La Damoiselle Arthur 20 &21 (Patreon)

Chapter 20

In which the Lady Aisly once more doth seek the heart of the noble unicorn.

“What news from the huntsman?” Morgana said, voice so shrill Mordred feared it might shatter glass. “What news of Arthur?”

“Nothing,” Mordred said. He’d been idly practicing his archery skills in the outer courtyard before his wretched mother had come shrieking in like a harpy.  He languidly unleashed an arrow, which struck the straw target far outside the bullseye, along with the others. “I just can’t seem to get the hang of this,” Mordred said. A spoiled child, he was actually quite not good at most things, as he refused to work very hard at anything.

“What’s wrong with you?” Morgana screamed, grabbing him by the shirt, shaking him. “You’re letting it all slip away!”

“Unhand me,” Mordred said, gripping her wrist, squeezing, harder, harder.

“Uh.” Morgana let go, and Mordred released her. She rubbed her wrist. “You are a fool for a son!” She spat. “I conjured the plague! I’ve worked so hard for you…”

“You work for yourself!”

“No. It’s all for you that you might be–”

“It’s never been for me, Mother. You are a wretched hag!”

Overcome with rage, Morgana raised a hand, meaning to strike him across the face as she had when he was a little boy and got saucy. But, she remembered the way he’d hurt her wrist, saw the cold, hard look in his eyes, so much like his father. “You’ll regret those words!” She screamed, and then she turned and stormed off, back into the castle.

Morgana, Mordred thought sourly. Why did she have to be so difficult? And she was so obsessed with this idea of stopping Arthur from fulfilling his quest out there in the wilds. Mordred, despite his nonchalant attitude, had a perfectly good plan prepared to ensure his uncle remained a girl for the rest of his life. He knew Arthur must return to Camelot. He would simply meet him outside the city, take him prisoner and hold him until the time passed and he was stuck as a woman.

Arthur was a helpless girl, he thought. The only real challenge was Lancelot, and for that? Well, Mordred looked at the tip of his arrow and smiled. For that all that was needed was a much better archer and a strong tincture of poison.

As much Morgana obsessed over the idea of making a nun of Arthur, and the idea of him in his habit kneeling for morning prayers every morning was quite dear, Mordred rather saw himself dressing Arthur as a serving girl and keeping him around the castle. What a pleasing sight it would be, he thought, picturing Arthur in a brown dress, an apron, his hair hidden under a bonnet as he swept the hallways of the castle he once ruled.

Mordred lay down his bow. He’d exercised enough for one day, he felt, and more than deserved a tall pint of ale and massage. His life was simply exhausting.

As soon as he left, shadow detached herself from where she’d hidden behind one of the pillars that surrounded the courtyard. Plague? Stopping Arthur? Guinevere must know of this! She decided, hurrying up the stairs.  She must know at once!

The books of history tell the tales of kings and their warriors, their advisors and wizards, with maybe an occasional mention of a wife or mother. A true history, though, would tell the tales of all the grand plans hatched in council chambers and parlors over all the years, in the end unraveled and undone by the sharp ears and quick decisions of a serving girl.

Arthur may well have envied a serving girl at that moment, in the way any pampered princess might envy a peasant’s life from time to time. Indeed, if he were a serving girl he would at least be busy and not forced into idle tedium!  Or, for that matter, to ride at a pace that would make a snail seem swift.

“A lady,” Reagenette had explained, “is never in a hurry.”

“But, I am in a hurry,” Arthur had said, thinking this another ridiculous limitation imposed on him for being a woman.

“Are you a lady?” Reagenette asked.

“Yes,” Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes, as they had played this little game before.

“Then you are not in a hurry, Aisly.”

Arthur had noticed she chose to remind him of his new name whenever he bucked against his maidenhood. It irked him something fierce, and yet it worked. In fact, thinking on it now, he had never seen any of the ladies of Camelot in a hurry to get anywhere. They always seemed to walk with the most offhand air about them, and did they ever love to arrive a little late to everything. He’d given in, and it had been agreed that Lancelot would lead with a pace suitable for a lady of Aisly’s refinement.

