyway. If I'm stuck in the past, I'm making the most of things, damn it—unlike those heroines in my mother's romance books who go back in time just to fall in love. You never read of them getting drunk and getting down. But I'm a liberated woman of the twenty-first century. And tonight I'm going to party like it's 1999.

  Oh, and if this is just one long-ass dream, it doesn't matter anyway. After all, I'm probably paying a thousand dollars a night for my hospital bed in Mount Sinai. Might as well enjoy my coma.

  "Whoo-hoo!" I cry, after a particularly long stretch of twirling. "The twenty-first-century girl of the future rules the dance floor!"

  I stop, realizing everyone is staring at me. Realizing the music had faded away before I yelled out the intriguing fact that I am from the twenty-first century. Suddenly Lancelot is at my side.

  "What did you say, woman?" he demands, grabbing me by my arms....

  Chapter 6

  Ohhhhhh, my head. Like jackhammers drilling into my brain. Ohhhh. Eyes still closed, I press my hand against my forehead, willing the pounding to stop. But neither instructions to brain nor forehead touching seems to do the trick. Pain continues uninterrupted. Ohhhh.

  What did I do last night? I remember flickering images of the weirdest dream ever. Like I was sent back in time. To the days of King Arthur! Dancing at some bar? Ha! I wonder if someone spiked my Cosmo with roofies or something. What day is it, anyway? Am I supposed to be at work? I'm so not going to work.

  Ohhhhh.

  Okay, Kat. Come on. You're the hangover queen. Get it together. Face the day. Step one, open your eyes.

  I do manage to force one eye open for a brief moment, but the brightness of the morning makes me reconsider the benefits attributed to sight, and I quickly shut it again.

  My skin is all clammy, and I'm simultaneously cold and hot at the same time. And my stomach is doing major flip-flops, starving and nauseated simultaneously. This has got to be the worst hangover I've ever had.

  Delaying the idea of opening my eyes and getting up, I try to remember more of my dream. Parts of it seem so real. Other parts are real foggy. Like the bar scene—I don't really remember much of it. Oh, but there was a really cute guy. Lancelot. Yes, yes, the same one from the Round Table. Ha! Where does my brain come up with these things? What would Freud say? Repressed sexual childhood fantasies about an honorable alpha male who is nothing like my I'm-running-out-for-cigarettes-and-never-coming-back father?

  My stomach churns and I realize I'd better make my way to the bathroom in case I throw up. On the count of three I will open my eyes and sit up in bed.

  One, two...

  Okay, maybe the sitting-up-in-bed part was too ambitious. I have managed to open my eyes, though, and they're slowly getting adjusted to the light. I stare at the ceiling, made of heavy wooden beams crisscrossing one another.

  Not my ceiling.

  Suddenly it's a lot easier to sit up in bed. Where am I? Some guy's house? Did I meet a guy last night? What if he was the one who gave me roofies? Oh, Kat, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

  I look around, desperately taking in my surroundings. A sparse room. A rickety wooden table in one corner. A suit of shining armor lying on the wooden floor. A tall candle-holder in—

  Wait a second! I whirl my head back around. A suit of shining armor lying on the wooden floor?

  Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, no.

  "No!"

  "Kat, what is wrong?"

  Guess I said that last no out loud. A man, presumably the armor's owner, bursts into the room, sword drawn. My jaw drops. Lancelot. A real, live, definitely-not-a-figment-of-my-imagination Lancelot. He glances around the room, looking ready to challenge any danger. It'd be funny if it weren't so horrifying.

  "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God!" I curl back into the bed, scrunching up my feet into a fetal position and pulling the blanket over my head. "Oh, my God. It isn't a dream. It isn't a dream! I'm still here. I'm in medieval times. Oh, my God!"

  This can't be real. This can't be real. It can't be real. I can't really be here. This has got to be a joke. Somehow. My friends are playing a joke. Like that movie with Michael Douglas, The Game. It's just a game. It's not real. It can't be. I can't have gone back in time. It's impossible. Those things don't happen. Oh, my God, I'm going to throw up for real this time.

  I lean over the bedside and start coughing, a prelude to my hurl. I feel Lance's hands pulling my hair from my face and see him thrust a chamber pot under my head as my stomach heaves and I vomit the foulest-smelling liquid I have ever smelled. Ohhhhh.

  I lift my head. Lancelot lets go of my hair. I lie back on the bed, defeated, staring at the ceiling. He sits down on the edge of the bed and gently brushes a few strands of wayward hair from my face.

  "You drank too much wine last night," he says in a quiet voice. Wow, he must think I'm a real class act. I'm surprised he's even still here. Probably feels sorry for me and my totally pathetic self. Well, join the club.

  "No duh." What does he care? What do I care? I should have drunk myself to death. At least then I wouldn't be here. Though I wonder what happens when you die in the past. Do you die in the future, too? Or are you never born? I try to think of something else. Anything. These questions are too philosophical to contemplate while I have a killer hangover.

