"Hey, I was just happy to not have to go camping." I pick at a broken fingernail. I'm in desperate need of a manicure. Well, that and a shower. I seem to remember reading somewhere that they didn't bathe in medieval times. I hope that was a myth. I can't go on much longer without washing up. "Do you guys bathe?" I blurt out, crossing my fingers for an affirmative answer.
Oh, please, please, say yes, and don't say yes, then tell me it's done in a freezing-cold river.
Lancelot's eyes dance in merriment. "Aye, of course. Only the lowest of all peasants are content to live like the swine. I am sure that the ladies-in-waiting at the castle will be able to prepare you a lovely hot bath."
Phew! Hot baths. Thank God for small favors. "Then what are we waiting for?" I ask with a grin. "Let's go hit the castle."
"Hit?" Lancelot furrows his brow. "I hardly think we would want to damage the very place where we desire welcome."
"Er, never mind." I laugh, the thought of the bath making me feel a tiny bit better. "It's a twenty-first-century expression. I have lots of them. Bear with me."
###
Ah. Now this is the life. I'm lying in a huge Jacuzzi-size wooden tub, the water heated by a nearby fire. Fragrant rose petals float on the surface, making it a positive aromatherapy experience. As I soak, my troubled mind drifts away with the dirt.
Sure, I'm still stuck, a stranger in a strange land, but things could be a lot worse. I could still be Lot's captive. I could be dead. I could still be throwing up. Instead an herbal remedy has eased my bad head and settled my stomach. I've been assigned two palace maidens to attend to my every heed, which included serving me a heaping plate of sweet grapes and yummy goat cheeses before my soothing bath. Not a bad setup. I am determined to see my cup as half-full.
When we first arrived at the palace, we were welcomed like royalty. Evidently Lance is a big deal in the knight world, and well-known throughout the land. You should have seen all the ladies-in-waiting giggling like schoolgirls when he approached King Leo's throne. You'd think the guy was Brad Pitt. Of course, I got a few dirty looks; maybe they were worried about potential competition. Like they even have a chance. I've got many, many years of "How to win a guy without even trying" magazine research at my disposal; they've never even taken a Cosmo quiz.
Interestingly enough, it turns out that Guenevere is also in town, visiting her dad. Evidently Arthur was pretty pissed when he heard I'd escaped, and Merlin tried to pin it on Mrs. King, so she figured it'd be better to lay low and make herself scarce for a few days.
Once I've had my fill of soaking in the tub—the last of the ground-in grime expunged from my body—I climb out. It's cold in the chamber, but before I can even get goose bumps, two maids surround me with warm, thick towels. It's a full-service establishment, this place, I'll tell you what.
They lead me to what I assume is a luxurious room for medieval times and pronounce it my chamber for the extent of my stay at Camelaird. Score!
I circle around slowly, taking in the space and all its antiquities. Real glass windows line one wall, letting in warm sunshine. Rich, unbearably soft furs blanket the wood floors. The walls are decorated with brightly colored embroidered tapestries, depicting knights and ladies, fight scenes, and courtly love. But the ultimate coolest part? An actual canopied bed, draped by heavy red velvet curtains.
I always wanted a canopy bed, ever since my Barbie doll got one for Christmas. That Barbie, she had it all—her own town house with hot-pink furnishings, a Corvette, even a golden palomino horse named Dallas. (Where she kept the horse while living in a town house, I have no idea....)
Of course, material possessions aren't everything. Thinking back, I realize the poor little rich doll was stuck living a chaste existence with a plastic-haired, non-anatomically correct Ken, who was so obviously gay—never even noticing his girlfriend's stunning figure and breast implants. However, I am convinced Barb must have been getting some action on the side. Maybe with my brother's much manlier G.I. Joe? Otherwise where did her so-called "little sister"—like anyone believed that one—Kelly come from?
One of the servants lays out several gorgeous embroidered gowns and asks me to choose. They're really pretty, but also really colorful, and truth be told, I'm more of a black kind of girl. I mean, come on. Is there anyone in the world now who doesn't see black as the ultimate color for clothing? It goes with everything. It's slimming. It's always in style and always appropriate, except for weddings, though now some of the more urban "I dos" have even decreed this an outdated former faux pas. Oh, and did I mention it's slimming?
