Everything I can only hope isn't true.
Chapter 11
Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet.
What, have I awakened in a Hitchcock movie? There must be a million birds chirping good morning outside my window. And while their cacophony might sound musical to some, to this city girl, it's damn annoying.
Fine. I'm awake. Good freaking morning to all.
I open my eyes, feeling strangely cozy in the warm, soft bed. I take stock of my physical well-being: no headache, not nauseated, not tired. In fact, I fee! great. I attempt to sit up in bed. I'm still feeling pretty weak, but much, much better. Guess that shitty-smelling potion worked.
"Katherine, are you awake?" I look over to see Lancelot rising from a stool in the corner. He looks terrible, like he hasn't slept in days. Was he really that worried about me?
He reaches the bed and kneels beside it, placing a hand on my forehead. "Your fever is down," he says, his eyes shining with his relief. "Thank the goddess."
No, I'm thinking it's more like fuck the goddess. As in, Nimue worships the goddess and wants to continue doing so, which is why she needs to make sure Guenevere doesn't cheat on Arthur, leading to the fall of the rule of Pendragon and the rise of Christianity, which is why I've been summoned from my very comfortable twenty-first-century life.
So, yeah. Fuck the goddess.
"I was so worried, my darling." Lancelot lowers his head to rest on my stomach. I brush his tangled black hair with my fingers, rejoicing in the silky feel of the strands.
His darling. He called me his darling. This should make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. But instead, now that I know how he's being manipulated by forces he can't begin to understand, I feel bad and sick about the whole thing.
I want to tell him the truth, tell him we're all pawns in an evil game, but I don't even know how to begin. And besides, like Nimue said, he probably wouldn't believe me. It'd make him hate me, and then he'd find solace in the arms of Guenevere. Nimue would never help me get back to the twenty-first century.
I feel selfish for thinking like this, but I can't help it. I belong in the twenty-first century and really don't want to stay here forever. Even if it means staying with Lancelot, which in this case it wouldn't. I'd be stuck in medieval times and I wouldn't even have the love of my favorite knight in shining armor. Nimue's certainly got me over a barrel; that's for damn sure.
"She is awake?"
We're interrupted by the joyous cry of a familiar female voice. Guenevere bursts into the hut, her face lively and happy. "Oh, Kat, we thought you would d—"
Lance shoots her a warning look. She stops midword, but I get the picture.
"In any case, 'tis so good to have you with us once again," she coos, sitting on the other side of the bed. "Now we can travel to Camelot, and I can show you my kingdom. You didn't get to see much of it on your last visit. You will love it, Kat. I know you will. I understand Lady Nimue has figured out a way that can help you get home. What an honor for me to be a part of it all! I will learn the required ceremony well, Kat. Never fear; I will practice at every free moment. You shall go home, and I will be the one responsible for sending you there. I shall miss you, of course, but..."
As she babbles on in her musical voice, an overwhelming sadness settles in the pit of my stomach. So innocent. So sweet. My brain flashes back to my dream, my relentless visionlike dream.
Guenevere, burned at the stake. For treason. For sleeping with Lancelot.
I look from the queen to my knight. Would they? Could they? I now know from Nimue's words that Guenevere's marriage to the king is nothing more than a political arrangement to keep the Christians out of Camelot. So does that mean her heart does not really belong to Arthur? Could she fall in love with Lancelot? Am I really the only one who can stop their budding romance?
I guess I'm doing the right thing. This way Guenevere won't be burned at the stake, like in my dream. She'll remain the naive but happy, girlish queen until her dying day. And I can be with Lancelot, even if it's for only nine months, and then I get to go home. A win-win situation for all.
So why do I still feel like everything's wrong? That changing history could be a very bad thing, no matter what it gains me personally? Like maybe I should possibly mention to Lance and Guen, my only two medieval friends, what has been planned?
Too many questions—they're making my head hurt again. I shake the foreboding thoughts from my mind and smile at Lance and Guen. I ache for their innocence, suddenly feeling old and drained. But for their sake I try to stay upbeat. Why should they suffer for things they haven't even done yet?
