A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  I sit listening to his analysis, breathless with desire. No one has ever uttered stuff like that to me before. Sure, I've gotten a lot of "Hey, babe, you're real hot" and "Kat, you're a total fox." And the world-famous "Are you a model?" (Okay, so no one's actually said that to me.)

  But Lancelot has not mentioned one word about what I look like. He's actually telling me what it is about me on the inside that he likes. It's not things that I've pretended to be to make him like me, like so often with other guys. He actually—and this blows my mind completely—likes me for me!

  "I had no idea you felt like this," I say, lowering my eyes to stare at the ground.

  "I know. It's maddening that I couldn't share it before now. I have tried to fight it. I am a knight, sworn to my king. I cannot have a woman displace my loyalties. But oh, how can I bear not having you?"

  "Why can't you have both?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Why do you have to choose?" I ask, cocking my head in question. I really don't get it. Like, Arthur expects his knights to stay celibate? A little unrealistic, I think. "Can't you have a lover and a job?"

  Lancelot thinks for a moment. "Knights should be free to go on quests, to save those who need to be saved. To fight for honor and not be distracted."

  "I see." I sigh. "Well, I wouldn't want you to go against your king."

  Great, Kat—now you've gone from your usual I-don't-work-at-all-and-live-off-my-parents type to a complete workaholic whose job requires he not have sex. You sure know how to pick 'em,

  Still, something about his refusal doesn't make sense. There's got to be more to it. A horrifying thought strikes me. "You have ... had sex before, haven't you?" I ask.

  He face reddens at my direct question, but he nods. "When I reached manhood, the Lady of the Lake taught me how to please a woman."

  Aha. I knew there was something between the two of them. Is this the real reason for his hesitation? I try to keep my irrational jealousy from rising like bile to my throat. "So you two were an item? What happened?"

  "Item?"

  "Lovers," I clarify my twenty-first-centuryism.

  "Nay, we were not lovers, though we committed the act of love on several occasions. She is more a mother to me than anything else."

  Okay then. No wonder he's so screwed-up about what he wants. The only person he's slept with was a woman he considered his mother. Now there's a V. C. Andrews novel waiting to be written. I don't know what's worse: the idea that he could be a virgin or that he's had sex with his mom.

  "So you never had a real lover? Have you ever been in love?"

  Even under the moon's dim glow, I can see his face redden. "Nay," he says. "As I told you, I am a knight of Arthur, sworn to his side."

  "Well, not that I'm all that experienced in the matter"— I don't want to come off sounding like a slut—"but making love to someone you care about, someone you're attracted to, is quite a different thing. Sure you don't want to try it? See how it goes?" I try to sound casual, but inside I'm dying.

  "Yes. I mean no," he stammers. "I mean, I am sure that I do not."

  Hmm. He's going to need a little convincing. A mischievous idea comes to mind—one that involves showing a little skin. I loosen the drawstrings of my gown and seductively drag the corner of the fabric down, exposing a bare shoulder. I thrust it out, like I've seen the models do.

  "Are you sure that you're sure?"

  He bites the bottom of his lip, staring at my naked shoulder. "Aye."

  I kick off my shoes and slowly hike up my skirt, exposing bare shins. Don't they have an ankle fetish in this era? Or was that Victorian times? I point my red-painted toes—at least my pedicure hasn't worn away yet—and rub them against the inside of his calf. He squirms uncomfortably and steps back.

  "Really sure?" I purr. This is kind of fun.

  "A-aye." His voice is unsteady now.

  Time for step three in my great Lancelot seduction plan. I circle his waist with my arms, clasping my hands above his butt, and knead his lower back. Then I lift one leg, wrap it around his thigh, and press my body tight against him. I stand on tiptoe on my other foot to reach his ear and breathe out slowly.

  "Really, really sure?"

  "Aye, yes." His voice says one thing, but I can feel now that his body is saying something completely different. I'm going to win this one, and I can't wait.

  Lowering my leg, I untie his belt and grab the hem of his tunic. He doesn't resist as I pull it over his head. His breathing is quite erratic now, as if he's run a marathon.

  I run my fingers down his chest, rejoicing in his muscle tone, his perfect six-pack abs. His skin is hot to the touch. I stop right before I get to the top of his tights.