Besides, riding side saddle, Arthur felt like he might slip off his horse at even the slightest bump, and so he felt more secure at the slower pace, as much as it bored and vexed him. Knowing that the fate of his quest and his life required a perfect, clean dress, he now obsessed constantly over the fear he might fall off his horse and his dress become marred by so much as a speck of dirt. As they rode along, he watched eagle-eyed for any brambles, grabbing his skirts and gathering them, terrified of a tear in the delicate fabric!

And what if the barghest should come? Or some other fell creature? Arthur found his mind consumed with worry for himself, for Lancelot, for his dress and hair. Even his fair skin! Reagenette had assured him the unicorn would not love a sunburnt maiden! And then she had, of course, dressed him in a gown that left his shoulders bare! Another confounding expression of her notion that a lady’s clothes were never strictly functional in the male sense. His little arm having grown tired holding up his parasol to block the sun, Spring now hovered along with him, holding the parasol that Arthur might protect his perfect, flawless skin.

Arthur now felt consumed with a need he’d never experienced before: the need to be perfect. The thought that even a single hair might be out of place filled him with horror.

In addition to becoming a focal point for maidenly anxiety, Arthur’s clothes now had another effect on his fragile and fading male mind: they reminded him constantly that he was a woman, and a curvaceous one at that. While wearing boy clothes, Arthur had often tuned out his body and gone about his day feeling very much the man he’d always been. Indeed, had he not even fought just as he had as a man, slaying the barghest, the creature in the cave?

But now? Crushed into the feminine vise of his corset, he felt his womanly shape acutely at all times. The corset crushed his slender waist in further as it did his ribs, and the top of the corset served almost like a shelf for his maidenly bosom, almost lifting it and presenting it to the world is if his chest were resting on an h'orderve tray. The corset pinched and crushed and–oh! Was it ever hard to breathe! Arthur had learned to take small, shallow breaths, but each time his lungs expanded, he felt his ribs straining against the corset– and failing. It seemed hard as the hardest steel as if crushed his body.

It seemed to Arthur, as he rode along with little else to do but think and worry, that this infernal corset not only forced his body into a more maidenly shape, but his personality as well. Helpless, constrained, pretty, it was as if some evil sorcerer had contrived an instrument of torture to force the maiden to act the maiden! Indeed, Arthur mused, remembering Reagenette’s lesson that if there danger he should scream and run. I can barely even do those things without risk of fainting!

The first day passed without incident, much to the relief of both Lancelot and Arthur. The sun setting, they came to a small plateau where they could set up Arthur’s pavilion, carried along by his proud war horse turned pack mule.

“Milady?” Lancelot said.

Inside, Arthur winced. It was humiliating. But, he smiled and offered Lancelot his little, white gloved hand. Lancelot took Arthur’s hand and helped him dismount, while Spring spread a blanket across the crab grass for Arthur to kneel on while Lancelot set up his tent. Of course, a lady of refinement could not be expected to sleep outdoors. The horror!

Arthur lifted his dress, making sure the hem did not touch even the tip of a blade of that horrid looking grass, and then once he was safely on the blanket, Lancelot once more took Arthur’s hand and helped him lower himself to kneel prettily on the ground. Helpless… useless Arthur was thinking…

Lancelot then began to set up Arthur’s tent, erecting the wooden poles, that would serve as the frame. Arthur watched, as there was little else to do, but as he noticed Lancelot’s strong arms and broad, powerful shoulders he looked away, blushing, as it was most unladylike. “Spring?” He asked, his voice high and breathy.

“Milady?” Spring said with a bow.  She was not 5’ tall, as Reagenette had given her a ring which allowed her to change her size.

“Would you fetch me my book from the cart? I should rather like to read a few pages while I wait.”

Spring dug through the items on the cart, found the thick, leather bound tome Arthur had been reading and brought it to him. “Would you like me to read it out loud to you?” Spring asked.

Wouldn’t that be the height of pampered? Arthur mused, but no. Besides, the book, The Courtship of the Lady Suite, was not something he wanted Lancelot know he was reading, filled as it was with sobbing and heartbreak and tall, handsome suitors! Indeed, Arthur felt quite ridiculous reading it, himself, but he had little else to do, and besides, he’d become quite curious as to which dashing young man Lady White would choose!

