A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  As we start playing, more and more knights, squires, young women, and children ask to join. Soon we have a whole team, an audience of older men and women, and a pretty good game going. Everyone's really into it, too— cheering and jeering at all the right moments.

  Hey, I've just invented team sports! They should name something after me. Maybe the courtyard could be the Kat Courtyard. But then again, I'm sure it would be only a matter of time before it gets sponsored, and they totally sell out and change Kat Courtyard to Bob the Blacksmith Courtyard or something equally lame.

  As I'm daydreaming about courtyard naming, Lancelot puts a David Beckham-worthy cross past me and right to his teammate, who proceeds to slam the ball into the back of our net. (Well, what we're pretending is a net, anyway.) The two cheer their victory, and Lancelot sticks his tongue out at me. He's having fun and not torturing himself over abandoning Arthur. That's good.

  Already winded from running around (after three months of being stuck in a castle and a tower, I've lost most of my cardio ability), I switch places with an eager teen who wants a turn at what is fast becoming the coolest thing in Camelot since sliced bread. If they were to actually have sliced bread, that is.

  I guess I shouldn't be surprised. After all, they are from England, future home of the soccer (or as they call it, football) obsessed. Maybe if I started a league, the bored knights will get out all their aggression on the field and not be so war hungry. Then Mordred would have no leverage in gaining the knights' loyalty to him over Arthur.

  I have another ulterior motive, too: to aid my British friend Aaron back home, who literally cried the day Uruguay knocked England out of the 2014 World Cup. With my help they should do better next time around. After all, I'm giving them nearly a thousand years' head start.

  I consider teaching them baseball, but I decide it's not worth bothering. In fact, it'd be a complete waste of time, considering that when America has a World Series it forgets to invite the rest of the world.

  Suddenly the trumpets blow, succeeding in ending what might otherwise have been an endless game, since I kind of forgot to introduce time limits.

  "The king returns!" announces the trumpeter. "He is within sight."

  Cheers erupt from the soccer players. They rush off to their chambers, preparing to dress in their best clothes for court. Lancelot's happy sports face crumples into a mask of sorrow mixed with fear.

  "Lance," I say, laying a hand on his arm. "Everything's going to be fine. We're talking Arthur here. He loves you like a brother. He's totally going to understand that you did what you had to do."

  "Aye,” he says, not looking a bit convinced. "He may understand. But what of Mordred? I must inform the lad that I have slain his mother. He will want blood payment for the crime. He may challenge me."

  "He won't." I snort. "He's too much of a coward to fight you man-to-man. He's all into his designer tunics and big talk. I've never seen him pick up a sword in his life. And if he is idiot enough to try it, you'll whip his fancy little ass in no time."

  "But he is the king's son," moans Lancelot. "I cannot kill him. Or maim him even."

  "Look, Lance, you're beating yourself up over something that hasn't even happened," I say, sliding easily into self-help mode. "That kind of unhealthy, negative thinking can lead to major stress and even physical health problems." Wow, I sound pretty smart. I should write a book when I get back to the twenty-first century.

  He looks at me, eyebrows raised. "Ah, well, you should know, always worrying about a relationship developing between the queen and me."

  I blush. "Yeah, well, that's different. I'm from the future. I know you and Guen are supposed to have a thing. I mean, I hope you never do, but, well, all the storybooks say—"

  He takes my hand in his and pulls it to his lips, pressing down in a fervent kiss. The sudden gesture sends a thrill down my spine and makes me completely lose my train of thought.

  "I do want you to know," he says earnestly, meeting my eyes, "that whatever happens, I do not regret my actions. I would save you all over again if I had the need to. I love you, Kat."

  "And all you need is love," I say back, plagiarizing the Beatles for lack of other witty, romantic repartee.

  I can only hope I'm right.

  ###

  "His crime is treason against my father, King Arthur, high king of Britain. He deserves to be banished from Camelot."

  I'm surprised to hear quite a few court attendees murmur their agreement at Mordred's brash statement. The young prince's popularity in Camelot is increasing, and he's evidently set on using that power to get rid of the knights who remain loyal to his father. Knights like Lancelot. And Lance's leaving Arthur's side to rescue me gives Mordred the perfect excuse to try to oust him.