"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" I ask, keeping my voice bright. "Cam-e-lot-ah here we come!" I sing, paraphrasing the old California song. "Right back where we started from."
And then I realize, as I watch Lance and Guen exchange amused looks at my bad singing, that nine months later I'll be right back where I started from. The good of twenty-first-century USA.
So why am I not all that excited?
###
While I'm eager to get back to Camelot, Lance and Guen insist we stay at Avalon until I regain my strength. Fine by me. I don't have any pressing plans. And what better place to waste time than on an enchanted island?
From what Guen says, I have been deliriously sick for two whole weeks. While I don't remember the time passing, the shape of my body makes me inclined to believe her. I feel like I've lost at least ten pounds. Happy-dance time! Some good has come out of the ordeal. Though, knowing me, I'll probably gain it all back and then some once I start eating again. It's so tough to stick to Atkins when protein bars have yet to be invented.
After a few more days of being stuck in bed, I start getting restless. I'm feeling much better, and I can tell my strength is returning.
"Lance," I whine when he comes for his morning visit. "I'm so bored. Can I go outside? I'd like to see Avalon in the daytime."
He smiles indulgently. "The lady has already permitted it. I have arranged for us to go riding, that you may see the island in all its majesty."
"Riding?" I wrinkle my nose. "Can't we walk? Honestly, Lance, I'm not really one for the whole horseback thing." I know I'm being a baby, but I can't help it. Riding with someone else holding the reins I can handle—though barely. But I'm so not going to be in charge of steering the thing.
I guess it stems from the incident at Billy's birthday party when I was five. His mom hired a guy to give pony rides in the backyard. I was petting the pony's nose while eating ice cream, when a cat ran underneath its legs. The pony reared up in fright, succeeding in knocking me over, scaring the shit out of me, and basically scarring me against horses for the rest of my life.
"Riding horses is a necessary part of life. You must learn to get over your fear," Lancelot scolds, interrupting my childhood reminiscing.
"I didn't say I was afraid." I frown as Lancelot raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Just... don't like them."
"Kat, you are a very brave woman. But you must learn that fear is not something to fear."
"Um, FDR would have disagreed with you. In fact, he said, the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.'"
"I do not know this FDR," says Lancelot. "But I do know that you will feel better once you have conquered your fear of horses. Perhaps you will even enjoy riding."
"Yeah, right. So not going to happen."
"I have saddled a fat Welsh pony for today's lesson," Lancelot continues, ignoring my comment. "The beast cannot run much faster than you or I. She is sure of foot and will not stumble." He rises from his seat beside me. "Get dressed and meet me at the stables," he says in a voice that leaves no room for argument.
Ooh, I love it when he gets all alpha male on me. Makes me think of what he must sound like when he's commanding Arthur's army to battle. I study his broad, sculpted backside as he exits the room. Yum. It's worth getting on a horse in exchange for some alone time with him.
After donning a simple, unadorned riding dress, I join Lancelot
at the stables (which smell to high heaven, let me tell you!), and there is, as the knight promised, a gray pony with big brown eyes and a long black mane. She's kind of cute, actually. Much less scary than the huge warhorse that Lancelot rides. I stick out my hand—tentatively at first. The pony nuzzles her nose into it.
"Hi, cutie," I whisper.
"Her name is Eleanor," Lancelot informs me. "She is old and lazy. She will give you no trouble."
"Hey, don't insult poor Ellie here," I protest, pretending to cover the pony's ears. "I'm sure she's got a lot of life left in her."
Lancelot laughs. "There is only one way to be sure, milady."
"All right, all right. Help me up."
Lancelot places his firm hands around my waist, and I rejoice in the sensation as he boosts me onto the pony. It's been way too long since I've felt those strong hands ravaging my body. Maybe if, we find a nice quiet place on the ride ... Hey—am I sidesaddle?
"No, no, no!" I protest. "I'm not riding like some girl."
"You are a girl, and you will ride like one," Lancelot tells me firmly. "Besides, this is Avalon. They have no saddles for men here."
