Finally, he turned to face her. "I… of course not. This is absurd." Although his words were of protest, he spoke them without his usual fervor. "Go on. Tell me what happens next."
"Do you really want to know?"
He returned his focus to the darkness. "Of course."
"There are different versions. Some things remain the same, however. In all of the renditions, Arthur is devastated by your betrayal. He will never be the same, and his powers will ebb as his faith in man dissolves. You and the queen will run away. At least, that happens in most interpretations of the Camelot myth."
Myth?
"Yes, myth. Don't forget, to me this was always an ancient tale." She tried to sound as casual as possible, fully understanding that if he believed her, what she was telling him was nothing short of shattering. "Anyway, you and the queen run away, but both suffer for your betrayal. She loves both you and Arthur, but you she loves as a woman loves a man. Arthur she loves much the way you see her now-as a bastion of virtue and good. The sad thing is you both love the same thing, really. And that very love is just twisted and misdirected."
"Misdirected?"
"You both long for a romantic love as well as a pure, almost holy love. By definition, the two are opposite."
"No. You are wrong there, Lady Julia. The two can coexist. But it must happen between the right people for the right reasons."
"Perhaps. The bottom line with you and the queen is that there are elements in your characters that bring out the best and worst of human nature. You are both noble and selfish, generous and greedy."
He was about to interrupt. Instead, his head dropped forward. "Then what happens?"
"You are banished from Camelot, which really won't matter much because Camelot as you know it will no longer exist. You become either a monk or a hermit and die a miserable old man."
"Well, that's something to look forward to," he said with bitterness. "And the queen?"
"Poor Guinevere joins a convent and dies a miserable old woman."
He straightened a leg and remained silent.
"You're not arguing or yelling. You're not even laughing at me."
"I should do all three. But somehow, well, there is something about what you say that disturbs me."
"It's because it's true, and some part of you knows it."
He didn't disagree. "I do not understand how you could know such things. I have told no one of my feelings for Guinevere." Then he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. "It is not Guinevere, perhaps, that I love. It is the idea of a woman such as the queen that I love. The ideal."
"That's not reality. Believe me, I'm an expert on romantic reality."
"You are?" He turned toward her, his forearm resting on the bench, touching her ankle. "How can you be an expert?"
"Sir Lancelot, any woman who has reached her late twenties in my time is an expert on romantic reality. There are books and magazines, radio and television shows entirely devoted to the topic."
"So you get your knowledge from books?"
"Ha! I wish." She smiled and took a deep breath. "I've gone on more first dates and blind dates than I can count."
He began to ask a question, and before he could deliver the first syllable, she anticipated his confusion. "A `date' is a particularly heinous form of late-twentieth-century torture. Before the nineteen hundreds, the term was `to court,' which sounds much more pleasant, doesn't it?"
"How terrible is a date?" Now he, too, had a small smile.
"How terrible? I'd go into details, but you're only a medieval knight, accustomed to violent death, mayhem, and occasional dismemberment. Don't want to churn your stomach."
"Please explain."
"Well, most of my dates are called `blind dates.""
"In the literal sense?"
"No. I think the term came about because in most cases, it would be better if the dates couldn't see each other."
"Ah. I believe I understand."
"Yep. Unfortunately, some human experiences are universal."
"So you, too, have been disillusioned."
"I don't know if I'd go that far," she began. Then she stopped. How could she describe the past several years of her life? She'd had lots of first dates, several seconds, very few thirds. There had been some kind men, some not so kind, others were rough-edged guys, even a couple who seemed as lost and lonely as she was. But no sparks, no thrill when their hands brushed, no looking into their eyes without being able to pull away.
In short, she had never before met a Lancelot.
"I guess I was disillusioned," she admitted. "I just never realized it."
"How could you not realize it? Good Lord, I'm aware of the deficit every moment of every day. Yes, I serve Arthur, but at times it seems such a hollow mission. As a man, I want so much more. I want…"
He reached up and grasped her wrist but didn't seem fully cognizant of the gesture. "I want something to hold onto. There has to be more to devote my life to than just myself, Arthur, Camelot. There has to be more."
"I'm sure there must be," she said softly.
"You claim to be from the future."
Taken aback by the sudden change in topic, she paused for a moment. "Well, yes."
"Do you mean to tell me that in the next thousand years, mankind will still be facing the same basic problems as now?"
"A thousand and a half, actually."
His voice rose. "In the next fifteen hundred years, we'll still be lonely and miserable?"
"Not everyone, I suppose."
"No. Not everyone. Just people like us."
"You don't believe me," she concluded.
"Lady Julia"-he patted her hand then withdrew his own-"I just think that man will most certainly find a way to remedy his most basic dilemmas by then. War, hunger, disease, and above all loneliness will surely be considered ancient ills by then. Well before then, in truth."
"I hate to burst your bubble, but if anything, those issues will be far worse. By my time, wars will no longer be man-to-man battles but push-button annihilations. Millions will still starve every year, and the rest will watch it on television. Humans will live longer in general, but they will die of horrible diseases that don't even exist yet. And yes, as crowded as the world will be, as packed as the cities in my time are, and as hard as it is to find some peace and space, there will still be loneliness and despair."