There was a sound of wood collapsing. Arthur looked over his shoulder to see the wooden poles had all collapsed to the ground and lay in a heap. “Infernal elvish tents!” Lancelot shouted, kicking one of the poles and then grabbing his now aching foot, hopping on one leg.

“I think Belaire told me there were directions in the cart?” Arthur called out.

“I don’t need directions,” Lancelot grumbled as he started to try and set up Arthur’s tent once more.

“Of course not,” Arthur said, playing the sweet, supportive girl, though he was thinking, men. Oh, well. I’ll just go back to my book! Lancelot continued to grumble and grunt, and Arthur, playing with a strand of his hair as he read about Lady White’s most dangerous encounter with Lord Black, thought it was kind of funny and cute and, yes he was helpless and useless, but it made him also feel– special- to have Lancelot doting over him.

Once Lancelot had managed to wrangle Arthur’s tent into shape, he then began to move all of Arthur’s “necessities” into the tent including a cot, a settee, a dressing table, a mirror, a wooden dummy, and various wooden boxes of jewelry and Lancelot knew not what.  A couch for a trip into the wilderness? A mirror? Lancelot knew none of this had been Arthur’s idea, and yet as he saw Arthur curled up on the blanket, paging through his book while Spring held his parasol above him, Lancelot couldn’t help but suffer a little good natured resentment. Look at her just lounging around while I do all the work! Women!

And yet he knew Arthur was not truly a lady, and he suspected his king and long-time friend would gladly have helped set up the tent were it not for the fear of breaking a nail. “Lady Aisly,” Lancelot finally called with an ironic bow. “Your residence awaits.”

Arthur, nose in his book, raised one delicate finger. He was just finishing a really good part.

Lancelot shook his head. “Milday?”

“Just a moment…” Arthur said.

“I have still to build a fire and cook your supper, your highness, and it is getting late.”

“I’m almost done…”

“Of course. Not that I would like to eat and get some rest, of course. Let the lady finishing her reading.”

“There!” Arthur placed his book mark and snapped the book shut. Only when finally looked up did he see the aggravated look on Lancelot’s face.

“Are you cross with me?” Arthur said.

“Well, milady, you could have finished reading in your palace while I continued to do all the work, so yes, I am cross that you kept me waiting while you did something now, you could have just as easily done later.”

“I was at such a good part, though,” Arthur said, hugging the book to his bosom. And then sucking in his cheeks to enhance his dimples, Arthur smiled and batted his eyelashes. “Brave knight?” Arthur held out his hand. “Your assistance?”

Lancelot felt his anger melting away. He couldn’t stay mad at this fetching little woman. He smiled. “Of course.” He took Arthur’s hand and helped him get to his feet. Arthur once more lifted his skirts and made his way daintily into his tent, followed by Spring who gave Lancelot a playful wink, then closed the tent flaps behind them.

“Now please,” he heard Arthur say with an air of near desperation, “get me out of this corset!”

Not wanting to let his mind begin to fantasize about what was going on in that tent, Lancelot went to the cart and pulled out the firewood. He still had a whole list of chores to do, not least of which was to prepare a soup of broth, herbs and spices for Aisly, which Reagenette had assured would help keep his skin glowing.

Once Spring hung Arthur’s dress on the wooden dummy, Arthur carefully inspected every inch, particularly the hem, which he’d been ever so worried would drag on the ground and get soiled. Even the desperate desire he had to be free of his corset and breathe was not enough to overcome his concern about his gown. To his delight, his dress was still the same pure, virginal white as it had been when he’d left that morning. He couldn’t help but clap, he was so excited.

“You did very well, today, milady,” Spring said.

“Why, my thanks,” Arthur said, quite pleased at his success. He turned so the laces of his corset faced Spring. “And now, save me, my dear, before I faint again!”

It seemed to take forever for Spring to loosen the ribbons enough to free Arthur from his prison, but soon enough he found himself in a delightfully loose, flowing night gown, gulping down large and truly unladylike breathes, his ribs almost seeming to creak as they stretched and released themselves back to their natural shape. He sat, hands in lap, knees together, while Spring brushed out his hair and set it for the evening. Meanwhile, Lancelot had begun to cook, and the delightful aroma of his efforts sent rumbles through Arthur’s tummy.