I frown. That sucks. It's hard enough to ride a horse straight on. Now I have to look to my left to steer the thing. It's going to totally strain my neck; I know it.
Lancelot mounts his own steed and motions for me to follow him out of the stable. Luckily Ellie here seems to get the drill and follows without my having to do any steering.
We head down the path into the trees. The air is cool and crisp, and the sun warms the top of my head. I breathe in and delight in the sweet smell of honeysuckle. It's so nice to be out in the open air after weeks of being cooped up sick in a cabin. Maybe this horse thing wasn't such a bad idea after all. I reach down to pet Ellie on the neck, and she nickers her own delight.
Avalon, I discover, is even more beautiful in the daytime, dressed in emerald green with multicolored flowers strewn across the landscape.. Crystal-clear pools of water lie around every bend, many sporting waterfalls cascading into their depths.
As we walk, I ask Lancelot to tell me stories about his life, about Camelot. He complies, spinning fantastic tales of the brave young Arthur, who pulled the sword from the stone to become king of all England. How he drove the Saxons to the coast and united the British tribes into one nation of relative peace. His eyes shine as he speaks of the king; obviously he’s a huge fan of the guy.
It's really nice talking to him like this. Listening to his stories. Not worrying about the ever-mounting sexual tension between us, or the issues that passion brings up when it comes to the future. Today we're living in the moment. We're two people without pasts or futures who are simply out for a pleasant ride and enjoying each other's company. It's such a nice feeling.
He doesn't try to dominate the conversation, either, and asks plenty of questions about me and my world. He's especially fascinated by the concept of our democratic government and how even the lowest peasant has the same vote as a nobleman. He also listens attentively to my admittedly bad explanation of our judicial system.
"So the king does not rule on matters of disharmony; rather everyday peasants decide the fate of the accused?"
"Yeah. Well, they call it a jury of your peers. And everyone takes turns serving on it, not just the peasants, as you call them. Unless you can come up with a really good excuse."
"And why is this way better than ours?"
"Think about it. It's not just one high-up guy who gets to decide what happens to you. Twelve people have to agree that there's enough evidence to convict you. It cuts down on wrongful accusations, I guess. Gives the accused more rights. Like, what if he didn't do it? Or what if the king didn't like him?"
Lancelot nods his head, looking thoughtful. "I should like to share this idea with Arthur when we return, if you do not mind. He is looking to introduce a fairer system of justice to Camelot. I think he will entertain this notion with great interest. I will not, of course, inform him that it came from you, since you are to be presented to him as my sister. 'Twould seem quite odd to him for a woman to talk of politics and justice."
"So I take it we're keeping the time-travel thing on the down-low when it comes to the king?"
"Yes. He is a Christian and might condemn the idea as witchcraft and have you burned at the stake."
I gulp. "Good plan then, brother Lancelot."
He laughs heartily. "Aye, sister. Let it be so."
We ride on, and I realize I'm really enjoying this horseback thing. It's so pleasant to be outside in the fresh air, exploring the island without having to hike and get all out of breath. Ellie plods along at a steady pace and isn't even that bumpy.
I ask Lancelot to tell me another tale of Camelot. He complies, describing how he first came to the kingdom, young and eager to serve the king. Arthur welcomed him as a brother, though he was largely untrained in the ways of knighthood. A wonderful, kind man is the king, he says.
I sigh happily. Lancelot ain't so bad himself. He's brave. Strong. Loyal to the king. When he spins his tales he doesn't speak badly of others. He's not gossiping about who does what at court. He's a genuinely good person. And it's a refreshing change.
It's funny: all my life I've been attracted to jerks. Anyone who treated me well was automatically not good enough—someone to walk over and abuse. Instead I'd give my heart to total losers who would do the same to me as I did to those nice guys. I'd end up heartbroken alone, and ready to swear off guys forever.
Now I meet the most interesting, kind, wonderful guy ever, and of course he has to live in a different millennium.
