The evening's festivities were similar to the previous night's, and still Julie felt the excitement of the place. It wasn't simply being at a banquet in a castle. Nor was it merely the thrill of being with Lancelot, although that, too, was felt in force.
There was something greater, grander perhaps, in simply being there, in Camelot. It was as if legend had collided with reality, elevating both to a new plain. It was the best of the two, the lofty ideals and the mere humans who were able to live and breathe the dream.
It was nothing short of invigorating in a way she had never before imagined possible, as if every childhood expectation, from Christmas mornings to birth days to sleepovers and summer vacations, had finally been met and exceeded.
Other citizens of Camelot were beginning to recognize her, and the nods and smiles and "Good evening, Sir Lancelot, Lady J," filled the air. The sumptuous fragrance of the many foods mingled with the other scents she was beginning to identify simply as Camelot.
It was like being the most popular person in the lunchroom, the homecoming queen. Yet there were no lonely faces sitting by themselves over limp cartons of milk or stale sandwiches. There were no outcasts, no social pariahs.
In Camelot, everyone was the homecoming queen or star quarterback.
Lancelot led her to a dais by the king and queen's table and helped her settle onto a bench. Another knight was speaking to them, but she heard little of what he was saying. She just watched Lancelot's face, the animation of his features and the intelligence of his eyes, those beautiful cornflower eyes.
Now she wasn't hungry at all.
She stared at him, his face almost in profile, his gestures somehow graceful and masculine at the same time. Suddenly, a young squire tapped him on the shoulder. He nodded and turned to Julie.
"The king wishes to speak to me on some matter. I will return in but a moment."
So Julie sat and watched and listened by herself, glancing down at her gown, stroking the fabric and swirling designs with her finger in the nap. The noises from the banquet would rise occasionally, then be replaced by the rise of laughter, or the sporadic silences that seemed to descend momentarily, only to be replaced by more laughter.
She sat and waited for her knight to return to her side.
"Your Majesty." Lancelot entered the small chamber just beyond the Great Hall. "Kirwin said you wish to speak to me?"
"There are rumors." The king's voice was heavy, weary.
"Rumors?" Lancelot stepped forward, watching Arthur's face. It was placid, as usual, yet there was something else there. And Lancelot identified the difference.
Arthur seemed reluctant to look him in the eye.
"What sort of rumors, Your Majesty?"
"Rumors that you have decided to conquer my wife."
Lancelot waited for the king to announce that his statement was a jest, or to laugh outright at the atrocious nature of what he had just said. But he did not. Instead Arthur traced his finger along the edge of a thick candle and waited for Lancelot's reply.
"Your Majesty…"
"Is it not true that you have long admired the queen?" The voice didn't even sound like Arthur. There was a sharpness, a bitter quality Lancelot had never heard.
"Of course, I admire the queen," Lancelot replied. "She is my queen, my good king's wife."
"Do not play with me! You know very well my meaning. Do you love her as a man loves a woman?"
"No! Your Majesty, I do not know who has…"
"Do you deny kissing her palm? Lingering as a lover and watching the color rise to her face? Do you deny that?"
Lancelot took a deep breath. This was exactly what she had said, Lady Julia. This was precisely what she had warned him of-well before now, before this.
"I do recall kissing her hand in the courtly fashion, Your Majesty. Nothing more."
Arthur finally glanced at Lancelot. He looked back at the candle, at the yellow wax he had pressed with his thumb, then his gaze returned to Lancelot.
"Is there anything else you wish to confess? I will go easy on you, Lancelot, if you should confess any plans you have now."
Lancelot shook his head. What was he speaking of? Perhaps he knew of Lady J, that she was a stranger, that he did not know where she was from, only her strange tales of another land and another time.
He was bound by honor to his king. Yet he could not offer Lady Julia. Not now, perhaps not ever.
"I have no plans, Your Majesty." He would leave it at that. He would not elaborate, for he would nor lie to his king.
Arthur stared at his knight, watching as he paused and formed his answers so carefully.
"Enough," Arthur said at last, his voice weary. "Get back to the banquet."
"Your Majesty ..:"
"I said enough!"
Lancelot reached out his hand, but the king had turned away. "Yes, Your Majesty." He backed out of the chamber.
Almost immediately, Malvern stepped from behind a black curtain. "Was I not right, Your Highness? Did you not see the way he faltered when he spoke? He has plans, that one!"
"Malvern, please leave me alone." The king closed his eyes.
Malvern smiled and did as he was told. All in all, it had been a most satisfactory meeting. Most satisfactory indeed.
"Lancelot." Julie smiled up at him as he returned to the banquet. Then her smile faded as he sat beside her. "Is there anything wrong?"
He nodded to an older gentlemen before answering. "Where did you get the information about me and the queen?" he whispered, and she was forced to lean forward to hear his words over the din.
"What did the king say?"
"Just answer me," he gritted between clenched teeth.
"My God, what happened?"
He glared, and she realized he was in no mood to speak until he heard from her. She spoke quickly and softly. "The stuff I told you about you and Guinevere is part of the Camelot story. Everyone from my time knows it. Everyone a year from now will know it.