Arthur wished he could go and sit by the campfire, watch the sparks rise into the star dappled sky! But it wasn’t proper for a lady, and he resigned himself to spending the rest of the night in his tent, which was lit and warmed by magic jars Reagenette had provided. Smoke, it seemed, would have been quite hard on his hair and skin.

“Your meal is ready,” Lancelot called from outside the tent. He knew better than to come in or to even risk a glance at Arthur is his night clothes. Instead, Spring went out and took the steaming wooden bowl of soup back to Arthur who ate, taking dainty little sips. It was delightful, and as soon as Arthur had finished about ⅔ of the bowl– for a lady always left a portion uneaten, he yawned and stretched, overcome with the desire to sleep.

Who knew doing nothing could tire a girl so? Arthur thought as he lay down on the soft, goose feather mattress of his cot.

Spring woke him in the morning by tickling his shoulder with a feather. Arthur stirred, long lashes fluttering open, and he rose and stretched, feeling so free! His eyes fell on the sight of his infernal corset, and he slitted them in resentment. He hated it, and resented it, thinking as many girls had before and would since, that with his figure he hardly needed the thing. He wished he could linger in bed a little longer before the beginning of a new day of torture.

“Best be getting ready,” Spring said. “You have little time if you hope to return to Camelot before midsummer.”

“Little time?” Arthur said, laughing at the scattered-brained pixie. No doubt she was poor at math.  “Oh, I have 20 days.” Indeed, he was beginning to wonder if he and Lancelot might take shelter near Camelot and wait until midsummer to arrive. He had no desire to have to play the lady for days in plain sight of his wife, let alone the whole of his knights and court.

“More like 15,” Spring said as Arthur lifted his hair so she could wrap him in his corset.

“No, 20,” Arthur said, as Spring pulled on the stays, and he felt himself being crushed and conformed to exaggerated maidenly perfection.

“Missus,” Spring said, “did you not know? Time moves differently in the kingdom of the elves. More time has passed than you realize!”

Spring explained while Arthur braided his hair. He had become so good at braiding his hair, he just felt better doing it himself, lest there be some flaw. Indeed, he’d felt the difference, life seeming so dreamlike in that lovely elven realm. He couldn’t help but worry. With three more days to Golden Hollow and ten back to Camelot, there was little room for error!

The doom of a life in dresses rose up before him, now more possible than ever! Yet, he could not hurry, lest his hair be a mess! “I will make it,” he said, looking at his pretty face in the mirror, the face he might wear for the rest of his days. “We will make it!”

Lancelot had broken down the camp and now waited, annoyed, for the Lady Aisly to get ready. Why does it have to take women so long? He wondered. Sunlight was burning, and he would yet have to take down the lady’s tent.

Meanwhile, he sensed a growing threat. He’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure sneaking about the perimeter of their camp the night before, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d gone looking first thing and found no tracks. Yet, he could not shake the feeling they were being followed.

He remembered their flight and fight with the barghests– arrows that had come from nowhere? Perhaps a friend, maybe a druid from Pittenween?

Lancelot did not know, but he would be sure to say nothing of this to the Lady Aisly. Women were prone to worry anyway, he knew, and there was no reason to give her reason to grow hysterical with fright. The time she’d spent with the elves had changed her. Nothing remained of Arthur, warrior and king. She was now the most delicate of flowers, it seemed to him, and he would protect her at all costs.

Chapter 21

“Speak no more of this,” Guinevere said to the serving girl, handing her a coin. “Lest Mordred find out and place your life in peril.”

The girl left.

Morgana paced, furious. She doubted not the girl’s revelations. Morgana was always scheming, forever consumed with jealousy for Arthur. And Mordred? The very swine would seem suffused with nobility were they to stand next to him. The only question was– what to do? She considered expelling them both from the Camelot, but such a move seemed rash. They could scheme just as easily from Morgana’s fortress, Touroc, and much further from Guinevere’s eyes. Better to let them think Guinevere remained blind to their schemes, while placing spies upon them to keep note of their movements.