However, since it doesn't appear I have much of a choice, I decide to go for a red silk number with long bell sleeves. It laces up in the front with green ribbon—very Christmasy—and is thus more fitted than a couple of the other options. I hope it will make me look a little thinner, but since there are no mirrors anywhere, guess I'll never know for sure if it's working. Oh, well, what do I care what people think I weigh, anyway? I keep having to remind myself that here, I have no one to impress. Not even Lancelot. Really.
Ignoring my protests that I have dressed myself for almost twenty years and probably can manage to do so at least one more time, the two servant girls strip me of my towel and dignity, then pull a silky sheath dress over my head. From what I've now gathered, the sheath is like medieval underwear, as in you always wear it under your clothes. I, myself, prefer the type of underwear that actually provides some sort of support. I'm not Dolly Parton, by any means, but wearing a bra sure does help cut out the jiggle. Especially when one is riding on horseback, as I found out the hard way. Maybe if I end up stuck here for a while I could invent the equivalent of the Wonderbra. Why, I'd be a hero for medieval woman everywhere. The men probably wouldn't raise too much of a fuss, either!
The girls instruct me to lift my arms so I can put my hands through the sleeves of the dress. It goes on like a bathrobe and ties in the front. While one girl bends down to straighten the hem, the other starts lacing up the bodice, pulling the strings a bit too tight for my liking. Reduced lung capacity for the sake of fashion. Yuck. Oh, well, I'll deal. It's not like I'm going out to run a marathon or anything.
"Good morn to you, Lady Kat."
I look up. Guenevere has entered, dressed in a gorgeous creamy white gown with golden trim that matches her long, flowing blond hair. An exquisite brooch secures the ends of a long violet cape that drapes behind her, dragging on the floor as she walks. On her fingers she wears a great many heavy silver rings, and a tiara, glittering with gems, sits on her head. She's so beautiful that my breath catches in my throat. Not that I'm into girls, mind you, but as a magazine editor I can definitely appreciate beauty when I see it. The girl could be a model. Well, a petite one, anyway. Stunning. No wonder she's queen. Arthur probably snatched her up the moment he laid eyes on her.
"Hey, Your Majesty, how's it going?" I ask casually. From our previous conversation in the tower, I've decided the girl's probably pretty cool, so far as medieval ladies can be considered.
"Leave us," she commands the servants in a regal voice. "I will help Lady Kat get dressed myself." The two girls bob in curtsy before making a hasty exit. Gotta hand it to the queen: when she talks, people listen. I'd love to have that kind of power!
Once the doors shut behind them, Guenevere gives me a big smile. "How do you fare?" she asks, grabbing the laces of my dress and tying them together in a bow. "I trust you found your bath comforting?"
"It was heaven."
" Tis my desire that you feel most welcome in my father's house," the queen goes on. She pulls a matching red velvet cape from the pile of dresses and drapes it around my body, fastening it with a silver dragon pin. "Especially after all you have had to go through."
"Yeah, I've had a rough couple of days; I'll give you that."
After pronouncing me beautiful, the queen plops down on the bed and pats the side, inviting me to join her. I sit, a little reluctantly. How much should I trust this woman?
&nbs
p; "I must tell you, Lady Kat, that it is my heart's dearest desire to hear the many stones you can tell about where you've come from and what it is like in your world."
"You've been talking to Lance?" I ask suspiciously, making a mental note to berate my knight in shining armor the next time I see him. I thought we were keeping this time-travel thing on the down low! So why are we spilling the beans to Mrs. Arthur?
"Never fear," Guenevere assures me in her light, musical voice. "Like Sir Lancelot du Lac, I have also been trained by the priestesses of Avalon. I am a worshiper of the great mother and believe that it is possible to travel between worlds and through the strands of time."
"Oh. Well, you're one step above me on that one." Man, these guys have totally bought into the time-travel thing without a bit of skepticism. Makes me want to mention the Brooklyn Bridge I've got for sale. "I still can't quite believe it myself."
