A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  I bite my lower lip. "What?"

  "I think you must be confused over my words, I cannot go back to the twenty-first century with you."

  ###

  Bastard! Fucking bastard!

  I grab Guen's veil and throw it over my head as I storm toward the door. Lancelot calls out to me, but I ignore him. There's absolutely nothing more to say to the loser. I slam the door behind me, no longer caring who hears.

  I can't believe I ever let myself trust him. Allowed myself to fall in love. This is why—precisely why—I don't get into serious relationships. Guys suck. They're selfish. They think only of themselves. Bastard!

  I can't believe he thought the entire time that I was saying that I would stay in Camelot. That I was asking if he wanted to get freaking married, not come back with me! Why the hell would I want to stay in Camelot? The place is a freaking shithole without flush toilets. Here I am offering him the travel opportunity of the millennium, and he wants to stay here out of some ridiculous displaced loyalty to the stupid king.

  " ‘The king needs me,'" I mimic under my breath. Utterly pathetic. Like the king doesn't have a billion other knights in shining armor knocking down the castle doors. Why, he'd be able to hire a replacement immediately. Wouldn't even need to send out for a temp. And besides, Lance would be giving way more than two weeks' notice.

  "Oh!"

  Lost in my anger and hurt, I'm not looking where I'm going, and I slam straight into a person walking in the other direction. I look up. Oh, great, it's flaming straight boy Mordred. Just what I need.

  Maybe Mordred should come back to the future with me instead. He'd probably appreciate the opportunity to try something new and not be so pigheadedly stuck in his ways. Maybe it'd even help him come to terms with the closet he's in. I know plenty of guys who would love to help him find his way out of it.

  "Your Majesty, I am sorry." I raise my eyebrows in surprise as he steps back and bows stiffly. "I was remiss in looking where I was going."

  It suddenly dawns on me: the veil. He thinks I'm Guenevere. Thank goodness. Now I can duck out of here and escape hearing him bitch at me about my murderous brother or my failure to act like a proper lady in court.

  I nod at him, not wanting to give myself away by speaking, and walk by, I know it's rude, but I'll have Guen apologize tomorrow or something. Right now I need to get out of here. Get back to my room before I burst into tears.

  I feel his stare burning a hole in my back as I continue down the hall. Thank goodness for this veil. I seriously could not have dealt with him right now.

  I turn my thoughts away from the prince and back to Lancelot's lame-ass excuses. I mean, I was so sure he'd say yes that I'd been mentally picking out china patterns for our wedding in the Hamptons. But I was wrong. This is what I get for trusting a guy.

  I arrive at my room and swing open the door, throwing myself onto my bed. So unfair. Where does he get off expecting me to stay here? Tears run like rivers down my cheeks, and my nose gets all stuffed up and runny. I hate crying. It makes my eyes look puffy and gross, and I don't have any cucumbers to put over them to bring down the swelling. But I can't help it. It hurts so much to know that the guy I am so in love with doesn't want to spend his life with me. I knew it was too good to be true. I should have let him fall in love with Guenevere. Not that she deserves his shit either. She's got Arthur. I bet he'd give up his entire kingdom if she asked.

  I ache. I literally ache inside. I feel like vomiting. I try to control myself, rein it all in, but I can't, knowing that soon I will never talk to him again, never make love to him or laugh with him. I must separate myself from him for the rest of my Camelot prison sentence. Keep a distance. There's no way I'm letting him have his cake and eat it too. If he's not willing to sacrifice for me, I'm not willing to share myself with him.

  And soon I'll be gone for good. Then I'll never see him again. Ever. It's not like twenty-first-century breakups, where I might run into him at Starbucks. I can't spy on what he's up to by checking his Facebook updates.

  Because when I get back to the twenty-first century, Lancelot will be dead. Long, long dead before I am ever born.

  ###

  I wake up the next morning feeling like I've run a marathon. In a way I have—a sleep-deprivation one, anyway. All night I tossed and turned, thinking about Lancelot and his refusal to go back with me. And when I finally did get a minute or two of sleep, wouldn't you know I was completely haunted by bad dreams. In my dreams, unlike in reality, Lancelot had come to the future with me. Which would be a good thing if he didn't insist on wearing a pink tutu around Manhattan. The shrinks would have a field day with my brain.