This left dealing with the plague as her next move. The people of Camelot suffered needlessly. How could Morgana so callously inflict these poor people with such a terrible affliction? Her scheme had so far hailed to undermine Guinevere’s rule.  Guinevere had volunteered long hours ministering to the sick in the plague tents, and her actions had more than overwhelmed the lies being spread by the Abbot.

She knew she would need magic to combat magic. Merlin, she still believed, was off with Arthur, but Nimue perhaps could be found at the cave? Guinevere donned a long, hooded cloak and slipped out of the castle, remaining anonymous lest word of her movements get back to her enemies. The grotto where Merlin lived with Nimue was not far, and as she rode down the narrow winding path, the sound of tinkling water all around her, the lush plants, Guinevere marveled at the beauty. Dismounting hitching her horse, she called into the cave– Nimue? Nimue? It is Guinevere.

Nimue made Guinevere nervous. She’d been called variously fairy, sprite, nymph – demon. Guinevere had no idea what sort of creature she was, she knew only that Nimue was not human, of tremendous beauty, and powerful magic. “Nimue?”

A figure approached, and when Nimue came into the light her hair was a tangled mess, her dress askew, and her eyes blazed with glassy malice. “Have you,” she hissed, head moving side to side like a cobra, “come to try and steal my husband?”

She tossed a ball of fire back into the cave, and Guinevere gasped. There was Merlin, imprisoned in amber. But then, what of Arthur?

“Please check the bed of my cot carefully tonight before laying my mattress,” Arthur said as the party continued to plod along towards Golden Hollow. “I felt something… perhaps a small pebble, and it was most uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps it was a pea,” Lancelot said, annoyed, “your princessness.”

He looked back, meaning to make sure his irritation was well-received, only to be met by Arthur’s bright smile, his big eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ha!” Arthur said, burst into silvery laughter. “You should see your face!”

“You certainly got me,” Lancelot said, smiling. But, oh, when she was fun and flirtatious like this, Arthur truly was maddening. “”I shall have to find some way to get you back.”

‘Please,” Arthur said. “I am far too bright to ever be fooled by you.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Take it as you will!”

“Milady,” Spring said, drawing Arthur’s attention to a brambly bush near the path.

“Goodness,” Arthur said, gathering the skirts of his dress, pulling them up to keep them safe, in the meantime offering Lancelot a glimpse of his little, slippered foot, and his delicate ankle.

Oh, the tableau did torture Lancelot– the look of feminine alarm on Arthur’s lovely face, the way he’d gathered his dress, that perfect little ankle… He turned his thoughts to prayer. He needed strength. Should he lose control and pursue this girl, there was no doubt Arthur would surrender herself to him like so many maidens before her. He had to be strong!

Clear of the danger, Arthur laughed some more as he set about thinking of some new way to tease Lancelot. He had to do something to pass the time!

Then, he heard an odd croaking sign, off to the left. It almost sounded like laughter, but as if from a throat dried and choking of dust. Arthur put a hand nervously to his cheek. “Lance?”

“I heard it,” Lancelot said, looking around. They were in a flat area, but surrounded by boulders that made visibility difficult. There could be any number of creatures hidden among the rocks.

‘Lance?” Arthur’s voice called from somewhere off to the right.

“I heard it,” Lancelot seemed to call back from off to the left.

“Lance…? I heard.. Lance…” I heard?” All around them now, their voices called in a cacophony and all the while mixed into that was that grinding, dust choked laughter…

Arthur’s horses reared, hooves slashing at the air. Arthur screamed as he felt himself slipping from the saddle, and he threw his arms around the horses’ neck, clinging with all the strength in his pretty little arms.

Now, they started to emerge. Wearing kilts and jackets, they were small and could have passed for little boys but for their long, bushy beards. “A fine lass,” one, holding a large, burlap sack called as he eyed Arthur. “A fine prize!”

“The Far Darrig!” Lancelot called, drawing his blade. Arthur! He was in danger. The Far Darrig were known to kidnap humans, and the one with the burlap bag was running toward Arthur now, laughing with glee. The others, recognizing Lancelot as a threat, swarmed toward him, meaning only to cut him off. Once they’d captured the girl, they would flee. They drew their cudgels.

