The fatal flirtation between Guinevere and Lancelot had already begun.
Her eyes studied the scene, wondering if the king had caught sight of the brief spark between his wife and his trusted knight.
He had. To Julie the expression on his face was as unmistakable as it was fleeting. There was a brief darkness there, a burst of anger that erupted and vanished swiftly.
Beside the king, within an arm's length, another man stood alone.
Her gaze rested on him instinctively. Although he wore the same festive clothes, the same brilliant colors as everyone else, there was a darkness about him that all but screamed wicked. His skin did not have the pearlescent quality of the others. And his eyes. They flashed in Lancelot's direction, then in hers. The eyes were pure malevolence.
"Oh, no," she whispered. "Lancelot, you have an enemy."
"Indeed," came a man's voice, seemingly from nowhere.
She jumped, eyes wide.
Then she saw the speaker. He was an older gentleman, with a head so large and bony, the only relief from the angles was provided by his sparse, snowy tufts of hair. His nose was bulbous, his eyes deeply circled and a watery, red-rimmed blue. Then he smiled with imperfect yellowed teeth, a smile that reached his tired eyes and made them glow, and she felt as if she had known him forever.
"My dear," he said. "I've been expecting you."
Unlike the others in Camelot, his clothing seemed to be those of a pauper. He wore a flowing brown robe patched together with large, uneven stitches. There were spots and stains splashed over the rough fabric, and a large hood formed a cowl in front and was hanging limply down his back.
"You've been expecting me?" She gasped. "You know who I am?"
"Of course I do," he replied with an indignant nod. "You are Miss Julie Gaffney. I trust your journey here was not too uncomfortable?"
"You know about my journey?"
"I should hope I do, Miss Gaffney. Or is it Lady Julia now? I prefer Lady Julia myself. Much less common, in my own opinion. One should make the most of names. They reveal so very much about one's character and aspirations. Take Lancelot, for example. Would he be considered nearly as heroic if his name had been, say, Igor or Buster? I think not! Granted, Shakespeare claims that a rose would smell as sweet and all of that, but still I beg to differ."
"Shakespeare?" She felt herself reeling and gripped the table. "Shakespeare! How can you know of Shakespeare when he won't be born for another thousand years? And me! How can you know who I am?"
Again he smiled. "I should hope I know of both you and William. After all… well. Now, my dear, what was that you were saying before? You know. About Lancelot having an enemy."
She was so shocked she simply answered the old man. "I was just thinking aloud."
"About Lancelot and Malvern?"
"Is that the knight's name? Malvern?"
"My very point about names," he concluded, as if that had been the sole focus of their conversation. "Malvern. It's not the most pleasant of names. Yet it is a name that can go either way, so to speak. As Lester Spurnick once wrote, `Names are the hats of our souls."
"Lester Spurnick?"
"Indeed, my dear. One of the great writers of the twenty-first century. Oh, forgive me! He's a little after your time."
Julie blinked in confusion. Then, not quite knowing what else to say, she extended her hand. "Excuse me, I'm afraid I don't know your name, while you seem to know mine-and a great deal more."
"Ah! Forgive my lapse of manners. That is what comes from living alone, my dear. Keep that in mind. I am Merlin."
"Merlin?" Now she sank into the chair. "Of course," she mumbled. "First Lancelot, then Arthur. Why not Merlin?"
"You are not losing your mind, Lady Julia." He laughed. "This is all real. You are here, in Camelot."
She reached for a goblet and took a sip. It was wine, incredibly sweet and flavorful and impossibly delicious wine. She had never tasted anything quite like it.
"Naturally you haven't. It's the Tuesday house wine, and this is the first time you've been in this particular house on a Tuesday night," Merlin replied to her unspoken thoughts.
"How do you do that?"
"I'm Merlin."
"Of course." She took a second sip, much larger than the first. "You're Merlin."