  I get dressed and walk down to Guenevere's room. I'm sure she'll be more than willing to let me bitch about my guy troubles. After all, I listened and gave her good advice when it came to her and Arthur. She's actually become quite the friend here in Camelot. I'll definitely miss her when I'm gone.

  Ina escorts me inside and then disappears into the next room. I find the queen sitting alone at a large table, hands cupping her chin, looking glum. She misses Arthur; I can tell. I wonder when he's coming back from London.

  I plop down beside her and toss the veil in her direction. "Here. You can have it back. The 'irresistible' thing didn't work for me. Maybe you have to be a queen or something."

  She looks up. "Things did not go well with Lancelot, I take it?"

  "They couldn't have gone worse." I give her the short version of his rejection.

  "I am so sorry, Kat," Guenevere says with a long sigh. "That must have been terribly heartbreaking to endure. Perhaps he is scared and is retreating into his cave."

  "Yeah, yeah." I love it when she spouts back my psychobabble. "What's wrong with you?" I ask, deciding to change the subject.

  "I do not know," she says. "But something bad is brewing inside the castle walls this morn. Since I have awoken, I have been given the strangest stares. I walked in on Gawain and Agravaine whispering amongst themselves. They stopped talking the second they saw me. Their faces looked guilty. I wonder what game is afoot?"

  "Who knows?" I say with a shrug. "They're probably plotting their jousting strategies. The tournament's in a couple weeks, right? I wouldn't worry too much about it."

  "You are right, I am sure. It was just... odd." She sighs. "I will be happy when Arthur is back from London. Camelot is not the same without him."

  I smile. "You really love him, don't you?"

  "Aye." She glances over at me with shining eyes. "More than anything."

  I shake my head. "You're so lucky. Your relationship is, like, way simple compared to Lance and me."

  "You once said you had thought of staying here. What of that?" Guenevere asks.

  I nod reluctantly. "Of course I've thought about it. But I don't know. I have a life there. A family. A dog. I can't abandon them all. And there is so much stuff I'd be missing out on, too. The twenty-first century has a lot of amazing stuff you guys can't even imagine."

  "Perhaps Lancelot feels the same way."

  "You'd think, but no, he's perfectly content to stay in the dark ages."

  "No," Guenevere corrects me. "What I mean is that perhaps he feels attached to his own time, the same as you are to yours."

  Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. She's totally right. Even though I, who have experienced both worlds, think going to the twenty-first century is a moving-on-up situation, Lancelot has no idea if it's better or worse than the world he lives in now—the world he loves. He has a job. Friends. A life. All the things I refuse to give up for him. Who am I to dictate that he lose everything simply because I miss shoe shopping and French manicures?

  "Oh, Guen," I moan. "What am I going to do?"

  ###

  I leave Guenevere and head down the hallway, thinking I'll take a walk or something, try to clear my head. I step out into the courtyard, squinting in the sunlight. Summer is definitely on its way, and so is my scheduled trip back to the twenty-first century. Bu
t now I'm more sad than excited.

  What should I do? Should I consider staying? But then that means I'm surrendering who I am and where I belong. Either way, if we want to stay together, one of us will have to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  I always swore I'd never again succumb to the long-distance-relationship trap after the time I hooked up with this guy from California. Now it's funny—plane tickets and massive phone bills seem inconsequential compared to my current dilemma. A geographical long-distance relationship would be a hell of a lot easier to put up with than a time-differential one.

  As I walk toward the castle gates, I come upon two of the Orkney knights—the big, beefy Gawain and the sniveling Agravaine—whispering furiously. Hmm, Guen was right. Something is foul in Camelot.

  Sensing the potential for good gossip, I sidle up to the knights and clear my throat to make my presence known. After all, while they may shy away from informing the queen of dirty doings in her kingdom, surely they won't mind enlightening Lance's very charming visiting sister.