Arthur, still clinging to his horse’s neck, saw the nasty little creature with the sack running towards him. If only I had a blade right now, he thought, I would cut him down! But, with no blade and a pretty dress to worry about, Arthur did what he’d been taught. He screamed as loud as he could and spurred his horse into action, clinging for dear life and gown. As a man and a knight, it shamed him to the core to not only flee from battle, but to leave a fellow knight behind. As a lady, it was his only choice.

Lancelot heard Arthur’s scream, and it made his blood boil to hear her so terrified. “Out of my way!” He shouted, swinging his sword in great arcs. The Far Darrig ran between his horse’s legs, bashing it’s legs with their cudgels. Trained for war, Lancelot’s steed did not panic, but kicked, sending one of the creatures flying, and stomped with the crunching of bone.

Lancelot, unable to strike any of the scurrying little creatures, leapt from his horse, but realized his mistake too late. The little creatures swarmed, there were more than he’d realized, and they climbed on him and over him until he fell, and then he found them climbing on his face, smothering his nose and mouth while the weight of dozens of them seemed to have pinned his arms to the ground. A massive pile of Far Darrig now completely buried Lancelot.

Lancelot’s vision began to go dark, but even as he faced the possibility of his own death, his thoughts remained fixed on the one thing that truly mattered: Lady Aisly was in danger. He could not fail her!

He thought of Aisly’s lovely face, her dimples and sparkling eyes, and he found within himself a sudden burst of superhuman strength, bursting from the pile of Darrig, sending them flying through the air. He now grabbed two and began to swing them about, using them like clubs to bash at the infernal creatures.  Still, there were so many, and Aisly…

An arrow pierced a neck! The another and another!  Flurry of arrows filled the sky, and the Darrig fell like wheat beneath a thrasher, scattering and running in terror.

“Aisly!” Lancelot called, leaping back onto his horse. ”I’m coming!”

Arthur did not hear. He had one arm wrapped tightly around his horse’s neck, and the other was holding up his dress. “Help!” He cried out, as the Darrig gained on him. How could such little legs run so fast? “Help!”

“I’ll have you yet,” the Darrig laughed. “A pretty little morsel!”

The Darrig got in front of Arthur’s horse. Once more she reared, almost throwing Arthur off her back. Arthur screamed. His horse finally settled allowing Arthur to sit up, grab the bridle. He turned and turned his horse, hoping to escape, but the filthy little creature circled with him, getting closer and closer.

“No use running,” the Darrig said. “You’ll not escape. I’ll just put you in my bag here and take you back to Sunken Cavern!”

“No, please,” Arthur said softly. “Just let me go…”

“Oh, no,” the Darrig said, opening his bag, preparing to leap up and capture Arthur. “You’ll be making a fine stew for…”

Hooves crashed into the creature’s head as Lancelot’s horse came leaping over a large stone.

“Lance!” Arthur shouted.

“Milady,” Lancelot said, letting his horse give the gross little beast a good stomping, “are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“Y- I mean no. It didn’t– I’m fine,” Arthur said, flustered not just at the sight of Lancelot, so strong and handsome on his mighty steed, but the genuine concern in Lancelot’s voice for Arthur’s well-being.  Arthur’s hand went to his chest. “You saved me!”

There was gratitude and more in Lady Aisly’s eyes, and Lancelot felt the powerful draw of her passions. Once more, he knew that he need but ask, and she would be his. Once more, he prayed for strength.

Arthur knew what passed through Lancelot’s eyes, saw the temptation give way to steely resolve. Oh! Even this did cause the Lady Arthur’s heart to flutter. He was so strong! So noble! And Arthur knew Sir Lancelot would be strong for the both of them.

“Come,” Lancelot said, all business now. “We must keep moving, lest you remain a lady for life.”

He and Arthur exchanged a glance at that. They were both thinking– would that really be so bad?