  "Really, really, really sure?"

  "Goddess forgive me," he moans, and grabs me. Forcefully, he slams me against a tree, his mouth quite literally devouring mine, his hands engaging in a flurry of activity—grasping breasts, lifting skirts, pulling down his own tights. No longer gentle, no longer sweet. A raw act of possession, of domination. I am his slave, his conquest.

  He's inside me now. Plunging, kissing, thrusting, touching. I wrap my arms around his neck, digging my nails into his upper back. My breasts crush against his chest, the friction of fabric against skin sending an agonizing throb down to my toes. I lift a leg and wrap it around his waist, allowing for a deeper thrust. My back rubs against the rough trunk but I don't care. I'm too caught up in the moment, the sensation, the unquenchable inferno of him inside me.

  Rough, wild, crazy medieval sex. Amazing.

  My world is spinning out of control, my brain cloudy, my body burning liquid fire. His mouth leaves a trail of fiery kisses down to my neck, greedily, as if I'm his first meal in years, in forever. For a moment there is no time travel, no alternate reality. There is only the here. The now. The fire. The hysteria of delight that consumes me utterly.

  It's all too much, and before I can stop myself, before I can wait and make it last longer, I'm at the top of the roller coaster, over the edge, culminating with an intensity I've not felt since I actually rode my first roller coaster.

  "Oh, God, Lance!" I cry, knowing I probably sound like Meg Ryan faking it in the restaurant—except I'm not faking. I'm coming. Hard. Fast. Now.

  Lancelot lets out his own cry as he finishes moments later. He collapses against me, holding me close, his breath deafening in my ear. "Oh, Katherine," he murmurs, covering my neck with soft kisses. "Oh, my lady."

  After a moment of savoring the post-lovemaking ecstasy, I pull away from the tree, now realizing that our encounter has caused serious damage to the back of my dress. The rough bark practically shredded the fabric. Worse, I've got major trunk burn on my back. Oh, well—it was worth it; that's for sure.

  "See, I told you it's more fun with someone you're attracted to,” I point out, though I do realize "I told you sos" are probably not the best pillow talk. But hey, I don't see any pillows around.

  Lancelot pulls up his tights and grabs his shirt from the ground. "I have never ..." he says, still breathless. "I mean I..." He shakes his head and then looks at me. "You are truly stunning." He kisses me on the forehead. "Thank you."

  "No problem." I try to sound casual, but I'm literally still shaking from the encounter. Encounter? Let me rephrase. I'm literally still shaking from the best sex of my entire life.

  We’re silent for a moment, but the silence isn’t awkward or weird. Just … nice. And I find myself wishing the moment would last forever.

  But eventually Lancelot lets out a sigh. "Though I would like to stay here all night, we should go back to the circle," he says, slipping his hand in mine and squeezing it. The sweetness of the gesture nearly overwhelms me. " 'Tis getting late, and we have a long trip back to Camelot tomorrow."

  Camelot. The word fills me with dread. Do I really want to go back there? What if Merlin decides I should be locked up again? "Can't we stay here at Avalon?" I ask. "This place is so beautiful, so magical. I never want to leave."


  "Nay," Lancelot says, shaking his head. He pulls me gently toward the path. “I must get back to Arthur."

  "Vacation's over." I sigh.

  " 'Tis odd," the knight muses as we walk down the pathway. "As a boy growing up here, all I dreamed of was someday leaving." He smiles down at me. "Now, being here with you, I wish I could stay forever."

  Aw. He really has the nicest way of putting things. I love that about him. One of the many things I love about him. He's such a great person: nice, sweet, honorable, loyal. Sexy as hell. Why can't there be guys like this in my millennium?

  Sadness washes over me as I realize the implication of that thought. I'm going home. Nine months from now, but it's going to happen. I'm going to leave Lancelot behind. I will never, ever see him again. Ever.

  He'll forget about me and probably book up with Guenevere, like his destiny foretells, and I'll be stuck dating some boring twenty-first-century stockbroker who doesn't have even a speck of romanticism in his bones. Sure, he'll buy flowers after the first date, but as time goes on he'll forget our anniversary, cheat on me with his secretary, and finally leave me for a twenty-something blonde who drives a red Ferrari.