"There is something else. I don't know what, but there is something else. The king stopped before telling me. What else is there, Julia?"
"I don't know." She thought of all the possible versions but could come up with no other story line that didn't begin with Lancelot and Guinevere. "I honestly don't know."
Confusion and discomfort seemed to radiate from Lancelot, although outwardly he was the same strong knight. She alone could feel his emotions, and they seemed to twist her own insides.
"I feel sick," she mumbled.
"Don't show it. Whatever we do, we must smile and act as merry as possible."
"I can't eat."
"Then don't. But we must stay, at least until the king and queen make their progress."
In a short while, the king and queen did indeed appear, just as they had the night before.
Lancelot stepped toward his queen and kissed her hand. Only this time, Julie saw a disconcerted expression cross King Arthur's face, as if he suddenly felt unwell. He stared at Lancelot, and Malvern whispered something into the king's ear.
Arthur's shoulders slumped slightly, and then he seemed to recover his regal posture. Yet he was not the same man she had seen before. He was pretending that he was in high spirits, but his eyes had lost their brightness, replaced by a wan, unhealthy dullness.
And Lancelot and Julie stayed, and smiled, and somehow made it through the evening. At last, she felt his hand on the small of her back.
"You look rather exhausted," he said. And gracefizlly, with others, they were at last able to leave.
They walked in silence, both lost in their own thoughts yet very much aware of each other. Then she stepped in something and stopped for a moment.
"What is it?" Lancelot asked.
She looked down at her slipper. Horse manure. She had stepped in horse manure. Their eyes met, and the same thought ran through both their minds.
Things were beginning to fall apart in Camelot.
* * *
Chapter Eight
I
t was a relief to return to Lancelot's home, as if the solid stone walls could keep the changes at bay. Of course, that was but a comfortable illusion, for even he was on the cusp of realizing how drastically his world was beginning to shift.
Without preamble, he took her into the main room, building a fire in the massive marble hearth as he spoke.
"The king has altered. You noticed it, I saw it in your expression this very evening."
"Yes," she replied simply. At this point, there was no use or time for flowery words or nuance.
"He confronted me about Guinevere again. How can he accuse me of something that was nothing more than a fleeting, misdirected thought?" He stared at the fire, a clenched fist raised at his side in frustration. "And how can I deny those errant thoughts and remain honest?"
There was an anguish in his voice now, and Julie sank to her knees on the bare, cold floor, feeling nothing but the chill of his words.
"There is nothing you can do about thougls, You cannot control them." She watched his features in the orange flicker of the new fire.
"But that's just it -I used to be able to contnd the ideas in my mind. It's as if that ability, the ti strength, has vanished."
"And do you believe it's my fault, this weakness?"
"No." There was not much conviction. "It's just that you may have come upon me when I am doubting myself for the first time."
She wasn't sure if she should speak. Perhaps he needed to sort through his own feelings, at his own pace. But there wasn't time for that. Things were moving too rapidly.
"Lancelot, I need to say something."
He turned to her, eyebrows raised in silent encouragement.
"I think Malvern is up to something."
"Malvern? Please, Julia. He's the last person I'm interested in at the moment."
"He shouldn't be." She wanted to phrase the words carefully. "I believe he has said something to Arthur. I'm not sure exactly what, but I think he is setting you up to be framed for something."
"Framed?"
"Yeah, you know. He'll do some evil, traitorous deed and be darned sure you're blamed."
"Lady Julia, Malvern is a Knight of the Round `fable. As such, he has sworn an oath of allegiance to King Arthur as well as to his brother knights. Perhaps I do not always see eye-to-eye with Sir Malvern, but he would never do anything deceitful or treacherous to me or any other knight."
"I think you're wrong," she insisted quietly.
"Where you come from, wherever that may be." Their eyes met, and he looked away before continuing. "Where you come from, is Malvern part of the tale?"
"No. To tell you the truth, I'd never heard of him before coming here."
"Then how can you cast aspersions on his name?"
"Because before, in the versions that have come down to me, there was no need of a Malvern. You and Guinevere were enough to destroy Camelot."
"How can you…
"How can you not see!" She shouted, raising her voice to counter his. "Are you blind? Honor and trust is one thing. But Lancelot, dear God, you're taking your faith beyond the realm of sense. This is just plain stu-" She stopped.
"Say it."
"No. No, that's not what I meant to say.
"Yes, it was." In two strides, he was towering over her. "You were going to call me stupid. Well, Lady Julia, I would rather be stupid in your eyes than dishonorable to the rest of the world."
"Please. Forgive me." She reached her hand up toward his, a pleading gesture. He ignored her hand.
"Forgive you!" From his full height, he seemed a giant. "Forgive you," he thundered again. "Now I see the depth of your destruction. You're a one-woman catastrophe. No wonder the place from which you come is such an inventory of disasters. It's because of you, isn't it? Now you've come here, to this formerly peaceful kingdom, to wreak your own special havoc."
His boot touched one of her slippers. "Tell me, do you have hooves under the satin?"
