by April Hill
"You have had only a small taste of the cane this day," he said ominously. "And when we speak again on this matter, which we will, you will provide answers, unless it is your wish to have your buttocks strapped raw."
My buttocks and I were in complete agreement. I would tell the man anything he wanted.
At which point, he ordered me thrown across the broad shoulder of one of the guards and carried back to the squalid barn where Edward and I had first been taken upon our arrival. It was time for the mid-day meal, the mock Arthur explained, and his wife awaited his presence in the Great Hall. I assumed that the role of the "fair Guinevere" would be played by the actress we had seen earlier that day in the wagon, but wisely refrained from comment.
When I was finally returned to the barn, upside down, my drawers all a'tangle and my bottom on fire, I found Edward confined once again in the foul-smelling cell. When the door was opened and I was thrust inside, Edward leaped up and threw his arms about me.
"My God, Abigail!" he cried. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," I said sullenly, "for me. And yes, I am quite all right, with the possible exception of having been flogged black and blue by a deranged thespian built like Quasimodo."
"Red, not at all pretty, but no serious bruises," Edward concluded, dismissing the injuries to my throbbing bottom with a hasty and not especially sympathetic inspection. "I believe this may have been meant as a warning, to me."
"Well, of course," I pouted. "Everything would be about you, now, wouldn't it? Since I am so notoriously dim-witted, slow, and imbecilic."
"What did you tell them?" Edward asked, ignoring my snide remarks. "Did you tell them about the Time Machine?"
"Of course I told them, darling, " I smirked. "It wasn't sufficient to be scourged within an inch of my life and have all of my major orifices violated, I was hoping to be burned at the stake as a witch, as well! Of course, I didn't tell them about the idiotic Time Machine. And will you please stop calling it that? That preposterous device is no more capable of time travel than I am of making an edible soufflé. "
By this point, however, I had begun to have rather serious doubts, and my previous conviction that we had simply wandered into a bizarre group of daft and overzealous actors with an unpleasant penchant for spanking was crumbling a bit at the edges. I was sufficiently stubborn not to want to admit it to Edward, but I had begun to entertain the possibility of the impossible, and it wasn't in the least entertaining.
And if Edward were correct? If we had landed in some unfathomable manner in another age–The Arthurian Age, according to Edward– how were we to get out of it, and when?
I was pondering this problem when, to our very great surprise, we were invited to supper with the king. I, of course, had nothing to wear.
Not a quarter of an hour after I reported this to the gnome (whose disappointment at being deprived of the pleasure of "flaying me alive" was apparent in his nasty scowl), a messenger arrived with the great tidings that Edward and I were to be escorted to the castle-fortress, and provided suitable quarters, and a proper change of clothing.
"What did you say to him?" Edward asked in amazement, as we were led through the vast fortress to our new accommodations. "To bring about this change of heart?"
"It's remarkable how little of our conversation I recall," I hissed. "Having spent most of our audience upended over the imaginary Majesty's Round Table, having my dainty ass caned and vilely buggered by the filthy fingers of everyone who chose to have a go at it."
"Oh," said Edward. Edward doesn't usually like it when I speak coarsely, and has been known to attend quickly and painfully to my bottom when I use certain words in his presence (bugger, specifically), but now, he appeared to be distracted. "Could you lower your voice a bit, darling. We don't want anyone to think we're not grateful for the king's hospitality."
With the evidence of the king's hospitality making it just the tiniest bit difficult to walk properly, I waddled along beside Edward as we were shown into a small but comfortably furnished room with a large wooden bed and a window overlooking the surrounding valley. I stood on a stool and looked out, but as far as I could see in any direction, there was nothing at all to see, other than crookedly tilled fields connected here and there by a narrow pathway. There were no roads and no houses, other than an occasional crude stone cottage with a roof of thatch or sod, no teashops, nor greengrocers, nor tobacconists, no motorcars, no street lamps, and no streets–no twentieth century at all.