The rest of the people in the hall began to sit down or mingle or call for more sweets or seconds of the main courses. She hadn't eaten yet. How could she, with all that was happening around her?
"Well, you simply must," he answered, reaching for a gold plate and selecting samples of food, his blue-veined hands trembling slightly as he moved. There were small dumplings, little ears of corn, several fruit tarts, and some skewers of meats. "We can't have you starving in Camelot, now, can we?"
Satisfied, he placed the food in front of her. Much to her surprise, she realized she was ravenous, and with decidedly unladylike enthusiasm, she devoured the entire plateful.
"Now, that's better." Merlin smiled as if the meal had appeased both of their appetites.
"Mr. Merlin?" she began. And he discharged a brittle, delighted laugh.
"Merlin. Just Merlin." He coughed, running a finger under an eye to catch a tear. "Just Merlin."
"Thank you," she said, "Merlin. But can you please do me a favor and explain all of this to me? And then explain it all to Lancelot?"
"Now, why would I do that?"
"Because I would sincerely like to know how on earth I got here."
"And spoil all the fun?"
"The funs."
"Why, of course! No, my dear. You will find out soon enough. And if I tell you, it will all be ruined. All of it. Sometimes the old saying is indeed true."
"I'm almost afraid to ask." She sighed. "What old saying would that be?"
"You know very well. `No pain, no gain.' "
"But that's about exercise, isn't it?"
"Not originally. That's what happens with all the really good sayings. They get mangled over the years. Did you know that `Feel the burn' was first coined by an exhausted blacksmith named Miller who spilled molten iron on his foot? Needless to say, it was not meant as a particularly happy expression. For centuries, `Feel the burn' was synonymous with `Woe is me.' How that Fonda woman got ahold of it and twisted it all around, I'll never know. Oh, here comes Sir Lancelot, the man himself."
"So you will tell him that I'm not out to sabotage Camelot, won't you?"
"Of course not!"
Lancelot wove his way to her side, stopping to smile or shake hands with all those he passed. She swallowed as he approached.
"Merlin." Lancelot grinned, extending his hand to the sorcerer.
"Sir Lancelot," Merlin responded. "I've just been conversing with your third cousin once removed. Delightfizl creature, your Lady Julia. Absolutely delightful!"
Lancelot seemed pleased as Julie smiled in discomfort. Why wouldn't he just clear everything up with a few words? It would take but a moment, just a brief moment, and Lancelot would no longer view her with suspicion.
"Perhaps," Merlin answered. "But then you could never be sure, could you? No matter where you end up, no matter with whom, you could never be completely sure. Not of yourself, not of him. For that is true magic-genuine love-and one of the few things beyond my power. Think about it, my dear." Then he turned to Lancelot. "Forgive me, Lancelot! I was just finishing up our previous conversation about how to train a spaniel. Oh, the king is beckoning me. Good evening, Lady Julia, Sir Lancelot."
He walked away with uncertain strides, bobbing greetings at everyone, especially young women with trim figures.
"How to train a spaniel?" Lancelot inquired.
"Well, sort of. Have you eaten yet?" She was eager to change the subject.
"Yes. I thank you, and I apologize for abandoning you.
"You were busy with the queen."
"Well, she asked me several questions, and my answers took longer than we had anticipated. Shall we sit down?"
She nodded and allo
wed him to hold the carved back of her chair as she sat. She had to speak to him and wasn't sure when she would get another chance.
If she would get another chance.
Every corner held a surprise for her in Camelot. She could not risk waiting for a more opportune time.
"I need to speak with you," she blurted out.
"What plagues your mind?"
"All right, here goes." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "Sir Lancelot," she said in a low voice. "I do not think you should be so flirtatious with the queen."
The smile immediately left his face. He was very large and seemed on the verge of becoming very angry. But the realisation of what this dalliance would lead to made her press forward.