—-----------

“I did not come for your husband,” Guinevere said, alarmed. All knew well of Nimue’s jealousy. She resisted the urge to simply back away for fear of the nymphs volatile temper. She needed help, and Arthur needed help. He’s alone out there, she thought. Alone, just a girl in the wilds of England. Oh, Arthur! “I come as a friend,” Guinevere said, holding out a hand.

“That’s what they all say!” Nimue spat, clawing at her hair. “All the girls want to be my friend– so they can steal my Merlin!”

“Who did this to Merlin?” Guinevere asked, though she suspected it was Nimue, herself. She just wanted to get the girl talking.

“I did!” Numue said, rushing to the amber piller, placing her hands on the cold stone. “To save him!” She glanced back over her shoulder, barring her teeth. “From your husband!” Then, under her breath, as if to herself, “That pretty little wench won’t be having her wanton ways with my man.”

Arthur and Merlin? Guinevere stifled a laugh, but even the small snicker that escaped her brought a tantrum.

“I saw it! I had a vision!” Nimue screamed, jumping up and down, rushing over to a table laden with jars and elixirs, sweeping them to the ground with a wave of her arm, the glassware shattering, a gray cloud rising as the chemicals mixed… “Arthur and her lustful glances…” Nimue began to wobble as she breathed in the fumes, her eyes growing glassy. “Naked in the spring, smiling and blushing as stupid, weak, pathetic Merlin took her in his arms… and… and….”

She fell to the ground, asleep.

Guinevere retreated to the mouth of the cave waiting for the fumes to clear. A vision, Niimue said. Of Arthur and Merlin? She had always thought Merlin a bit off, but Arthur? Her Arthur? It didn’t seem possible, but perhaps, she thought, looking at the wizard frozen in stone, Nimue had saved her husband after all. Who knew what wearing that female shape may have done to him? Or what foul magic that Celtic witch had laid upon him.

Nimue awoke. As was her mercurial nature, she now instantly wept. “I am so sorry!” She said, seeing Guinevere at her side. “I have been awful! You’re my only friend! Please don’t hate me!”

“”Of course not,” Guinevvere said, pleased by the latest whiplash of emotion. “But, please, I need your help!”

Once more, Nimue’s mood suddenly altered as she grinned and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Yes! Anything!”

—-------

If only I could help, Arthur thought that evening as he once more watched Lancelot struggling to raise the tent. It would be an easy task for two men, but, alas, he reminded himself, he was no longer a man. All Lancelot needed was for someone to hold one of the posts while he connected the other, a simple task even Arthur could manage, but for the risk he might get dirt on his gown, or break a nail.

Meanwhile, Arthur’s already anxious mind grew frantic as he watched dark clouds rushing toward them from the south. Rain would ruin his hair, and it would take hours to dry it and brush it back out. “Have you noted the clouds to the south?” He asked in the offhand way he’d learned to draw a man’s attention to something, when he longed to simply say— It will rain soon! Hurry up!

“Yes, milady,” Lancelot said in the aggrieved tone that was becoming habit for Lancelot at these times. “I have.”

Thinking Lancelot did not appreciate his peril, Arthur waved a little hand and said, “It would be dreadful if my hair got wet. It simply takes forever to dry.”

Hair. We just barely survived an attack, and she’s worried about her hair. Resisting every masculine urge to explain to this foolish little female how her priorities were misplaced, he calmed himself and forced a smile. “I will have your pavilion up as soon as I am able, Lady Aisly.”

.Despite Lancelot’s attempts to mask his annoyance, Arthur felt it plainly. He doesn’t have to be so terse with me! He fumed, hiding his own feelings behind his ever present smile. It’s not as if I have chosen this fate! He has no idea what I go through!

Lancelot did not fail his lady. Just as the first drops began to fall, he pulled  back the tent flap. Milady!

Arthur, sheltered beneath his parasol, hurried into his shelter. “My thanks!” He said, relieved to have escaped the rain.

“My pleasure!” Lancelot said, and just then the sky opened and a cold, hard rain poured down on him. Arthur shrieked, gathering his skirts, leaping back lest any of the rain drops get on his gown. “Close the tent!” He begged.

Spring pulled the tent shut, and Arthur shrugged in regret as he watched Lancelot standing in the rain, the water flowing down his sour face.