"How are you enjoying your ride?" Lancelot asks, breaking me out of my reverie.
"It's all ri—" I start, then change my mind. "It's wonderful." With Lancelot I can speak the truth. I don't have to hide under my tough-girl front. I can admit that I'm wrong, and he's okay with that. "Though a little slow." I grin in challenge. "How much horsepower you think Ellie here's got in her?"
"Shall we see?" Lancelot asks, his eyes twinkling. "There is a beach not a stone's throw from here. A good place to learn your horse's power."
"Cool. Let's go."
We break out of the trees and onto a long stretch of sandy beach. The blue waters sparkle as they lick the sand. Eleanor whinnies and her steps become light. She must like the beach, too. Probably easier on the feet than all those rocks and roots in the woods.
Lancelot shows me how to flick the reins to get the horse to break into a trot. I flick, remembering only after Eleanor breaks into a full gallop that I forgot to ask him how to get her to slow down.
The wind whips through my hair as Eleanor takes off down the beach. It reminds me of the time I rode on a boyfriend's motorcycle, only much bumpier. It's hard to keep my balance, riding sidesaddle and all, but I crouch down, burying my chest in Eleanor's neck, and try to be one with the horse.
The beach scenery blurs on either side. I rejoice in the feeling of wind, of speed, of freedom. It's pure ecstasy. Why didn't I ever try to ride a horse before? This is great! When I get back to the twenty-first century, I'm so getting a horse. Can you keep horses in your garage if you convert it to a stable?
Suddenly Eleanor stops short—on a dime, actually. And I, not expecting the instant reduction of speed, follow the laws of motion and am flung forward. Pain shoots through me as I'm thrown onto the sand.
I swear, clutching my ankle. I look up at Eleanor, who is casually munching a tuft of grass. Was that why she stopped? She was hungry? "Thanks a lot," I mumble.
Lancelot is beside me, sliding off his horse and crouching to my aid, his face dark with concern. "Are you hurt, Kat?" he questions.
"My ankle," I say, pointing to the appendage in question. "I think I might have sprained it."
"Lady, I am so sorry," he says as he presses his cool fingers along my anklebone, feeling for a break. "I should not have let you gallop when you had not the experience."
"Are you kidding?" I ask. "That was freakin
g awesome!”
"You are not discouraged by your fall, then?" Lancelot questions, looking a bit puzzled. "I should have thought you would never want to set foot on a beast again after—"
"After a tiny fall? Puh-leeze, Lance. Haven't you heard the expression “get right back on the horse'?" I laugh, then wince as my ankle throbs in response. "If anything, it makes me more determined. Besides," I say, hobbling to my feet, "don't tell me you never fell off a horse."
"Aye," he agrees. "I've been thrown many a time, while training new stallions to be warhorses. But you are a—"
"A what? A woman?" I scrunch up my face in disgust. "Look, Lance, you've got to realize that in my day and time we women are no longer considered the weaker sex. In my world I'm your equal. I can do anything you can do." I pause, thinking. "Except pee standing up, of course."
Lancelot laughs—a full, hearty, throw-back-his-head kind of laugh. Then he grabs me in a fierce hug and squeezes me tight.
"Hey, watch the bruises," I protest.
"You are too wonderful, Lady Kat," he says, loosening his hold. "Proud, brave, determined. The women in court are so boring, with their gossip and embroidery and songs. They would never have remounted a steed after being thrown. They'd snivel and sob and beg me to call for a rescue party with a litter to carry them home. I have longed to meet a woman with the fortitude of a man, but never thought she existed."
"Well, in my time we're a dime a dozen," I say, feeling my cheeks heat.
"Do not fool yourself, Katherine. You are one of a kind. And, dare I say it, very beautiful as well. My lady, it is an honor to be in your presence."
He bows low. Midbow I grab his head between my hands and kiss him on the forehead. He grins and soon his lips find mine and we're kissing—enthusiastic, happy, exuberant kisses.
"My lady, I'm sorry," he says, breaking away after a moment. "You make me lose my senses. We should not—"
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 16