  I bite my lower lip. This is not going well. Lancelot has stood before the court and explained his actions. He has begged pardon of the king. Now Arthur has opened up the floor to hear opinions on how he should rule. It's his attempt at democracy—my idea. Now I wish I had never brought up the concept of giving everyone a voice, because then we wouldn't have to hear Mordred's whiny one.

  "He saved my life," I butt in from my position on the sidelines. Damn it, if everyone gets a voice, then that means I do, too. "I'm his sister. You think he should have stood around and let his own sister die?"

  "If 'twere for the good of Camelot, aye." Mordred says, sitting back down on his throne. "What is one life when the kingdom is at stake?"

  "Puh-leeze!" I roll my eyes. "The kingdom was so not at stake. You guys had, like, five hundred soldiers there."

  Mordred frowns. He knows I've got him. He turns to Arthur on his left. "Who let this woman into court?" he demands. " 'Tis a forum for men only. Why is she not with the others, making preparations for winter? If she had kept to her place to begin with, we would not even be here, debating this."

  "Yeah, well, if you're going to go there, how about the fact that if your mama hadn't been an evil, vindictive witch who liked to sacrifice innocent girls, I never would have needed rescuing in the first place," I say, stepping forward to stand beside my "brother," Lance.

  Mordred's mouth drops open in shock. Oh, shit. I suddenly remember Lancelot hadn't exactly mentioned who my kidnapper was yet. My big mouth strikes again.

  "His mother?" Arthur questions. "You mean to tell the court that the druid who deemed fit to sacrifice you to the goddess was Queen Morgause, my sister?"

  "Yeah. Morgause, Morgan Le Fay, Evil Woman Who Tried to Kill Me, whatever name she's going by now," I say, trying to sound casual. I had kind of forgotten the witch was Arthur's half sister. "She's—"

  "You killed her," Mordred interrupts, staring at Lancelot with icy dagger eyes. "You killed my mother."

  "She was attempting to kill my sister at the time," Lancelot says, firmly meeting Mordred's eyes with his own. "By her actions, she chose her destiny. I did only what I had to do to save the life of my dearest kin."

  I actually think I see steam coming out of Mordred's ears, making him look kind of like Wile E. Coyote. I feel a tiny bit bad for him. After all, losing one's mother has got to suck big-time. But what else was Lance going to do? Try to talk her out of it?

  "I challenge you, Sir Lancelot," Mordred says suddenly, rising from his throne. "I demand blood justice for my mother's murder. Name your time and place and bring your favorite sword."

  Lancelot groans, shaking his head in protest. "Do not do this, Mordred. I do not want to kill you."

  "I should like to see you try."

  "Mordred, you know I am the best knight in the land, and you are untrained with a sword," Lancelot tries to reason with him.

  "You are so sure of yourself, du Lac?"

  Arthur breaks in. "Silence!" he commands.

  Everyone shuts up immediately.

  "I have seen enough blood spilled already to last a lifetime," Arthur says in a hard but calm voice. "I have united Britain. I have ratified treaties with the Saxons. I will not let civil unrest between my
knights and my kin tear apart all I have built up."

  It's times like these that you know why Arthur's the king. Why, I bet if the guy had been king instead of King Solomon back in biblical times, he could have totally come up with that whole cut-the-baby-in-half thing on his own. I can see why Guen's so taken with him. He's strong, commanding, but fair and kind at the same time. A total winning combo.

  "Mordred," Arthur continues. "My son. I am so sorry for your mother's loss. She was my kin as well. I promise she will be given a proper burial, and we will well honor her and the kingdom of Orkney. But please withdraw your challenge against Sir Lancelot. I cannot afford to lose either of you. There will be tough times ahead, and we need to be united, not divided."

  Mordred frowns, but I think he knows he got off easy. He's proven his point and isn't stuck fighting the best knight in the land. "Very well, my king," he says, bowing stiffly. "For your sake, I withdraw the challenge."

  "And Lancelot," Arthur says, "while you had noble intentions, leaving your post without reporting first to me is ill-advised at best. Did you think I would not have let you go if you had asked to take your leave? On the contrary, I would have offered you a small army to protect your sister. I only hope next time you will trust your king's judgment."