"If you continue this, Sir Lancelot, you will destroy not only yourself but King Arthur and the queen and Camelot. You will destroy everything you believe in, and once gone, it can never be brought back. It will vanish forever."
"Stop it."
"I'm serious…"
He grabbed her upper arm, and she felt an explosion of pain, but she did not wince. "You do not understand."
"It is you who does not understand," he rasped. "Do you realize by just uttering the words, by just hinting of something of a base nature between the queen and me, you speak treason?"
She nodded.
He stared at her for a long time; she barely breathed. Finally, he dropped her arm in exasperation. Yet the anger remained in his voice. "Lady Julia, you misunderstand. I am a favorite of both the king and the queen. Nothing more. I would rather tear out my own heart than do anything to disrupt their happiness." Lancelot stood, knocking over his chair. Some of the people around them quieted, watching the two, the tension obvious to all who witnessed the scene.
Slowly, with great deliberation, he set the chair back on its four legs.
The witnesses included the king and his knight Malvern, who whispered into his sovereign's ear.
Lancelot saw none of his king's reaction. His fury was directed at the addle-brained woman in the green gown.
"Let us leave now," he said between clenched teeth. To him, the discussion was over.
"Others have noticed," Julie said as softly as possible. With a clenched fist, he hit the back of his chair, oblivious to the stares, and turned to leave.
Julie rose swiftly, gathering the velvet skirt and following after him, running to match the distance he traveled with his long strides.
"Others have noticed," she repeated as they walked through the hall.
He paused. "What do you mean?"
"That evil-looking knight."
"There are no evil-looking knights in Camelot, although I'm beginning to think there is an evil-looking lady or two."
"He's dark, has mean eyes. He was there tonight, behind the king. Wearing a yellow and black tunic. He was watching you and Guinevere. They both saw you kiss her hand."
"That is nothing…"
"They saw you kiss her wrist."
He was about to speak, then just shook his head. "You have misunderstood whatever you saw."
"I believe I understood exactly what I saw."
For a few moments, he glared at her, then he grabbed her arm and began walking in taut, explosive silence. And as he walked, he increased his speed, the free arm pumping in anger, the other dragging Julie at his side. She stumbled, and he did not notice. She tried to slow the pace, and he only walked faster, ever faster.
Her head was spinning, and she tried to catch her breath, but he seemed to have forgotten her very existence for the moment.
"Please, can we slow down?"
There was no reaction.
"Please," she repeated, her voice rising.
At last, he stopped and looked at her as if she were an unwelcome intruder. Without speaking, he began walking again at a slower pace, his hand still gripping her arm like a vise.
In silence, they reached his home. He kicked the door open, then bowed and gestured for her to enter first. Hesitantly, she did, and he followed.
"Where should I…" she began.
"I don't care," was all he said before slamming into his own room.
Julie stood alone in the vast hallway, her arms folded over her chest, and wondered how her wellintentioned warning had gone so terribly wrong.
Upstairs, Lancelot clenched his fists. An unfamiliar feeling ran through him, an uncomfortable sensation that seemed to weigh him down, a gnawing burden that he could not yet identify. Something was not right. Something was amiss.
Until the arrival of Lady Julia, everything had been in order, in harmony.
Ever since he had been a citizen of Camelot, his life had been straightforward and pure. Each trial that was presented to him, from battle with the king to the long hours discussing honor and justice with his brother knights, every single test was met with triumph. It was as if each day were preordained, and he liked that feeling.
And it helped him forget those dreams he had still, dreams of the woman in the fog, calling his name, holding his hand. He had to forget what went before, because that was over. Whatever it had been, whatever significance she had once held was gone, and gone forever. He was confident that his place in Camelot was everything he needed, everything any man with sense enough to treasure it would need.
She was not the queen, the woman who had haunted him and haunted him still. But the queen was beautiful and kind, and he recalled Arthur's words, praising Guinevere in every way. When he had kissed her hand, he had remembered those words and inhaled the fragrance of the queen's perfume. That was it. Nothing more.