  His cool hand feels good against my sweaty forehead. Am I running a fever? "Where am I?" I ask, a little fearful of the answer.

  "A tavern called the Rusty Nail. In the town of Cameliard." His fingers run through my hair, the nails lightly scraping my scalp. Feels nice. Why is he being so nice to me? Most guys would totally ditch a girl after she acts like such an alcoholic fool.

  Man, you never read this kind of scenario of those romance back-in-time books. Those heroines are always beautiful and virtuous and long-suffering. They would never, ever even consider getting hammered and dancing on tables in front of an entire bar of men, including the not-at-all-drunk hero. (Oh, no! Did I really dance on tables last night? Idiot! Idiot!) No, those heroines stay clean and sober, and when it comes time for the love scene, they're passionate and gorgeous and smell like honeysuckle and rose petals. I, on the other hand, am so nasty and dirty and gross right now, I'm sure Lancelot would rather vomit himself than consider getting me into bed.

  Not that I want to sleep with him. I don't.
Not really, anyway. Well, I mean, I wouldn't mind if we were in another place and time—"your place or mine" takes on a whole new meaning, doesn't it? Yes, I suppose if Lancelot were a Wall Street exec that I met on the elevator, I'd be very interested in making his acquaintance. He's a little strait-laced for me, but maybe that's what I need. Some stability. Someone to gently remind me that I will regret the great idea of table dancing in the sober light of morning. There's just something about the guy that I find so appealing….

  Earth to Kat! Come in, Kat! Houston, we have a problem. And we should not be thinking about what-ifs, but be concentrating on what the hell we are going to do.

  I look up at Lancelot, nearly losing my cool when my eyes lock on his. God, he is so gorgeous.

  Stop it, Kat; focus. How much can I trust him? Can I tell him the truth? He seems like a nice guy and all, but will he really understand?

  "What I guess I'm really asking is... um..." Should I really do this? Explain what I think has happened to me? He's going to think I'm crazy. Really freakin' crazy. Like lock-me-up crazy.

  But hey, maybe I am crazy. I remember this Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode when she wakes up in a mental hospital and learns she's really not a slayer of vampires and everything in the last few years of her life has been a psychotic delusion. Maybe I'm in a psycho ward right now, wearing a straitjacket and mumbling curses under my breath.

  That's it. I'm probably crazy. 'Cause everyone, except Einstein, I guess, knows you can't go back in time. How did this happen to me? And if I really am back in time, how do I get back to the twenty-first century? I want to go back. Really, really badly.

  My eyes well up with tears. I hate crying, but I can't help it, and at this point I don't feel like I should have to justify it. I mean, have you ever woken up early in the morning after a night out and remembered you've crashed at a friend's place? All you want to do is go home, but the effort of getting out of bed and driving there in your current state is too much to bear. You know you should go back to bed, sleep it off, wake up, and go order the Grand Slam breakfast with your friend at Denny's once the sun rises. But at the same time all you can think about is crawling into your own warm, soft, private bed and hugging your teddy bear tight until you drift off into dreamland, where your head doesn't hurt a bit. (Yes, I sleep with a teddy bear. Deal with it.)

  Well, imagine that feeling multiplied by one thousand and then add in the fact that you're not a twenty-minute car ride from home but a millennium away—without a clue as to how to get back. I mean, let's face it: hungover or not, you'd cry too if you woke up and found yourself stuck in a time where toilet paper has yet to be invented.

  "What do you want to ask, Kat?" Lancelot prompts me with a tender voice. He takes an embroidered handkerchief from a small bag tied to his belt and blots my tears. For a medieval knight, he realty is a nice guy. Honorable. Stable. Loyal. The kind of man I should look for in my real life, instead of the I'm-in-a-rock-band-and-have-no-job losers I always end up with.

  But should I tell him I think I've traveled back in time? He's going to think I'm majorly screwed up in the head. But, then again, what do I have to gain from his thinking I'm normal? And truly, I'm sick of keeping all these crazy thoughts to myself. I need desperately to share.

  "This is going to sound insane," I say, offering the disclaimer up front. "But what I was asking is when am I? 'Cause to me it seems a lot like I'm back in the days of King Arthur. And that's a time zone I don't belong in."

  Lancelot looks surprisingly unpuzzled, and he continues to stroke my hair. His touch is comforting, supportive, and gives me the courage to go on.

  "What would you say if I told you I was really from the twenty-first century—like, a thousand years into the future? And that somehow I have traveled back in time?"

  Instead of freaking out, Lancelot offers a fond smile. "I would say you already told me that last night. About thirty-five times, in fact."

  I stare at him in shock and awe. Did I really already spill the time-travel beans while drunk off my ass the night before? I know I have a tendency to babble and, worse, repeat my babble when drunk, but would I really have told him that I was a girl from the future not once, but thirty-five times? Oh, man, I am never, ever drinking again. Never. That's it. Kat Jones, teetotaler, that's me from now on.