"Tell me, lady, what is the future like?" Guenevere begs, eagerness dancing in her blue eyes. For all her queenliness, she's still a girl, I suddenly realize. An idealistic, sweet, young girl. Suddenly I feel old and jaded. "I must know! Is it too wonderful for words?"
Hm, What part of the future does she want to know about? I mean, should I inform her that she and Lancelot are destined to get caught in a compromising position? That their betrayal leads to the downfall of Camelot? Or should I gush on about the modern wonders of indoor plumbing, stretch fabric, and vodka-and-Red Bulls?
No, I'd better keep on track—warn her about Lancelot. Seems more important than, say, an in-depth discussion of the miraculous invention of deep-dish pizza, no matter how good it tastes—compared to, let's say, pigeon.
"You want to know the future? I gotta tell you, Guen, it's not looking so good for you and Lance. In fact, you might want to stay away from the guy. From the movies I've seen, King Arthur's knights, who are, like, totally jealous 'cause Lance is such a good knight, persuade Arthur to pretend to go hunting so you think you're alone in the palace. You go to get some action—I mean, you go make love to Lance— then they charge in on you and catch you together in his bedroom. They"—I clear my throat, not wanting to bear the bad news—"sentence you to burn at the stake."
Guenevere laughs—not a chuckle either, but a full-on, bellyaching laugh. She falls back onto the bed to continue her unabashed snickering, not taking me a bit seriously, obviously, and I feel a bit offended. Maybe I should have introduced her to the concept of microfiber purses and air-conditioning instead.
"I'm trying to warn you," I say a bit crossly.
She attempts to control her giggle. "I am sorry, Lady Kat. I do not mean to find amusement in your prophecy. 'Tis only that I cannot imagine myself making love to a knight like Lancelot."
"Why not? He's attractive enough." This is too weird. Why doesn't she like him? All the books say she's supposed to be totally obsessed with the guy. So what's with her indifference? I don't get it.
"Aye, he is a handsome knight, indeed," she says, staring up at the canopied bedpost. I watch her closely, looking hard for some kind of hint that she's hiding her true feelings. But her face is an open book, and I'm not reading any lusty bedtime stories whatsoever. "Many a girl in my court is much affected by his charms. But he does not make my heart flutter. As I said yesterday in the tower room, if anything, the man is a brother to me." She pulls herself back to a seated position. "Besides, I love my husband, Arthur," she adds, her eyes shining as her thoughts evidently fall to the king. "He is noble and wise. Great. Handsome. Loving. The best man a wife could ever hope to have."
"Well, that's good," I say with a shrug. Evidently the legends were wrong. Go figure.
"Besides, if anyone were in danger of losing her heart to Sir Lancelot, I should think 'twould be you." She says the last part with a sly grin on her face.
"Me?" I try to put on a shocked face. "No way. He's an old stick-in-the-mud. I have no interest in him whatsoever." As I speak the words, my traitorous brain meanders back to Lancelot's dramatic rescue scene. His hot breath on my neck as we rode on horseback to Cameliard. The sizzling kiss he planted on my forehead to prove he was not a figment of my imagination.
Nope, not interested at all.
"Lady, you may deny your feelings as long as you wish," Guenevere says, now positively smirking like a Cheshire cat. "But I saw with mine own eyes the way you two looked at each other when you first approached the court. I know what I see when it comes to matters of the heart."
"Okay," I confess. "Maybe I'm attracted to him. But really, I’m not getting into a relationship with a guy who's, like, literally a thousand years older than me." I shake my head. "Seriously, Guen? All I want is to go home—with no complications."
"Very well." Guenevere rises from her seat. "Then shall we ready ourselves to join the king, my father, and the knight Lancelot—the one you do not care for at all—in the dining hall?"
I stare at her. "Are you kidding?" I cry, horrified at her suggestion. "You think I'm going to let him see me before I fix my hair and put on makeup?"
The queen grins widely, raising a knowing eyebrow. I sigh.
Okay fine, so maybe I'm a teensy bit into Lancelot after all.
Chapter 7
After extensive medieval preparation time, during which Guenevere somehow manages to pull my shoulder-length shag into two small braided buns that she assures me is the latest fashion, even though to me it screams Princess Leia, which is never good, we walk down to the dining hall.
