Downstairs the decor was far more subtle, with plain blue carpet and a row of plastic suits of armor, a printed and laminated version of what seemed to be the Bayeux Tapestry, and a few brightly colored tournament banners. She smiled and strolled over to one of the plastic suits of armor.
It was impressively mounted on a red velvet pedestal, and in the dim light it almost looked real. Almost. The telltale seams gave it away, as did the "Made in Taiwan" stamped on the knight's rear end.
"Poor Sir Knight," she whispered.
Glancing over her shoulder to see if any of the boys had emerged from the men's room yet-and they had not-she walked to the next suit of armor. She assumed that the boys would all exit together.
The next suit was on a fake marble pedestal, and she was about to go back to the men's room to wait for her charges when she stopped.
This suit looked real.
Blinking, she leaned closer. Although the lighting was just as dim, from a round circle set into acoustical tile in the ceiling above, there was a weight to this one, a sense of permanency the other lacked.
"Impossible."
The suit was magnificent, etched with graceful swirls, richly gilded, and pierced with numerous holes. The ones on each side of the helmet, she guessed, would have been for hearing.
The body of the suit was large, the limbs thick, as if a man with heavy muscles would have worn it into battle. But something disturbed her. Something was wrong.
Then she realized what was amiss. The breastplate had a massive dent in the center, as if a mighty blow had been struck The metal had been pounded back carefully, but there was no mistaking the severity of the injury.
Slowly, she drew her hand to her mouth.
He couldn't have survived, was her single thought.
As if in a trance, she stepped closer, and then, mechanically , she joined the figure on the podium. Heat seemed to emenate from the suit.
He was much taller than she was, and languidly, as if it was the most normal, natural gesture in the world, she placed her hand on the visor.
It was hot to the touch.
Suddenly, the world began to spin, and she felt herself falling backward, tumbling helplessly from some great height, her arms flailing…
And he grabbed her by the waist.
The force of his embrace knocked the breath from her, and she closed her eyes against the brilliant light.
The sounds of birds chirping from outside filled the room, and a fragrance of leather and cool metal jolted her senses.
She opened her eyes.
From behind the visor, muffled but unmistakable, came two simple words.
"Help me."
* * *
Chapter Three
Julie stared at the visor, stunned beyond speech.
"Help me," he repeated. The voice was the same, the voice on her answering machine. Yet it was muffled by the metal faceplate, and something else was different.
There was no sense of urgency. His tone was conversational, as if a talking suit of armor happened to be the most absolutely normal thing in the world. Pushing against his shoulders, she wiggled free of his grasp.
"What's going on here?" Stepping back, she realized she was on a stone floor. The pedestal was gone, the carpeting had vanished. Instead of being outside the restrooms at a theme restaurant, she was in a room füledl with what appeared to be medieval armor and weapons.
" Is this some sort of storage closet?
A snorting sound emerged from the suit of armor, and an arm creaked into position on his hip.
"Please," she continued, her voice rising. This was all wrong, everything was wrong. Even the atmosphere seemed different, brisk and clean and cold rather than the restaurant's recirculated cooking smells. Panic began to mount to her throat, and she wondered if she were losing her mind. "Please, I'm really confused."
"I said"-was it possible for a suit of armor to clench its teeth? "help me, you dolt," he insisted in a less-than-pleasant tone.
Now, that was a new twist; her thoughts raced crazily. Had he simply said, "Help me, you dolt," on her answering machine, this whole fantasy could have been nipped in the bud.
"Listen." She tried to keep her voice even. "I just need to know…"
But before she could complete her question, the suit of armor pulled off his arm and threw it at her; it slammed into her stomach like a ramrod.
"Ugh!" The grunt escaped her lips, and she crumpled forward as the metal arm clanked to the stone floor. Little stars of bursting pain floated about her head as she gasped, clutching her middle. Through a distant haze, she saw that a brown quilted forearm and a large hand had emerged from beneath the airborne armor.
"God's blood, George. A sickly maiden would be heartier than you."
Catching her breath, she was about to speak when she paused. "George?" Straightening, she looked up at the visor. "Why did you just call me George?"
A quaintly unprintable oath exploded from the armor, followed by, "Because, you dolt, I believe it is premature to call you 'sir'."
"But my name isn't George," she said simply. "It is ..: "
"Do you think I care if you are George or Tom or St. John? You are my replacement squire, and a wretched one at that. I see before me a boy of little wit, other than what is displayed in his attire."
"My ..." Julie looked down at "ye olde big bib" and reached up where her crepe paper and cardboard crown still rested.
Julie began to remove the crown.
"Leave it be," the armor barked.
"Excuse me?"
"The headdress. Leave it be. You deserve the crown of a dunce. And besides, they are my colors."
"Your colors? Seems to me that metal is neutral. Goes with just about anything."
For a long moment, he stood so still, Julie began to think that she had imagined the entire conversation. She had been simply standing before an inanimate suit of armour and had very quietly but very definitely lost her mind.