  "And...What do you think about my, er, evidently often-repeated revelation?" I ask, desperate to know at what level on the Richter crazy scale he places me. Does he think me a harmless freak? Or a dangerous psychotic?

  "I was trained in Avalon by the Lady of the Lake, Nimue, high priestess of the mother goddess who gave birth to the world," Lancelot says in a reverent tone. "She taught me that time is but a wheel, ever turning. We rise and fall through birth and death, only to be reborn once again."

  His words are pretty, but also pretty meaningless. "So," I say, trying to discern the gist of what he's saying, "are you trying to tell me that you believe me?"

  He shrugs. "I gave the matter much thought while you slept. Closely examined the strange objects you showed me from your reticule. While it would be quite easy to categorize you as mad, those items are certainly not from this time or place. So whether you have come from another world or another time, I know in my heart you truly do not belong in the here and now."

  Well, what do you know? Guess I got the whole time-travel confession out of the way already, and I don't even remember the awkward task of doing so. And now he believes me. Gotta say, that was so much easier than I thought it was going to be. Go figure.

  "The only other thing I can think of is that you're totally a product of my imagination," I can't resist adding. I have to introduce something new into the conversation that we've evidently already had many times over.

  "Ah, lady. Do you think it so?" He leans down and presses his lips against my forehead. The touch sparks an electrical shock through my entire body. Oh, my God. He lifts his head. "Did you conjure that from your imagination as well?"

  Nope. Don't think so. Felt real anyway. Really real. Like, way more real than even a real kiss should really feel like. I look up into his amazing blue eyes. So beautiful and so kind. So gentle and yet at the same time strong. The type of man who could fight all day for my honor and still make sweet love through the night.

  "Thanks for believing me," I say, bowing my head from his gaze. I'm too caught up in him. I need to focus. The pounding in my head's making it difficult. I wish I had packed some Excedrin in my purse. Wonder what the standard medieval headache remedy is?

  "Of course," he replies. "However, you must keep in mind that not all in Britain follow the path of the goddess. The Christians are slowly gaining in numbers; even our dear King Arthur has named Camelot a Christian kingdom. They will not believe you are who you say you are. More likely than not they will call you a witch and wish to burn you at the stake. Better that you act as if you belong in this world."

  Good point. I need to keep a definite low profile. "Where should I say I'm from?" Since my medieval geography is worse than fuzzy, I'm in need of suggestions.

  "My kingdom is across the sea in Little Britain," he says. "Mayhap I can call you my young sister. This way I can serve as your knight protector, without question as to your background and honor."

  "Yeah, but everyone who was on the jousting field knows you didn't recognize me when I first showed up," I say, pointing out the logical flaw in his otherwise pretty good plan.

  "Aye, but I was sent to Avalon as a young boy and have not returned to Little Britain in more than fifteen summers. It would be easy to see why I did not know you, nor you me."

  "Oh. Yeah. That would work then." I nod, then instantly regret the head movement as pain shoots down my neck. "But I've got to ask: Why are you helping me? Why not just leave? You don't owe me. If anything, I've been a royal pain in your butt."

  Lancelot looks at me thoughtfully. "I am a knight, lady. 'Tis my job to help maidens who are in need of my services."

  Oh. Well, okay. I guess it's
just a chivalry thing. For a moment everything seems good. We've got a plan. I've got a sexy new brother—eat your heart out, Jerry Springer. Then I realize it doesn't really matter if anyone buys the idea of my belonging in medieval times, because I don't want to belong here in the first place.

  Depression sets back in. I've got a great life back home that I want to return to. A prestigious, if not high-paying, job, supportive friends, a fuzzy dog who I'm sure most desperately wants to go out to pee.

  "The thing is, though, Lance"—I sigh—"all I really want to do is get back to where I come from. Got any insights on that one?"

  Lancelot thinks for a moment. "On the way back to Camelot we could make the journey to Avalon. If anyone is to know how to get you back to your world, the Lady of the Lake will. We shall consult with her."

  "Okay," I say a little skeptically. Like, really, how the hell's she going to know? Are time travelers an everyday occurrence for the pagans of medieval England? Doubt it. And as far as I'm concerned, it's going to take more than medieval hocus-pocus goddess worship to get me back to the future. Where, oh, where is a time machine when you need one?

  I sigh and resign myself to giving the priestess a try. After all, it's not like I've got a plan B. "When do we leave?"

  "You do not appear well enough to travel," Lancelot says, looking concerned.

  "I'm fi—" I try to sit up and simultaneously feel pain in my head and nausea in my stomach. I lie back down. "You're right. There's no way I can get on a horse today."

  "We are very near the castle of King Leodegrance, Queen Guenevere's father. It was too late to announce our presence last night. However, this morn we will be welcomed." He looks around the room with a rueful grin. "I promise the accommodations will be more suitable for a lady than this hovel."