Supper was a splendid affair, if one is fond of eating half-burnt, half-raw presumable mutton with one's fingers. I say presumable, because the meat presented to us on wooden trenchers was dripping with grease, was of undetermined origin and was incinerated beyond all recognition. Still, we were being fed, and despite my recent flogging, Edward and I had in some inscrutable way now been transformed from villainous spies to honored guests. We were given seats immediately to the right and to the left of the king and his lady, at a long wooden table in the great hall. The king's lady and I were the only women in attendance, and I saw at once that she was the same woman who had prevented our being cruelly dragged behind her wagon after our capture. If Edward's theory about all of this were correct (and I was slowly beginning to share that theory), then the beautiful young woman with whom I was now chatting so amiably would be the famed Queen Guinevere. The lady seemed, for all her renown, no less friendly and gracious now than when first we met, but… (and I say this with enormous reluctance), the lady was also uncommonly, surpassingly stupid.
On my left sat an uncommonly, surpassingly handsome, dark-haired knight who spoke not one word all evening, ate very little, and seemed, in fact, quite glum. He was a gentleman of some refinement, evidently, because he stood up in a mannerly fashion when I took my seat, and bowed, which is more than can be said of the other men in the vast hall. (Most of the attendees at this peculiar banquet seemed to have the table manners of snarling mongrels, all of them belching at will, and hurling their gnawed bones on the floor as though none of them had mothers.) When I learned this mannerly French knight's identity later in the evening, Lancelot du Lac, I immediately remembered the small, furtive looks that had passed at dinner between that gentleman and the lady queen. If I had still harbored any remaining doubts about Edward's theory, the lustful, longing glances that had passed between these two quickly changed my thinking. Edward and I had indeed wandered into history, and a great deal more than that.
"When we have supped," the queen whispered to me, over a dessert of what appeared to be squashed leeches. (Edward said they were figs in a yeast pudding. I would have preferred the squashed leeches.) "I shall see that you have footwear and a proper wardrobe." I was becoming tired of traipsing about everywhere on one shoe, and thanked her at length for her concern. "My husband says you have traveled from afar. A distant kingdom, perhaps?" she asked.
Not as far as you might imagine, I thought bitterly, if you could find a number 14 motorbus.
When the meal was over, there was entertainment, of sorts, a kind of juggling act, and a cockfight. Thankfully, the king and his consort asked us to join them in a small, cozier sitting room before the fowl bloodshed began. For some moments, we sat uncomfortably in the seats provided until suddenly, "Arthur" spoke up, and his words explained why we were being treated so differently, now.
"My guards have this very morning discovered a device of exceedingly strange design beneath the bridge where you were found," he said bluntly. Edward and I exchanged nervous glances, which did not escape the king's notice.
"I am a man given to scientific study," he went on, "yet in my lifetime, I have never heard of a device of this peculiar nature, as the thing was described to me." Suddenly, he stabbed his finger into the center of Edward's chest and thrust a crude sketch of the machine before Edward's eyes. "This device. It is of your manufacture, sir, or is it not?"
Edward cleared his throat, and studied the sketch before answering. For one moment, I t
hought he would deny any knowledge of the machine, as I was hoping he would.
Edward nodded. "Yes, sir, it is my design, but only in part." I closed my eyes. Now, of course, we would be dragged out and burned at the stake. What a shame that Uncle Herbert wasn't here to share in this, the final, grand reward of his silly experiment run amuck.
"It the device a weapon of war?" the king demanded.
"No, sir, not at all," Edward cried. "Nor of witchcraft, nor of the occult."
And then, to my untold relief, Arthur laughed heartily and slapped Edward on the shoulder. "I believe in neither of those foolish things, good fellow, although I would not have that widely known. I must needs ask you to keep my confidences in this matter."
"Of course, Your Majesty," said Edward with an ever-so-slight bow.
Arthur stroked his beard. "But, if it is not meant to wage war, what is the thing's purpose, then?"
Edward hesitated, and glanced at me, as though for permission. I sighed and nodded–in for a penny, in for a pound.