That was the most most logical conclusion. Her friends had warned her, especially Peg, that if she continued at her current pace, something would have to give. And it certainly had. Unfortunately, that something was her sanity.
Then he pushed back the visor, and Julie's jaw dropped.
The suit of armor possessed the most drop-dead gorgeous face she had ever seen. The sun-darkened skin, glistening with perspiration, was utter masculine perfection, straight black brows, beautifully sculpted nose, just a hint of whiskers on the lean cheeks. And his eyes-they were blue, but a pale blue, the color of her favorite Crayola when she was a child.
"Cornflower blue," she breathed.
The blue eyes narrowed. "You are addled."
"And you are…" She was about to say "gorgeous" but stopped herself. "I mean, who are you?"
His armor squeaked and rattled as he began to walk away without answering. It was amazing how even in heavy armor, a man could take strides in obvious anger and ball a fist in fury.
As he moved, she was able to get a better look at her surroundings. It was a vast room with a vaulted ceiling and arched windows. To the left was a smaller section, almost like a church nave, and as he approached that area, she realized the nave was filled with armor, weapons, and ancient battle equipment of every variety and material imaginable. There were upright suits like those in the restaurant, although all of these seemed genuine, and all were proportioned to fit the man with the cornflower eyes. There were golden-hued helmets etched in silver, and silver-hued breastplates etched in gold. There were all styles of head gear, from open burgonets to closed-visor modes.
An oblong table held odd bits of armor, extra gauntlets, arm guards, and elbow pieces. The leg armor and breast and back plates were leaning against a wall next to a stack of doublets with loose waxedthong ties.
It reminded her of The Wizard of Oz, when the Tin Man and the Scarecrow were pulled apart and tacked back together with replacement parts. She could make a small army of men from the pieces on the table alone.
/> On a shelf of marble were rows of weapons, from maces made of bronze and wood to crossbows, some as wide as a compact car, and arched longbows. Arrows were held in baskets hanging from the walls.
And dangling next to the baskets was a vast assortment of swords and daggers, some with hooked ends, with little in common but glinting edges and frighteningly shaped points.
She could not pull her gaze from the brutal-looking tools.
"Can you identify?" His voice was harsh.
"Sure." She slipped her hands into her jeans pockets, uncomfortable and awkward. Nodding towards the swords she smiled. "You're the dentist from hell. right?"
She waited for him to laugh in appreciation of her humor, finally to admit the joke or at least just to explain what was happening. Instead, he waited a few moments, his jaw working as if he were trying to loosen a morsel of cement from between his teeth.
Then, with movements so swift she was unable to prepare herself, he grabbed a small dagger and threw it at her.
"Hey! Watch it! You could have hurt me!" The dagger had come just a few inches from her head.
"That was my intention, George."
"Why do you want to hurt me?" She was unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. Just her luck that the most glorious specimen of a man she had ever encountered would find launching artillery at her a form of entertainment.
In response to her justified question, he threw a sword.
"Hey!" She ducked just in time. "This isn't funny."
"I know it is not," he said calmly, reaching for another dagger.
"Don't you dare…"
But he did dare. The second dagger came even closer to her head than the first.
"That does it." She straightened, mustering all of the dignity her bib and paper crown would allow. "Who's the manager here? I hate to see you let go, but you're completely unfit for this job."
He paused. "I am unfit?"
"Yeah. You're clearly in the middle of some sort of mental crisis. And I think… what are you going to do with that arrow?"
As she had been speaking, he calmly pulled an arrow from a basket and reached for a large bow, creaking with every move. For a few moments, he seemed concerned with the arrow's feather end,, and she continued talking as he stroked the feather smooth.
"As I was saying, you should really speak to the head of human resources. You're probably not the first employee to go a little around the bend, and… hey!"
With great deliberation, he loaded the arrow onto the bow, aimed, and shot the crown from her head.
"Silence," he commanded as she began to speak. "This is not a game."
She glanced behind to see the blue and white crown pinned against a basket with the arrow.
"You will listen," he said, and she was unable to come up with any reason not to listen, especially when he reached for another arrow.
"Good." Again he stroked the feather. "I hope I have your complete attention."
She nodded and was about to reaffirm how very interested in what he had to say when he held up a hand to silence her.
"I do not believe you understand how vital the role of squire is to a knight. Not only in tournaments. They are mere pageants."
He waited for her to respond, and she nodded once to indicate she was listening to every word.
"You must understand that your abilities may very well determine whether the two of us live or die."
Part of her wanted to smile at the melodrama of the moment, but she didn't. This man was utterly sincere in what he was saying. Crazy or not, he truly believed he was a knight who might one day go into battle.
"Although we have been at peace for some time now, that peace has been maintained by our capacity to show force when needed. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Very good. I am not an ill-tempered beast, contrary to what you may believe at this moment. But damn it, George, you behave as if you've never been within arm's reach of a weapon."
" Sorry."