  "Good morn to you, Lady Kat," Gawain says, bowing respectfully. His brother Agravaine simply sneers. He doesn't like me much, namely because of the kick in the balls I gave him on my first day in Camelot. I've apologized for that, like, ten thousand times, but King Lot's son seems determined to hold a grudge. Plus, he's all friends with Mordred and stuff now, which doesn't help matters.

  "Good morning, Gawain." I smile pleasantly. Gawain, on the other hand, is like a big, gentle giant. A fierce teddy bear—all brawn, no brains, and loyal to Arthur to a fault. With Lot and Morgause dead, he could have left Camelot to become king of the Orkneys, but chose to stay here in service to Arthur. "How are you enjoying the Round Table?"

  "It's a wonderful thing," Gawain gushes, nodding his head. "The idea that no knight can sit at the head. Bloody marvelous.”

  "Yes. It helps keep certain knights from putting on airs," Agravaine growls under his breath, while staring at the ground. Did I mention he doesn't like Lancelot either?

  "Oh, really? Was someone doing that?" I ask, all wide-eyed and innocent, even though I know exactly whom he's referring to. Jerk.

  "Oh, don't listen to my brother," Gawain says, slapping Agravaine on the back. The knight scowls and steps away. "He's jealous of your brother's prowess at arms."

  Agravaine looks even more pissed at this. He narrows his eyes and glares at Gawain. " ‘Tis his boasting that sours me, not his skill."

  "Yeah, yeah," I say amicably. "Well, you know how Lancelot is." As a gossip queen, I've learned it pays not to get angry and instead make them think you're on their side. Then they open up to you more and you can get the whole story.

  "I thought I did," Agravaine mutters.

  "I'm sorry, what?" I'm getting close to the good stuff; I can feel it.

  "We thought we knew your brother," Gawain butts in. "The only knight who would not take a lady to his bed. Pure as the driven snow."

  The other knights, I had learned, were not so honorable as Lance when it came to damsel rescuing. He might have the whole celibacy thing going on before he met me, but from what I've heard, most knights would screw anything in a skirt, whether Arthur approved of it or not.

  "Yeah, he's an honorable one, that's for sure." Though not so virginal as you might imagine, I think as I try to visualize their shock if they saw Lance and me together.

  "Ah, then you do not know your brother as well as you think," Agravaine replies, a twisted smile distorting his hideous, battle-scarred face.

  "I don't?" I put on an innocent expression. Here it is— the big gossip of the day. What the hell is it going to be? They obviously haven't figured out Lance and I are a couple, since they're not treating me oddly. So what then?

  "Well, you see, it turns out the great Lancelot du Lac is not so honorable after all," Agravaine says, rubbing his palms together in glee. He's really enjoying this. "In fact, it turns out he is a traitor to Camelot."

  I raise my eyebrows, beginning to get a little worried. Are they still talking about the whole abandoning-Arthur thing? He did his punishment. How about we move on? Unless there's something else?

  "A traitor? How so?" I ask.

  Gawain frowns. "Brother, maybe we shouldn't—"

  But I can tell Agravaine's determined to finish telling whatever sordid tale he has up his sleeve. "Late last night the crown prince Mordred caught Queen Guenevere leaving Lancelot's bedroom. The two of them are lovers."

  "What? But it was—"

  I gasp as I remember the veil. Seeing Mordred. Pretending to be the queen so he wouldn't talk to me.

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter 20

  I had to say something. Correct their mistaken identity. Oh, why hadn't I opened my mouth when I saw Mordred in the hall? Now I've screwed everything up, just because I didn't want him to yell at me. Stupid, Kat. Truly stupid.

  I have to make things right. To come clean.

  "That wasn't Guenevere," I say, trying to sound casual. They're never going to believe this. No way in hell. "That was me."

  Both knights stare at me as if I've lost my mind.

  " ‘Tis noble of you to try to protect your brother and your friend," Gawain says gently. "But Mordred has made no mistake. He saw the queen with his own two eyes and has sworn to it on his mother's grave."

  "Well, sure, I know he thought it was the queen," I argue. "Because I pretended to be her. And I was wearing her veil."

  "The queen gave you her veil?" Agravine looks suspicious.

  "Yes. It was a gift."

  "Show us."