As she spoke, tears began to sting her eyes. "It will be far, far worse than anything you can imagine here in Camelot. You have no idea, Lancelot. And I'm glad. I really am. There are so many awful things. Just so many awful things."
He moved beside her on the bench, slowly taking her into his arms. "Hush, Julia." He smoothed her hair, brushing it from her forehead, from her temples. "It's all a dream. Simply a bad dream."
"But it's not! Don't you understand? Everything that happens then has its roots here, in Camelot! All of the pain and corruption and disaster begin with you and Guinevere."
"Poor Julia," he murmured tolerantly, rocking her gently as he would a child. His large, callused hands were astonishingly gentle. "What a burden you bear."
"You don't believe a word of what I'm saying, do you? Fine. Then let me ask you this." She leaned back to look at his face. It the partial darkness, with her eyes still clouded with tears, his expression was hard to determine. "Doesn't it strike you as peculiar that I know so much about you? Not only about what you've done but about your thoughts and desires?"
"Not really. It's probably only women's intuition. I've learned never to underestimate the powers of a woman."
"This is not just women's intuition. I'm trying to warn you. This is a chance not only to save you but maybe to save the future for me as well. Maybe that's why I'm here."
"So you feel that of all the millions of people in your own time ..: "
"Billions," she corrected. "There are billions of people."
"I stand corrected. So then, of all the billions of people in your time, of all the scientists and physicians a
nd theologians and kings, you alone were somehow selected as the best possible choice to save the world?"
"Well"-she relaxed against him-"I guess when you put it that way, it sounds a bit far-fetched." It was comforting being there, feeling the warmth and strength of his body. "Then I wonder why I'm here at all."
"Perhaps it's to help me."
She pulled back and gave him a speculative glance. "So, of all the billions of people who have ever lived, or will ever live, somehow you alone were selected to be helped by someone from the future?"
He smiled. "When you phrase it that way, Lady Julia, I believe I should just say that question may take time to answer."
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to savor the pure luxury of being held, of being taken care ofeven if only for a brief moment. And in spite of being in a strange land, in an uncertain time, simply being with Lancelot seemed almost perfect.
"We're very alike, you and I," he said as he stroked her shoulder. "It seems neither of us has found precisely what we're looking for."
"And what are we looking for?"
With a low chuckle, he shook his head. "That is part of the problem. We don't know, Julia. We don't know exactly what we're seeking. All we can do is hope that when it comes along, we'll be astute enough to recognize it."
He was right. The instant he said those words, she knew that she, too, had been on a quest. And she, too, had no idea how or when that quest would end.
As she mused, drowsy and content, his hand continued to stroke rhythmically, first on her shoulder, then to her neck, gently against the line of her jaw. Then with his thumb he traced across her collarbone, and suddenly she wasn't drowsy anymore.
Instead, every nerve in her body was jolted as his thumb glided up her throat, then tilted her chin toward him. She held her breath as his lips found hers, softly at first, tender as the unfolding wings of a butterfly. She reached up and touched the side of his face, the roughness of vague whiskers, the lush softness of his hair. He moaned and pulled her closer, still gentle yet with an awakening undercurrent of something unfamiliar, perhaps even dangerous.
His arm braced her back, hand splayed between her shoulder blades, as her arms encircled his shoulders, feeling the hardness of his muscles. The kiss deepened into something much more intimate, far more compelling, as he gently pried her lips apart.
Then, without warning, he pulled away, breath ragged. His eyes were hazy, unfocused.
"Julia," he rasped. "Forgive me."
She was too stunned and muddled to speak. "I… please.
He dropped his head for a moment, then looked back, his gaze now clear. "I'm sorry, Lady Julia. I have no wish to take advantage of you."
Her lips still warm with the heat of his kiss, she tried to smile. "Maybe I would like to take advantage of you," she admitted before realizing what she was saying.
He took a deep breath and grinned. "Ah, Lady Julia. If only," he began. Then he stopped. "Come." He rose to his feet, lifting her with him, and after the briefest of pauses, he set her softly on the stone floor that no longer seemed as cold or as hard as it had before. "I'll take you to your chamber."
After taking a few steps, he stopped and turned back to her. Then he smiled, and she felt something deep within her stir, something warm and unfamiliar. Wordlessly, he reached out his hand, and she took it. In his grasp, her hand felt small and fragile, and his thumb lightly caressed her palm. Together, they climbed the stairs, and he took her to the room she had been in earlier in the day.
Much to her disappointment, and somewhat to her relief, he left her alone in the chamber to chase the slumber she knew would most surely elude her.
The morning sun fell across the kingdom, illuminating the sparkle of the stone walls, touching the vivid blooms, embracing everything with its clean warmth. The citizens were just beginning to stir, the women sweeping the already pristine sidewalks, the tradesmen rolling out their carts, the children stretching sleepy arms over tousled heads to face the new day.