Yet she had blushed. Lancelot had observed her face reddening, and that reaction had stirred something deep within him. He enjoyed it. He was gratified and pleased that his simple kiss had so pleased the queen.
Now, all he could envision was the indignant, self-righteous face of Lady Julia. She had just been jealous. That was it. Lady Julia wass simply jealous.
No. That was not it, and he knew the fact well.
What bothered him was her absolute certainty and her fearlessness in telling him exactly what she was thinking. Most men would not have dared to fire his anger. But this stranger, this Lady Julia, had no such qualms.
What if she were right? About the king, about Malvern. What if she were right?
"Damn her," he swore aloud in the solitude of his chamber. "Damn her for finding me."
* * *
Chapter Six
All alone, Julie stood in the cold, vast hallway. The green gown seemed less charming now, as if the beauty of the garment had more to do with pure enchantment than with the quality of the fabric or the design. Whatever had made it so wonderful was gone. Whatever had made Julie herself feel so wonderful had vanished as well.
Thee stone walls were dark and empty. She was lost and so very alone. The urge simply to succumb to her emotions and cry was overwhelming. But she refused. That would be too easy, too diche.
It was rather ironic. There she was, a typical damsel in distress, being tormented by the classic noble knight himself; Sir Lancelot.
There was no sound from upstairs, where he had just stormed in anger. Somehow she had never imagined Lancelot in anger. Perhaps that was part of the problem. To her, these characters had always been mythical figures. As real as they may have seemed, they were not in fact real. They were the fanciful renderings of writers. They were the glorified illustrations of Gustave Dore, the gentle, idealised images of William Morris or Edward Burne Jones.
But this Camelot was different, a place of human beings with all their frailties and desires. Here Lancelot was not just a valorous knight on a horse, riding in the heat of battle to right a wrong or to defend the defenseless. He was much more than that.
This Lancelot was a man.
From above, she heard a thud and could only assume that he had assaulted another chair.
In spite of her unaccustomed anxiety, she smiled in the darkness. Somehow she could not envision Edward Burne-Jones painting a lavish canvas of Sir
Lancelot kicking a chair in hot-tempered fury.
She glanced around her, wondering where she should spend the night. Although she could go up the narrow, winding back staircase to the room she had been confined to earlier in the day, she was not eager to fumble about in the night.
Turning around, she saw a wooden bench against the wall. That would do as well as anyplace. She shrugged. And so she settled on a too-short bench, in a too-cold hallway, by herself.
Somehow she fell asleep from pure exhaustion. It was a dreamless slumber, and even in her sleep she was aware of the hardness of the wood and the chill of the night air on her ankles.
Then the chill seemed to go away, and she felt warmth. Half asleep, she tried to turn on the bench and bumped into something solid. With a start, she was fully awake.
Sitting at her feet on the floor, with his back against the bench, was Lancelot.
"I do not understand your accusations," he stated flatly, as if they had been engaged in an active conversation and he was responding to a comment.
"Sir Lancelot?" With a sigh, she sat up, pulling her feet against her body, the full skirt making a tent over her legs.
He did not look at her. His gaze remained straight ahead, fixed on the black nothingness.
"I do not understand your accusations," he repeated.
"Oh. About you and the queen?"
He nodded.
"Lancelot, I am not trying to hurt you in any way, and I'm sorry if what I said offended you. I'm just trying to protect you."
"Protect me? You are but a woman!"
"That may be so, but I know a heck of a lot more about you than you realize."
"Tell me, then." There was challenge in his voice.
"Well, for one thing, you're in love with the queen."
"Ha! There you are wrong!"
"Then you will be in love with her soon, and she will return the affection."
He just shook his head.
"It's true. You love her because you see her as a paragon of virtue, as the perfect woman. She's your ideal, isn't she? Don't you envy Arthur, just a little, because he's lucky enough to be married to Guinevere?"