"It is a kind of vehicle," Edward began.
The king looked perplexed. "A vehicle, you say. Possessed of neither wheels nor undercarriage? To my eye, the thing doth but sit upon the ground, incapable of movement lest it be dragged behind a draft animal or pulled along the road by strong men."
"Not on the ground, sire, nor on a road, but..." I closed my eyes tightly, and prayed as Edward's next words came. "Through the air."
Arthur stared. "A device that flies? As might a bird?"
"Not precisely," Edward said softly. And then, he explained everything.
It took perhaps half an hour to relate the story of our accidental departure and our abrupt arrival at the king's court, and of the machine's misbegotten history. It was another twenty minutes while the man I now absolutely believed to be the famed King Arthur sat with his head in his hands, thinking. During this time, neither Edward nor myself, nor the queen, said anything, but simply waited for Arthur to speak again.
"The year 1909 A.D., you say?" he asked finally. Edward nodded.
"You are remembered in that age, sire, with great respect," Edward said. "And your reign revered as a time of justice and noble intentions."
The king lifted his head and smiled wearily. "Intentions, only?"
Before Edward could answer, the king was on his feet. "To bed, then. On the morrow, I shall see this wondrous scientific thing for myself, and you will demonstrate it for my own curious eyes."
* * * *
But, the English weather showed itself not to have changed markedly in 1400 years, and the morning brought torrential rain. When the following day's weather showed no improvement, the expedition to investigate the machine was postponed. Chafing with the delay, the king spent both days in nagging at Edward for details of the future, and closeted together in the king's private chamber, the two men had a merry time of it. I, on the other hand, managed to bring disaster and mayhem down on our heads by becoming much, much too friendly with the nitwit queen.
"It's all I could do not to explain to him how to construct a modern rifle," Edward complained later, when we were once again alone in our quarters. "Or how to generate electricity. He's unbelievably intelligent and quick."
"Well, why on Earth didn't you," I asked. "Wouldn't that sort of knowledge help him to win his battles? He's a good king, isn't he? Why wouldn't you want to help him to..."
"Abigail," Edward said patiently. "We cannot do anything while we're here to alter the course of history. You know that!"
(Actually, I didn't.)
Which is why I made the terrible and nearly fatal mistake (as Edward says in his quaint American way) of "sticking my nose in where it didn't belong." After having spent two unspeakably tedious, boring, rainy afternoons doing needlepoint and exchanging giddy girlish chitchat with the not-awfully-bright queen, we lapsed, as women will do, into confidences. In no time at all, my new friend, Jenny had divulged to me her infatuation with Arthur's good friend, Lancelot and his with her. An infatuation, I might add, which had apparently already gone well beyond what even the most indulgent fifth century (or 19th century) spouse would find tolerable.
Now, please believe that I do not wish to speak unkindly of the dead, nor would I want to be accused of tarnishing the image of a widely beloved historical figure, but the fact of the matter is, the fabled Queen Guinevere was a childish twit! A silly, vacuous, empty-headed ninny, who was about to endanger her own life and her husband's hard-won kingdom over a nicely chiseled chin, a broad, manly chest, and several other of Lancelot's masculine attributes, which she described to me in rather more colorful detail than I might have wished.
The worst (or best), depending on one's sense of things, had not yet happened, however, but it was imminent. And with Jenny's manifestly inept manner, their skulking about was bound to be discovered the moment it occurred. Jenny, frankly, had enemies, and there were a number of people lurking about who would have used this information to their own advantage and to harm Arthur and the noble idea of Camelot. (Yes, I had read this entire episode in a novel, somewhere, but how could I have known to that it would turn out to be true? Actually, I suggested to Edward that the story of Camelot would make a lovely play, someday. Perhaps set to music?)
I thought long and hard about how to handle this dangerous information… and then did the very dumbest thing possible.
After much thought, I asked to speak to the king, in confidence. If the legend was true, and Arthur's queen was about to begin an untidy affair with his best friend, and if I could stop such a thing with a few delicately placed and inoffensive words, wouldn't that be a good thing?