  Okay, so maybe that's speculating a bit, but the facts remain. I belong in the twenty-first century. I'm leaving. I'm going back. Lancelot belongs here. He's staying. He's not coming back with me. Therefore, I can't get attached to him. I can't come to depend on him. I can't make him important in my life. I can't ever fall in love with him.

  Oh, God. What if I already have?

  Chapter 10

  After only a brief brushing of lips—a not-at-all-sufficient revisit to our recent erotic interlude—Lancelot says good night, and I reluctantly enter the House of the Maidens, where I've been assigned to sleep.

  Inside it's like summer camp: Bunk beds three stories high climb each wall. Giggling girls, ranging in ages from six to sixteen, stare at me. One of the older ones, already sporting the long blond hair/white robe uniform the full-grown priestesses do, shows me to an empty lower bunk. Great. I hope neither of my young upper bunkmates still wets the bed.

  I'm not sure if I should blame the long, bumpy day of traveling, the Pool of Dreams, or the wild and crazy sex, but I'm exhausted. In fact, I don't even bother to remove my gown as I curl up onto the straw mattress and pull a tattered wool blanket over my head.

  It's funny. Back home my mom always called me Princess and the Pea, due to my complete inability to fall asleep without at least three-hundred-threadcount Egyptian-cotton sheets and a fluffy feather pillow. Guess I'm getting used to the lack of luxuries. The pillow here is made out of feathers, I think. However, since it still smells like a live chicken, it's not exactly a perk worth mentioning.

  At first I'm sure the whispering girls are going to keep me up, but the second my head hits the pillow, my eyes close and I'm out like a light.

  ###

  I'm lying in a luxurious canopied bed piled high with brightly colored silk pillows. The bed's embroidered curtains are drawn, and I feel like I'm in a cozy cave.

  I roll over to find Lancelot by my side, naked in all his manly glory. I draw in my breath. Has there ever been a man so magnificent?

  "Hello, lover," I say slyly, unable to resist dragging a finger down his chest. I lustily look into his eyes, but then notice the tears.

  "Why are you crying?" I ask, puzzled.

  He smiles—a sad smile that breaks my heart. "I was thinking how much I will miss you when you are gone."

  I furrow my brows. Huh? "Where am I going?"

  "Why, home, of course." Now it's his turn to look confused. "Do not toy with me, Katherine. I cannot bear it today."

  Sadness consumes me, and tears slip unbidden down my own cheeks. Lancelot leans into me, kissing away each individual tear with tender lips.

  "I love you," he whispers. "No matter where you go, no matter how far away you are, I will love you. Forever."

  White flash.

  I'm no longer in bed. I'm in a chamber alive with torchlight. Guards. Shouting. Screams. Swords drawn. Chaos everywhere.

  I see a porter rushing by. "What's going on?" I demand, grabbing his sleeve.

  "Treason," he answers, his eyes wide. "The queen has been caught with her favorite knight. With Lancelot."

  "What?" I cry. Lancelot and the queen? No way! He loves me, not her. Me! "There must be some mistake!"

  "No mistake, lady. She was discovered in his very bed. The porter shakes free of my grasp and runs down the hall.

  What the hell is going on?

  White flash.

  I'm outside, standing by the jousting field. However, instead of a tournament they're having a bonfire. But it's not the kind where you toast marshmallows and drink, beer, celebrating the joyous arrival of summer.

  This fire's made for burning a human being.

  Sticks and logs are piled up five feet tall. On the top, an eight-foot wooden stake juts into the sky.

  Tied to that stake is Guenevere.

  She has been stripped of all her queenly glory. Dressed in rags. Bound hand and foot. Her face is pale, beautiful, noble. No tears. No begging for her life. Proud. Determined. Accepting of her fate.

  But I can't accept it.

  "No!" I cry, running toward the pyre. A guard grabs me by my arms, ripping me backward. I turn to him, struggling to free myself, and notice tears in his eyes.

  I turn back to the scene and watch as another guard steps forward, carrying a burning torch. He lowers the torch to the pile of sticks and the flames lick at the wood.