  Lancelot hangs his head in shame. "Yes, my lord."

  "Your actions cannot go unpunished. However, I think banishment too harsh a penance to pay for saving one's sister," Arthur continues. "Besides, as I said before, I need you in my service. Therefore, I command that you make monetary reparation to the kingdom of Orkney, which has now lost its queen. I also ask that you withdraw your application for this year's jousting tournament. Finally, I command you spend three nights fasting with Bishop Mallory on your knees by the altar of Christ, praying that he forgive you for your sins against God and king."

  I see Lancelot sigh in visible relief. I'm sure he's not psyched to do the whole Christian-confession thing, him being a goddess worshiper and all, but it could have been a lot worse.

  "Yes, my lord," he says to Arthur, bowing low. "I thank you for your fair discipline. And I vow to you 'twill never happen again while I am in your service."

  Arthur smiles down at him. You can tell what good friends they are. Of course, so can Mordred, and he looks pissed at the very light sentence. As court breaks for dinner, I see the prince huddling around several of the other knights, including his Orkney half brothers Gawain and Agravaine. All three are whispering furiously.

  "There is trouble ahead for Camelot," Lancelot says in my ear as he watches them alongside me, "Arthur should keep a close watch on his son."

  I can't help but agree, and wish I had paid more attention in school, so I'd know just what this specific trouble entails.

  Chapter 18

  Spring is beautiful in Camelot. The birds chirp. The flowers bloom. Everything is green and unspoiled and wonderful. And everyone's in a great mood, too, relieved to be out and about after being cooped up all winter.

  On his days off from training, Lancelot and I spend long, lazy hours away from the castle, riding to a remote spot, picnicking by a lively babbling brook, making love on a large woven blanket. Heaven. I almost forget at times that I ever lived anywhere else.

  On one especially warm day, I get the idea to lie outside and try to get a tan. I'm not normally a tanner—it's so unhealthy for your skin and all—but I figure in medieval times the ozone layer must still be pretty darn thick, since aerosol has yet to be invented, and so the skin-cancer risk should be way down. Also, this way, when I get back to NYC I won't need to stock up on any bronzing lotion, and everyone will be jealous, thinking I've been to Bermuda or somewhere else tropical.

  Of course, tanning in a gown is pretty useless, so I grab a needle and thread and sew myself a two-piece, using material from an old dress. It's tough to create without a pattern or elastic, but I manage to come up with a cute little design. It's probably not seaworthy, but for tanning it'll do.

  I find a vacant tower top, once used as a lookout when the country was at war, and spread out a wool blanket. I lie down, wishing I had sunglasses. But right as I close my eyes and prepare to bake, I hear a startled voice cry my name. I sit up. Guenevere is standing above me, hands on her hips and a horrified expression on her face.

  "Kat? What on earth are you doing?”

  "Tanning." I brush a hand over my arm. "I don't want to be this white."

  She scrunches her face in confusion. "You mean to say you desire to become as brown as a peasant woman?"

  "I don't know about the peasants." I shrug, sitting up. "But where I'm from, tanned is considered sexy, attractive, though somewhat deadly. But then, there's always a heavy price to pay for beauty."

  Guenevere shudders. "Here, white skin is prized above all. In fact"—she lowers her voice—"there have been times when I have gone so far as to bleach my skin to ensure 'tis white as the winter snow. But please keep that knowledge to yourself. The queen should be naturally pale as the moonlight and need no enhancement."

  "Yeah, you're probably better off with the whole white look," I agree. "Besides the whole cancer thing, the sun also causes wrinkles." Not that these people live long enough to get any. The average dying age in medieval times, I was horrified to hear, is, like, forty-something. I mean, people can still have babies when they're forty in my time. They don't even qualify for the senior discount at Denny's for at least fifteen more years.

  "However, I was not asking about your skin, but rather your gown. Or," she corrects, "your lack of it."

  I laugh. "It's called a bathing suit."

  "Bathing suit?" she questions. "Something to wear when you bathe?"

  "Well, no. We still bathe naked, like you guys do. It's actually for when you swim, like in a river or the ocean. Or to lie out in, since you get more sun exposure without being all covered up."