The room is smaller than the great hall of Camelot— cozier, too. There's a roaring fire at one end, but the ventilation seems a bit better than at Arthur and Guen's place. On the wall hang tapestries depicting fair maidens feeding white unicorns. At the center of the room sits a large circular table.
The hall is empty except for Lancelot and King Leodegrance, who are conversing quietly by the fire.
"Ladies," greets the rather heavyset king as he sees us approach. He takes my hand in his and kisses it gallantly, his white beard tickling my skin. Then he approaches his daughter, planting a kiss on her cheek. "You are right on time for dinner."
I turn to Lancelot and watch his jaw drop as he stares at me. Guess I have to resign myself to the fact that the Princess Leia look may indeed work on guys in medieval times. Though perhaps it's the Christmas-colored dress. Or maybe he's just easily impressed.
If only he could see me in my little black Stella McCartney number with my deliciously strappy Jimmy Choos. I wore the ensemble to the Fashion Awards last year, and even Rachel Zoe gave me a thumbs-up. A proud moment in the life of a fashionista.
"Kat!" Lancelot cries, making swift, strides to reach me. He takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips. I try to smile demurely, like a proper medieval chick would, but inside I do a happy dance for the effect I'm obviously having on him.
"Hey, Lance. Check me out." Now that Guen's told me she's not interested, I can't resist a little harmless flirting. I twirl around, my gown floating in the resulting whirlwind. "I clean up nice, huh?"
"You look as radiant as the morning star," he replies quite seriously, giving me a once-over with reverential eyes. Now, that's a line I'll admit might sound pretty darn cheesy when spoken by a twenty-first-century guy at a dive bar. But here, with the Gothic castle atmosphere and Lance's painfully earnest face, it's sweet. Really nice, actually. A girl from the future doesn't usually get this kind of unabashed worship. I blame women's lib.
"Thanks. You're looking pretty tasty yourself," I compliment him, looking over his red wool, belted-tunic ensemble. He's tied his shoulder-length black hair back into a ponytail, revealing killer chiseled cheekbones, and now smells of patchouli. Normally I don't dig the hippie fragrance, but on him it kind of turns me on. Hell, on him that cheap-ass Stetson cologne they always advertise nonstop at Christmastime would probably turn me on. He just has that effect on me. I so wish I could take him back to the twenty-first century. He'd look amazing in Armani and smell heavenly with the tiniest spritz of Jil Sander.
"The lady is too kind." He bows his head. Then he glances over at Guenevere, who is standing beside me with an amused expression, taking it all in. Color drops from his face. "Oh, er, lady, uh, Queen," he stammers, evidently realizing he should probably be giving some props to her royal majesty, too. "I did not mean to fall remiss in relating tales of your beauty, as well."
Guenevere laughs her musical laugh. " 'Tis clear to all, sir, why your eyes would be so blinded. I take no offense, delighting in the fact that you admire my handiwork in preparing Lady Kat for dinner." In other words, she's taking full credit for my makeover. "Shall we dine?"
"Oh, yes, please," I pipe in. "I'm famished."
We walk over to the rich mahogany circular table, set for dinner with decorative goblets and wooden bowls. The table's huge. The four of us take up only the smallest section. As ruler of one of the smaller kingdoms, Leodegrance explains, he rarely has to set all the places.
"It's a beautiful table," I remark, running my hand over the smooth wood. A servant places a pewter tray in front of me, along with a spoon. I notice Lancelot reaching into his boot and pulling out a knife. Evidently this is a BYOB (bring your own blade) kind of establishment. I'd ask to borrow, but after looking at the grime ground into his utensil, I'm thinking knifeless is the way to go.
"Aye." King Leodegrance smiles proudly. "The table is made of rare wood from a far Eastern land, and was imported to Britain by the Romans when they occupied our lands. ‘Tis one of the many objects of interest left behind, and a rare piece indeed; you will not see many other round tables in the entire country."
Round tables? My hand stops abruptly, and I look down at the table with new eyes. Could it be? Then why is it here and not at King Arthur's pad?
"Doesn't Camelot have one?" I'm met with blank stares. "You know, like King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table?"
"Knights of the what?" Lancelot asks in a puzzled voice.
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 9