"Now, let us begin. I will throw you a weapon, and you must toss it back to me." He put the bow and arrow back on the table. "Keep in mind the shapes, the various weights, and above all the blades, for I have them sharpened to such a degree that you may slice a hair in two. Do you comprehend?"
"Well, sure, but…"
And with that, a ferocious-looking ax was lobbed at her. By only the luckiest of chances, she was able to hit the stone floor to avoid the blade.
"Whew!" She grinned, rising to her feet and dusting off her knees. "That was a close one!"
"Do you not understand me?" He was beyond a simple raising of the voice. That had been nothing short of a howl.
Whirling around, he reached behind and threw a pike. Without thinking, she reached up and grabbed it, simply because there was no place else to hide.
"That is an improvement," he barked.
"That was self-preservation," she mumbled.
For the first time, he smiled, and she felt herself weaken.
"Self-preservation is the whole point, George. That, and inflicting a bit of bodily damage. Now, try again, and this time don't catch it so well. Do it differently."
She was still staring at his mouth, when she blinked, realizing he had stopped speaking. "Okay. Wait. What do you mean that I should do it differently."
He cleared his throat, then wiped his mouth with the hand that was free of the gauntlet. "George, you tend to move and catch in a most unique way," he said gruffly. "Has anyone ever commented on your,technique?"
"No , what du you mean?"
"Gods blood, George. You catch like a girl."
"Oh." She smiled, looking down, "Sorry."
"Lets get on with this ," And with that, he began a rapid-fire onslaught of weapons and information. She had no time to think or to reason or even to catch her breath. All she could do was attempt to keep up with him and occasionally throw a weapon back at him in anger and self-defense.
But that only seemed to please him.
She had no idea how long the lesson had been going on. Perhaps minutes, perhaps days. All she knew was complete exhaustion. Yet the heavier her own limbs felt, the more her muscles burned and ached, the more energy he seemed to derive from the experience. It was as if he were nourished by her draining energy.
This had to end, she thought, wondering when she would collapse. Enough was enough. She raised her hand to stop the action, to call a time-out.
But he misinterpreted her gesture as a plea for another weapon. Instead of halting, he threw a bronze mace at her head.
She saw it coming, almost as if in slow motion. Yet she did nothing, unable to move fast enough. And the handle hit her directly on her forehead.
He winced at the thank, then watched her crumple to the floor.
"George?"
There was no answer.
With a sigh, he began to remove his armor, realizing that he could not bend down to the boy impeded by the metal. Poor lad, he thought, shaking his head.
Perhaps they could find him work in the stables. Light work. With gentle horses.
When the last piece of armor was off, he approached the squire.
"George," he repeated. The boy's hair had fallen over his face, and gingerly the knight bent over and pushed it aside. There was a nasty red mark on his forehead but no blood. Indeed, he was rather surprised that such a mild blow had rendered the lad unconscious in the first place.
Perhaps the stables would be too difficult for George. He tried to remember if the queen still maintained her pet rabbits. They might be more to the liking of this vexing lad. Most certainly he would never be a squire, much less a knight. He reached down to loosen the boy's ridiculous neckwear, placing his hand on his chest and…
"What!" he shouted, withdrawing his hand.
Could he have been mistaken? Or was the lad malformed?
Swallowing, he again reached for the boy's chest, one side, then the other.
Was it possible?
He scrutinized the boy
's face, touching his cheek to see if the skin was as soft as it appeared. It was. And there was not the barest hint of whiskers, although he had reached most of his adult height.
He touched the boys side, patting down as he reached the…
"Hips!" he muttered.
Settling back on his haunches, he stared at the person before him, appraising the features with a different mind from what he had just moments before. This was no weakling boy, no worthless lad.
He tilted his own head to get a better view of the face, noting the delicately arched brows, the long lashes. Was there color on the lips? They were rounded and slightly parted.
"Good Lord," he whispered, astonished at himself How could he have not noticed before this moment?
His replacement squire, George, was a woman! She was not only a fully grown woman but a comely one at that.
His smile vanished as he remembered another fact. Whoever she was, she was masquerading as a boy. Was it to get close to him? How long would it have taken him to discover the disguise?
Again he touched her face, shaking his head in befuddlement. Tracing her cheekbones, his fingertip rested against her lips. He felt the gentle warmth of her breath.
Then he lifted her into his arms, startled by the lightness of her weight, and carried her to his bedchamber.
"Lancelot," he said to himself, watching as her head rested against his shoulder. "What have you gotten yourself into now?"
* * * * * * * *
It had all been such a strange dream.
Julie sighed, almost awake, anticipating her alarm clock to the right, resting atop the wicker nightstand, and the magazine she had been reading before she fell asleep folded open to an article on the perils of contact lens bacteria.
Still in the realm between sleep and complete awareness, she frowned slightly. Her head ached, and she wondered if she had somehow knocked against something in her sleep.
Then it came back to her, a man dressed as a knight throwing sharpened knives at her head. With a jolt, she opened her eyes.
And she was in a room she'd never seen before, with stone walls and very little furniture. Immediately, she sat upright.