  "Well..." Damn it. "I actually gave it back to her this morning."

  They exchange bemused glances. "Do you expect us to believe Queen Guenevere gifted her royal veil to you? That you then walked around the castle late at night pretending to be her and paid a visit to your brother?" demands Agravaine. "Only to give her back the veil the next morn?"

  "Well, um, yes!" Though I have to admit it sounds pretty far-fetched when he puts it that way.

  Gawain raises an eyebrow. "But why?"

  Should I tell them? What would they do to me if they knew I've been lying to them all along? That I'm not Lance's sister, but actually his lover? Could Lance get in trouble for lying to the king? Even so, isn't it better to get in a little trouble now than let fester a rumor that has the potential to lead to the downfall of Camelot?

  I can't make the decision on my own. I don't have all the info. For all I know, lying about one's brother could get one burned at the stake. Especially if they think that I am a spy, and Lancelot has been aiding me the whole time. As much as I want to save Camelot, I'm so not dying for the place. Plus, I don't want to get Lance in trouble again. Mordred would probably take the opportunity to further his Lancelot-should-be-banished campaign.

  "Well, fine. You don't have to believe me," I say, putting on a hurt expression. "Believe that sniveling inbred moron instead, for all I care."

  "The problem, you see," says Agravaine with a sneer, "is that Mordred has no reason to lie. You, on the other hand, have a brother and friend to protect."

  Touch. "I know how it must look," I protest. "But trust me, it isn't true. Guenevere is madly in love with Arthur and is dying for him to come back from London. She's got no interest in Lancelot whatsoever."

  "If you say it, lady," Agravaine says with a patronizing smile, "it must be so."

  Oh, forget it! There's no convincing these guys. I give Agravaine a dirty look and stomp back into the castle, trying to still the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

  This is bad. Really bad. I mean, what good is it for Guen and Lance to never fall in love if everyone believes they have? Same result without the orgasms: end of Camelot.

  Nimue's going to be so pissed when she hears of this. I can't say I blame her. What had I been thinking, pretending to be the queen? Of course, I hadn't known Mordred actually saw me leave Lancelot's room.... Still, all the rationalizing in the world doesn't make a difference now. The rumors have begun. />
  I wonder if this means I have to go back and do this, all over again, like in Star Trek, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Star-gate SG-I, and every other TV series' requisite stuck-in-a-time-loop episode. Will I remember that I've done it before? Come to think of it, maybe I already have and just don't remember. Maybe this is my billionth time of looping, and I've still messed it up.

  The thought makes me want to throw up. I don't want to do this over and over again. I want to go home and live a normal life. I want to drink mojitos on South Beach. Go on safari in Africa. Seek wisdom in Tibet. Hell, I even want to visit Stonehenge—but in a touristy drive-there-and-hit-the-pub-for-a-pint-of-Guinness-afterward kind of way. There's so much in the twenty-first century that I have never gotten to experience, and I'm dying to go back to do so.

  There's only one thing I can do now: come clean to Lancelot. He'll know what to do. These are his people. Maybe he'll say, "Oh, sure, Kat, let's tell them about us. It's no big deal. We'll sort everything out."

  Somehow I doubt it will be that easy.

  If only I hadn't left things such a total mess between us. Why, oh, why did I storm out of his room last night? I could have stayed, talked it through. Listened to his side of the story. Then not only would I not be worried about telling him the rumor right now, but there would be no rumor to tell, since Mordred wouldn't have seen me and mistaken me for Guenevere.

  After vowing never to let my explosive temper get the better of me again, I swallow my pride and head for Lancelot's chambers. My heart pounds as I knock on the door. Will he welcome me in? I wouldn't blame him if he didn't, after the temper tantrum I threw last night. In the light of day it all seems so petty and immature. Why couldn't I have had a normal conversation with him? A debate, if you will, on the pros and cons of each millennium? But no, I had to storm out the second he told me he couldn't abandon his life at Camelot, even though my doing so proved I felt the same way about my life.

  Mature, Kat. Real mature.

  The door creaks open. Lancelot's fully dressed, but his droopy, red eyes tell me he hasn't had much sleep.