  "You would go in front of others in this bathe suit? It barely covers your..." Guenevere gestures to her private parts, her eyes wide.

  "That's what makes it sexy."

  Guenevere raises an eyebrow. "Do men like these bathe suits, then?" She's interested now. Probably thinking of Arthur—turning Arthur on with skimpy outfits, to be precise. I did mention that thanks to me they're majorly in love with each other, right? I'm talking Romeo-and-Juliet-level love, without the whole messy suicide part.

  "Hell, yeah, men like bathing suits. In fact, in my time there was a whole TV show dedicated to them. They called it Baywatch."

  "TV? What is—"

  Why do I bother? "Never mind. It's not important." Well, actually it is. In fact, I'd rank the television right up there with the most important inventions of all time. But it'd be way too hard to explain electronics to someone like Guen. I'll stick to bathing suits.

  "So where did you get this suit to bathe?" Guenevere crouches down to her knees to examine the fabric.

  "I made it."

  She looks impressed. "I am sorry, Kat. If I had known you were such a good seamstress, I would have not stuck you in the kitchen during the preparations for winter."

  "No biggie. But yeah, I was a fashion major in college. We needed to make our own clothes. I'm quite handy with a needle and thread, actually."

  "Will you make me a bathe suit?"

  "I thought you didn't want to get your skin all brown?"

  She blushes. "I mean, so I can wear it for Arthur," she says in a hushed voice.

  "Ooh!" I throw her a knowing grin. "So we are no longer going shyly to the marriage bed, I take it?"

  Her blush deepens at my implication. "I am learning to love like a woman," she admits. "And Kat, I must admit, I have never known such rapture could be attained by mere mortals."

  "Glad to hear it," I say. "But I don't think you're looking for a bathing suit if your goal is to seduce Arthur."

  "Am I not? Do you have another idea, then?"

  "Do I?" I scramble to my feet. "You'd better believe it. I'm a fashion editor, remember? Okay, maybe you have no idea what th
at is, but I'll show you." I nod my head eagerly, thinking about what I can do. "It's makeover time, Guen. When I'm through with you, you'll be the very first fashionista in King Arthur's court."

  ###

  Several hours of a nontelevised Fashion Emergency episode later, the queen emerges from her bedroom, looking rather sheepish and red-faced in her saucy new threads.

  I whistle in appreciation. "You go, girl!"

  "Go where?" she asks, all wide eyes and innocence. I laugh.

  "Go directly to Milan. Paris. New York City. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Wow, Guen. You could so be a model. Look at you!"

  I size her up. She's successfully hidden a stunning pair of legs under her gowns this whole time. Her long torso compliments the ultra-low-rise skirt I've sewn. It hangs perfectly from her lean hips, showing off her flat stomach. (How'd she get that nice muscle tone without an Ab Roller?) And I'm a bit jealous of how her breasts fill out the corseted D & G top I let her borrow in a way mine never could. Back in good old Connecticut I thought I'd looked good wearing that top at the King Arthur's Faire, but Guen is stunning.

  It's funny how much clothes define people and their time period. Looking at Guen now, you'd never know she's a medieval queen. She could be an NYU student in Central Park. A surfer babe at Malibu Beach. Actually, with her long, white-blond hair and tummy-baring outfit, she kind of looks like a petite Paris Hilton.

  "What is a model?" the queen asks curiously as she skips over to me, playfully kicking out her feet. Evidently she's enjoying the freedom bare legs can give a girl. I only wish I had some panty hose for her.

  "In my time we have women whose whole job is to wear clothes," I explain.

  "But why?"

  "To show them off so other people will buy them."

  "Oh. I see. What a lovely job." She grins. "And where do they do this wearing of clothes? In the main hall of the castle?"

  "No one lives in castles anymore, Guen. Well, the royal family of England does, I suppose, but I doubt they have models hanging around, strutting their stuff. Well, that is, unless Prince Harry’s in town ..." I'm getting off track. "In any case, usually they model clothing at special shows. And there's, like, a long stage—what they call a runway." I jump up to demonstrate. "And the women walk down the runway like this." I stick out my chin and sway my hips, doing my best catwalk impression, "And everyone sits on each side and claps."