While part of her wanted to laugh at the ridiculous ferocity of his accusations, another part the larger part by far-understood his confusion and fear. He was absolutely serious. This was a man raised in an age of superstition and sorcery, in a place where Merlin was an acknowledged wizard and blue roses were more common than weeds.
There was so much she wanted to say. Instead, she just shook her head. "No."
Her hand was still raised, and suddenly he pulled her to her feet. With a gasp, she teetered before him, and he encircled her waist to keep her steady.
"Look at me," he whispered. "Into my eyes. Swear that you do not mean to do me harm."
Her head fell forward. How could he even think such a thing? He didn't believe her. She was the enemy.
She didn't realize something could hurt so very much, cause her pain so sharp a physical wound would be welcome in its stead.
"Look at me!" He demanded, squeezing hard.
"I ..:" she began.
And she looked at him, at the man before her. If only she could dismiss him, an archaic man who was not part of her real life.
But she could never dismiss him.
Wearily, with anguished eyes, she looked up at Lancelot. She was too tired, too emotionally wrecked to continue. Her gaze was raw, unguarded.
He stared at her, surveying her expression, wondering if she could possibly be pretending. Perhaps she was really an enemy, or an enchantress bent on his destruction.
But that was impossible. No one could feign such an expression, such utter sadness.
Then, in a clarion flash, it became obvious to him. No matter what else had happened, no matter what would transpire in the future, at this moment there was no pretense between them, no guards. Everything now was real and pure.
A low moan escaped his lips. His grasp tightened, and he pulled her to him. "Julia," he rasped. He held her against him with such force that her feet were no longer touching the floor, and her entire body seemed to twine around his.
She closed her eyes, savoring the closeness as much as hoping that the volatile emotions between them would not turn to venom. He raked his hands through her hair, her face tilted toward his and illuminated by the dim light. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
He gazed at her with such an expression of undiluted hunger that she held her breath, her own features mirroring his wanton desire. Then his mouth descended upon hers, and she felt the solid strength of his arms and shoulders, and nothing else was important.
Exquisitely aware of every sensation, it was as if the closeness heightened every nerve, sharpened every feeling. An odd hum seemed to vibrate between them, created by their energy and fueled by their passion.
Her hands skimmed over every part of him she could touch, gliding over the finely honed muscles, and he pulled her closer, ever closer.
Together, they sank slowly to the floor, bodies still entwined, and they both felt the cold smooth stone but only as it contrasted with the heat of their flesh. Gently, very gently, he eased her into the crook of his arm, and for a moment she just stared at his face. In the firelight, she could see his features and was surprised by how very accustomed to him she had become-the way his eyelashes fell upon his cheek when he lowered his gaze, the distance between his nose and his mouth, the heavy feel of his forehead as she cupped it in her hands.
There was a familiar warmth to him, a realness she had never before experienced. He held her gaze for what seemed an eternity, then his hand rose to her collarbone, pushing aside the fabric of her blouse. She swallowed and let her eyes dose. His other hand moved under her hair, along her back to cup her neck. Her trembling was stopped by his mouth on hers, tenderly at first and then hard and demanding. He pulled her into the circle of his arms, hands running over her back in a heated caress, his tongue parting her lips, coaxing a deeper response. She let the sensations overwhelm her, curling her arms around his neck and into his hair. She could feel his desire as he began trailing kisses down her throat to the swell of her breasts. She reached out her hands to touch him. The muscles of his shou
lders and chest, so hot and smooth, moved at her touch.
And then the world spun into a haze of sensations, of contrasts, as their clothing seemed to melt away, and then there was skin against fabric and stone and, above all, each other. Nothing else existed for them, not time or place. Just each other.
For long moments, they simply lay in the dancing strobe of the fire. He eased her against his body, shielding her from the cold, covering her with the clothing they had shed. And soon she fell into a deep, blissfully untroubled slumber.
Lancelot remained awake, and he shifted slightly, careful not to disturb her. She sighed in her sleep, and her hand rose up to her cheek. With a soft smile, she again fell still.
He stared at the ceiling, dim in the glowing ember light, amazed and awed by what had just happened. Idly, he twisted her gold hair around his index finger, wondering how such a thing could have happened to him, how such a woman could have entered his life and in an instant change it forever. For there was not a doubt in his mind now, that was precisely what had happened.
Where had she come from? The answer, whatever it was, had become almost immaterial. For the strange things she said now seemed to be coming true.
If she was, indeed, from the future, her predictions suggested not only his downfall but his ruin as a knight. Everything he now stood for, everything he had battled for and believed in and struggled against would be for nothing. He would be Lancelot, the fallen knight. The scoundrel. The betrayer.
The thought was intolerable.
There was only one other thought that was more devastating. And as he inhaled the scent of her, the thought became almost a physical threat to him.
What if she vanished as swiftly and inexplicably as she had arrived? What would he do if he awoke alone on the stone floor, in front of a dead fire?
"No," he whispered harshly, closing his eyes against her temple.
She began to stir, and he held his breath, not wanting to wake her, not wishing her to witness the dread he would be unable to hide at this vulnerable, raw moment.
"Go back to sleep, my own love," he urged. With another sigh, she did, and eventually Lancelot, too, found slumber.