  "No!" I cry. "She's innocent. Innocent! Guenevere!"

  ###

  "Katherine! Katherine! Wake up!"

  I open my eyes, wildly looking around. I'm in the House of the Maidens. Lancelot is kneeling beside me, a worried expression on his face. The other maidens crowd behind him, watching with interest. From the look of things, I've roused the entire island.

  "Lance!" I blubber, thankful to have been awakened from my nightmare. "Have I been screaming out loud?"

  "Shhh," he hushes. "I am here now." His voice is thick with concern. He strokes my hair, his touch cool against my burning forehead, and suddenly I realize my entire body is drenched with sweat.

  "I had the worst dream," I babble weakly, unable even to sit up in bed. "Guenevere. They were going to kill Guenevere."

  "I think she could have a touch of the ague, sir," pipes in one of the maidens before Lancelot can comment.

  He looks worried and turns to the maiden who spoke. "Are you sure 'tis a fever?" he questions. "Could she not be experiencing the sight?"

  What's he talking about? The sight? What's the sight?

  The maiden shakes her head. "Sir, I hardly think one such as she could receive the Mother's gift. It takes years of training before one is worthy of such an honor. More likely than not 'tis but a fever-induced dream."

  "Lance, I don't feel so well," I interrupt, trying to keep up with the conversation. The faces above me blur in and out, and I feel sick to my stomach. What's wrong with me?

  "Hush, Katherine," Lancelot whispers. "Stay still." He turns back to the girls, his face stormy. "Do not simply stand there like fools. Get her a cool compress. If she has a fever we must try to bring it down. Has your training taught you nothing?"

  Chastised, several of the girls disappear. I struggle to remain conscious. I don't want to pass out again and resume the dreams where they left off. Where Guenevere gets killed.

  My eyelids are unbearably heavy. My body feels weighted down with lead. "What's wrong with me?" I ask, fighting the nausea that seeks to overwhelm me.

  I feel worse than when I was fifteen and my friend Sara and I robbed my mother's liquor cabinet, each downing about a fifth of straight vodka. I had to go to the hospital to have my stomach pumped later that night. Oh, God, they don't have hospitals here! What if I'm ...

  "Am I dying?" I ask, grabbing Lancelot by the neck of his tunic. "Tell me the truth."

  He shakes his head, but
I see tears at the creased corners of his eyes. "Nay," he whispers. "A dream. Nothing more." He turns back to the girls. "Summon the lady. Ready the sickroom," he demands, his voice harsh, cold. "Now!"

  Several girls, wearing frightened expressions, hasten to obey. Fear clutches my heart. Something's wrong. Very wrong. The sharpness in his voice, the moisture in his eyes. What's happening to me? I was fine only hours before.

  No longer able to hold my eyes open, I close my lids and drift into blackness, into horrible, fitful dreams, always vivid, real. Always the same.

  Guenevere to be burned at the stake. For treason. For sleeping with Lancelot.

  I wake in another bed, this one made of the softest feathers. Not in the House of the Maidens. Somewhere else. How did I get here? The room is lit by a hundred candles set on little stools and tables and on the wall, surrounding me with dancing fire. I try to focus my eyes, but the landscape insists on staying blurry. I look to my left and see Lancelot still sits by my side, clutching my hand in his. I can see his fingers stroking my wrist, but I can't feel his touch.

  What is wrong with me?

  I close my eyes again, unable to fight the overwhelming sleepiness that consumes me. I've never been so sick. Ever. I feel worse than the time I got mono in high school and had to stay out for three weeks.

  I drift off, unwillingly inviting the dreams to return, to haunt me without relief until I want to scream—and maybe I do. I'm not sure what's real anymore and what's in my head.

  Guenevere, being burned at the stake. Because she has had an affair with Lancelot. My Lancelot.

  I'm back to consciousness, at least for a moment. My body's burning with fire, and not the turned-on-romance-heroine kind, but that of a raging fever consuming my body. What do they give sick people here to help them? I hope they don't bleed me, like some historical societies did. In history class we learned that they used to attach leeches to people's bodies and ... Ugh. I'm not even going to think of that. I'm going to close my eyes and sleep it off.