The king was occupied, I was told, with important matters of state. I insisted, however, and after a few minutes, was ushered into his obviously annoyed presence. (I had already discovered that Arthur thought all women were adorable and had the intelligence of a fig-pudding or a squashed leech.)
I began by pointing out, as sweetly as possible, that his poor little wife seemed unhappy, and that just perhaps, due to the obvious pressures of his important kingness, she was lonely and that, quite understandably, he had neglected her just a wee bit? I thought I had put it quite prettily, but the king, unfortunately, did not seem to take my excellent advice in the purely helpful way it was intended.
"Have you learned something you wish to tell me, then?" he asked, watching my face and my response just a bit too carefully. Perhaps there had already been rumors, and I was too late to prevent the approaching catastrophe. As quickly as I could, I attempted to retract my words, but Arthur's face had begun to darken with anger. To make matters immeasurably worse, Edward came into the room at exactly that moment, carrying an armload of parchment drawings and maps. I need hardly describe the annoyed look on his face.
"No, sire," I said hastily, having understood approximately one second too late the wisdom of Edward's advice, and being very much aware of Edward standing there, listening to my fumbled explanation. "I only meant that… Forgive me, it was none of my concern and I only wished..."
"You would dare come to me with vicious, idle gossip, then?" Arthur demanded. Edward stepped to my side, his look of annoyance now one of fear for my welfare.
"No, sire," I groaned. "I only meant that, well, that having come, as you know, from quite some time in the future, we… well, I, have certain knowledge, of certain… uh, I have read, I should say, of events which..."
"What events?" the king roared, and I, whining, spineless coward that I am, began to eat my words as quickly as I could chew them up and swallow them.
"None at all, sire. Forgive me, I beg you. It was just… a… a silly ploy. Yes, that's it. A ploy, a foolish little game."
"A game?" he asked, glaring down at me and twisting the end of his small beard. Edward watched with increasing curiosity, and I had the feeling he had begun to enjoy my discomfort.
I tried my best to giggle as charmingly and as stupidly as Arthur's half-wit queen might have done.
"To tease y
ou," I said lamely, doing what I could to bat my eyelashes. "Into drawing the two of you away from these silly scientific matters, to join Jenny and I at… uh, at..."
The king smiled, a bit wickedly, it seemed to me. "'Twas but two days past I had you soundly whipped, was it not?"
"Yes, sire," I mumbled miserably.
He raised an eyebrow. "Yet you would come here and vex me so with such female frippery?"
I bowed my head, and said nothing.
Suddenly, the king laughed uproariously. "Ah, Edward. She does bring to mind my own sweet Jenny," he said, shaking his head. "My beloved, too, behaves often like a charming child, and now, they would both conspire to distract us. Do you know, dear lady, what I do when Jenny comports herself in such a childish fashion?"
I had a strong feeling that I knew very well what he did, but I said nothing. The novel I had read had not mentioned anyone getting spanked.
"Have I your leave, Edward?" the king asked very politely. "Or would you prefer to attend to this foolishness, yourself?"
And then, Edward, who will go down in history as the most vile, the most disloyal, and the single most treacherous husband that ever breathed, bowed from the waist and moved aside with a sweep of his hand.
"The injury was to yourself, sire. I apologize most humbly for my wife's impudence, and defer to you in applying a proper penalty."
"Edward!" I wailed. "For Heaven's sake! Will you do something?"
Edward did something. He rummaged about on the table and handed the king a very thick wooden ruler, and bowed again, like the conniving, worthless worm he was.
King Arthur then sat down on his tall wooden throne and pulled me across his knee. I could do absolutely nothing but lay there miserably, waiting as he pulled up the kirtle and long tunic I had borrowed only that morning from his own idiot wife. I was about to be spanked by a legend, and as I lay there, I had a terrible premonition (in which I was not to be disappointed), that the thrashing coming my way would be legendary. This was a man accustomed to having his own way, in everything. It was, as they say, very pleasant to be king.