The king stared out the palace's arched window at the splendor of his Camelot. For it was his, as much as any land could be shaped and formed and nurtured by a single man. Below, and as far as he could see, were the fruits of his toil. Every tree and flower, each building and pathway and road, above all the people-all had been coaxed and encouraged by Arthur himself.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had not slept much the night before. His mind was troubled, and his wife, sensing his unease, had urged him to tell her what he was feeling.
And for the very first time in their marriage, he did not. He purposely kept his worry to himself: For how could he confess to Guinevere that he no longer felt sure of her, that he was feeling the first uncomfortable tug of something so unseemly and abhorrent that he was loath even to articulate the thoughts in his mind?
At times like this, when he was troubled, she had always been a source of comfort and wisdom. But not now. Not with this dilemma.
"Your Majesty." The voice was behind him.
The king did not need to turn. He recognized the speaker. "Malvern. I did not hear you."
"I knocked several times, Your Highness, but you did not answer."
The king remained at the window. There was a bird in the tree below, chirping and hopping from branch to branch.
."I need to speak to you on a matter most serious." Malvern watched his sovereign's back, the ramrodstraight carriage, the noble grace of his hands, clasped behind him as he stood.
Malvern hesitated for just a moment. Once he spoke the words he had labored over so carefully, there would be no taking them back. Even more than the day before, when he had been but testing the waters with a cautious toe. This would be it. This was the golden chance he had been waiting for, and fate had smiled upon him, upon Malvern, to give him this opportunity.
He cleared his throat. His practiced words deserved an elegant delivery. "Your Majesty," he began. His voice had just the right tone. The reedy, unpleasant pitch that sometimes annoyed him was gone. He spoke again with more confidence. "Your Majesty, I have a weighty matter to discuss with you."
"Go on, Malvern. I'm listening."
Malvern willed himself to stay calm and ignore Arthur's dismissive manner. He could not afford to let his temper get the best of him, especially at this moment. He took a deep breath.
"Your Majesty, I believe you noticed your queen's reaction to Lancelot at last evening's banquet."
Slowly, the king stepped toward the window, resting a palm on the uneven glass. Malvern did not see Arthur's jaw tighten or his eyes narrow.
"Are you listening, Your Majesty? This is vital to the well-being of Camelot."
"I am listening. Continue."
Malvern swallowed. Was the king really paying attention? It was impossible to tell. He pressed on. "The entire court is commenting on the queen's blush when Sir Lancelot touched her. Just a touch. Of course, it was a touch of a most intimate kind. As you witnessed, Lancelot rubbed his lips against the soft flesh of her wrist. Some say they saw his tongue touch her wrist, but I for one did not see that. I was at the wrong angle, but still… well. No matter. And her reaction was that of a besotted schoolgirl! The court is abuzz. There is talk of nothing else."
Of course, that was not true. But Malvern knew that the king would never ask, and even if he did, any impassioned and sincere denial would be taken as the opposite. No, Malvern was quite safe in this bit of embroidered tale-telling.
The king said nothing.
Malvern waited for an explosion of anger, for some flash of passion or fury. But there was no reaction from the king.
Now he was worried. What if the king did not care? What if the royal romance had been extinguished long ago, and Malvern, as always, had been the last to know?
How typical, he thought. How absolutely typical! This is precisely why he had to take matters into his own hands. Why, if he did not rectify the situation, who would?
The king still showed no indication of any emotion. Malvern h
ad to think, and he had to think fast. Now. There was no time to dawdle. The king would not allow Malvern much more time. Already he had impinged upon the royal chamber. There may not be another chance.
"Are you finished, Malvern?"
"No! No, Your Majesty!"
The king remained silent, waiting, back still to the room, and Malvern said the first thing that came into his head. "Lancelot intends to overthrow your throne!"
The words burst forth as if they had a life of their own.
Very slowly, the king turned to Malvern. "What did you say?"
This was it. One wrong word, one errant syllable, and Malvern would ruin his life. A falsehood discovered would earn his disgrace, banishment, perhaps even death.
With every bit of strength in his possession, he began. "There have been whisperings. Lancelot is attempting to raise an army to take over Camelot. His aim is to gain both the queen and the crown in one swoop.
"Whom has he contacted in this quest?" The king's voice was so neutral and even, he could have been asking for a cup of water.
"He has contacted many of the knights, Your Majesty." Malvern held his voice steady, even as he realized the king would want more information.
"Has he contacted you?"
"Yes. Yes, he has, three times." Three times?
"Do you know the names of the other knights?"
Now, this was tricky. He had to say no but somehow make it seem as if he knew more than he was telling. He had to make himself invaluable to the king. That was it! He alone could render this service for his king!
"The other knights?" Malvern frowned as if in deep thought. "Lancelot told me, but forgive me, Your Majesty, I was so appalled and shocked, I do not recall the names."
"I thank you, Malvern, for this information. Should I have more need of you, I will have you contacted. Good morning."
That was it?
The king again turned to the window.
"Your Majesty, I must urge you to ..:"
"I said good morning!" the king snapped.
Never before had Malvern heard King Arthur snap. Malvern began to leave the chamber, wondering if Arthur was angry at the information he had just been given.