That night, Lancelot found himself sleeping on a– mostly– flat stone that was at least above the gathering pools of water on the ground. He huddled under his sleeping bag, shivering, looking at the warm light illuminating Arthur’s tent from within. Of course there had been no tent provided for him. He was but a man.

Arthur sitting warm and comfy in his tent already in his evening gown, brushed his hair, worrying so about Lancelot stuck out there in the rain. “I am sure the Queen did not think it would rain!” He called out. “I am sure it will be over soon!”

“It matters not, Lady Aisly,” Lancelot said, “as long as you are safe and warm.”

“I really cannot invite you into my tent!” Arthur said, feeling guilty.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lancelot said, shivering, wishing she would just let him suffer in peace.

“Well,” Arthur added, throwing his hair back over his shoulders. “Don’t catch cold.”

Thank you so much for that advice, Lancelot thought. For I was surely planning to do my best to catch a cold.

“Night, night!” Arthur called.

“Pleasant dreams, milady,” Lancelot answered, thinking, women!

Arthur slept like a baby. The pleasing pitter patter of the rain upon his tent soothed him and seemed to calm his worried mind. He emerged from his tent the next morning radiant. The clouds had cleared, and he found himself greeted by a sunny, blue-skyed day.

“What a lovely morning,” he said, hands lifting his skirts as he took it all in. Then, he saw Lancelot, clothes still sopping wet, dark circles under his sleep starved eyes. “Goodness,” he said, concerned.

Lancelot sneezed.

“Oh, you poor dear. You’ve caught a cold!”

“Despite the fact you told me not to,” Lancelot said.

Arthur smiled and shrugged. “You put up with so much for me,” he said. “I do hope you know I appreciate your valor.”

Arthur did look a vision, and Lancelot found he could not stay mad at the girl. “Let’s find a nice, dry place for you to rest,” he said, getting up and taking Arthur’s hand.

“Merci!”

Spring followed them, skipping, singing some sweet song in an ancient tongue. Lancelot let his eyes roam over her body.

It was good fortune that our quest proceeded to the gates of Golden Hollow without further crisis, other than a stiff wind which quite tangled Arthur’s hair and led to a long and sometimes painful detangling. Returning to the gates, Arthur waited patiently as Spring inspected his hair and his gown. Finally, satisfied, she decried, “You are perfect, milady.”

“Ravishing,” Lancelot added.

Arthur blushed and cast his eyes aside. “You are both too kind!”

At the gate, he declared his virginity once more, and the brambles opened. Spring followed, carrying a blanket and Arthur’s parasol. A cloud of giggling pixies surrounded Arthur, singing the praises of his beauty as he made his way to the pool where he’d first seen the unicorn. Spring lay the blanket down, and then handed Arthur his parasol, retreating, leaving the maiden to her task.

A lady does not pursue, Regeanette had explained. She waits. And so once more Arthur found himself reduced to passivity, as he sat, smiling and playing with his hair, maintaining a calm and demure demeanor, though in truth his heart raced! He could not wait to lay eyes on that noble creature once more!

He waited, he did not know how long, and then he heard a whinny. He looked over, and there stood the unicorn, lit golden in the rays of the sun, his mighty chest and strong legs, horn glistening. Arthur ached to run to the unicorn, throw his arms around his neck and shower him in kisses.

But he fought the urge, instead meeting the eyes, tilting his head to the side, and then looking away, blushing. He heard the clip clop of the unicorn’s hooves as it approached. Then, he felt the unicorn nuzzled his cheek. Arthur felt his whole body blush and sigh, and he turned, running his hands along the unicorn’s mane— it was so soft!

The unicorn lowered himself to the ground and lay his head in Arthur’s lap. Arthur pet him, and the tears began to fall. Tears of joy and relief and triumph. All his sacrifices had born fruit. He was a perfect lady. “I love you, he whispered, and then daintily touching that hard, long, horn, he added, “You are mine.”

The unicorn whinnied in agreement, surrendering to the lovely vision of young maidenhood Arthur had embraced. And now, finally, having captured his unicorn, Arthur kissed him on the neck, sweet, maidenly kisses that fell again and again and again.