The Lady Arthur-- Complete. (Patreon)

The Lady Arthur and The Adventure of the 49 Days

In which Arthur, King of the Britons, does find himself a lady fair

It was The Feast of Saint George, and in the Great Hall of Camelot, King Arthur and his knights gathered for a banquet.  The seven famed hearths blazed with mighty fires, and the room swam in the succulent smell of roasting pork, veal and venison.  Servants scurried here and there, refilling mugs with ale, but the food waited-- as it always did on the Feast of Saint George-- for the occurence a miracle.

“Arthur,” Sir Yvain said, and not for the first time.  “Just a slice.  I am famished.”

“Patience,” Arthur said.  “The meal will be all the more satisfying knowing that you earned it through your pious devotion.”

“But I am sooo hungry.”

“You will make it, my friend,” Arthur said, patting him on the arm.  “I am sure you will.”

“This waiting upon miracles is for fools,” Mordred said. “Catholic Irish superstition.  We are Celts, and it is time to admit that.”

Arthur hid his irritation behind a fatherly smile, resisting the urge to correct the impudent welp. Arthur was descended of the Anglo-Saxons. It was Morgana who had planted all this Celtic heritage obsession into Mordred’s mind. Arthur would not blame the boy for his mother’s folly. “Our faith has delivered us many victories in war. Our traditions guide our footsteps, so we do not stray…”

“Into the forest of folly,” Mordred groaned.  “Yes, I recall as you have only said that same thing to me, I don’t know?  There are fewer stars in the heavens, I will say that much.”

Arthur sighed.  It was a failing on his part, but he did not like Mordred.  Arthur, in fact, would never have awarded the arrogant young man a place at the round table, but for the fact that the boy’s mother, Morgana, had begged him, and she was his sister, and the boy his nephew.  Yet, Arthur considered his inability to like his nephew as falling short of his Christian obligations as an Uncle.

“Remember, Arthur,” Lancelot said, breaking off his conversation with Percival.  “We united England for the benefit of the future generations.”

“That may have been a mistake,” Arthur said, taking a sip of ale.  “It may we have made things too easy on the young.”

Mordred scowled, dreading another if you only knew how hard I had it when I was your age speech. “I need warm myself by the fire,” Mordred said, getting up and sauntering over to one of the great hearths, mug of ale in hand.  As he walked, he marveled at the floor of the great hall-- all intricate mosaic tiles, artfully laid out in the images of the Roman gods-- a floor left over from those who originally constructed this mighty hall, the Roman Legions who had held this fort, it was said, for many hundreds of years.

There was the image of a man atop a mountain, bolt of lightning in his hands.  A woman hunting. Few Britons remembered anymore who these Gods were, their stories, but the images had always fascinated Mordred, and since he’d first come here as a child, he’d made up stories to go with the images.

The walls of Great Hall had been plastered and painted with the images of the Celtic Gods-- and these names Mordred did know.  Dadga, Morrigan, Brigid and Danus among so many more.  Mordred reached up and gently lay his fingers on the image of Mighty Dagda, and his heart sang, even to grow cold as he looked over and saw the image of the cross.

Mordred frowned and looked back to his Celtic Gods.  His mother Morgana had told him all the stories, had told him of the way the Irish had come and turned the people of Briton against their traditions.  “The Irish,” Morgana had said in disgust. “Of course, they of all people would fall in love with a religion that serves wine in the middle of the ceremony!”

It had only been a few generations since the Christians had come to Briton, and Morgana had filled Mordred with a zeal to restore the old gods, to sweep these Irish and their wine soaked rituals into the sea. He glanced over at Arthur, who now laughed and drank with his men, but Mordred could see the gray starting to fill his beard, the wrinkles about his eyes.  How long?  He wondered. How long until that old fool dies, and I can fix all that he has done wrong to our people?

Arthur, despite Mordred’s irritating display, felt a general sense of well-being.  Indeed, after many fierce battles, the warring kingdoms of Briton now stood united.  The people prospered, and he’d established a uniform system of justice to be applied through all the lands.  Built roads.  I am, he thought, looking about the fine men gathered at his round table, perhaps the greatest king ever.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, the doors to the great hall flung open, the steel bound oaken frames slamming against the stone walls, sending a terrible noise like thunder through the chamber.  A chill wind came swirling into the room, followed by the clatter of horses’ hooves, and then a mighty white steed trotted into the hall, upon which rode a tiny, slender figure in flashing chain mail and an iron helmet, the visor pulled down.

“Ah,” Arthur called out.  “Our miracle arrives.”

Mordred scowled.  He scowled often.  In this case, it rankled that once again Arthur and his expectations of miracles on St George’s Day had been fulfilled.

The tiny figure leapt from the house, landing with a “clang” and then immediately drew its sword.  The hand of every knight went to the sword that rested next to his chair, thinking this strange little man meant harm to Arthur, but the King, trusting their visitor the manifestation of divine providence, waved his hand.

“Why do you come to the Court of Arthur, King of all the Britons?”  He asked.

The figure lowered its sword and dropped to a knee.  “I have come to join the round table.”

The men all laughed, as this figure seemed a child, and far too small to be of use in battle.  Arthur chuckled as well.  “Show me your face.”

“Yes, your highness.”  The helmet came off, and golden hair spilled out, pouring down over the shoulders.  It appeared they were speaking to a child, and a girl child at that.

“Are you a girl?”  Arthur asked.

“Yes,” the girl said, her eyes hard, serious, determined.  If she heard the laughter, she did not acknowledge it. “And I am pure of heart and stout of arm.  I have come across the sea from Leon, where I had a vision of the Virgin Mary.  She told me I was to travel here and join the round table.”

“Indeed?”  Arthur said, glancing around at his men, who were all chuckling, and yet curious as well.  This was, after all, the St George’s miracle, and so must not be dismissed. “Your name?”

“Ceridwen,” the girl said.

Mordred, who’d been watching with practiced teen-age boredom, started at the name.  It was the name of a celtic goddess, but could this be the shape-shifter, herself?

Arthur looked at the young girl.  She appeared to be about 12 or 13.  These miracles usually involved some sort of test for him or one of his knights, but in this case he’d been merely asked a question.  Perhaps, he decided, I am called on to show grace.  He adopted his fatherly ‘about to give bad news’ look and tone. “Well, little one, you are certainly bold to have made such a journey, and I do not question your heart.  But, brave as you are, the life of a knight is not suited to a young girl.”

Now, Ceridwen smiled.  “Are you saying, great king, that I am too young?”

“Indeed,” Arthur said.  “But what if I were to send you to be with my wife and the other ladies?  You could try on a beautiful dress or do other such things as ladies do.”

“I traveled across the sea to join the round table,” the girl said.  “And if I am too young, then I will grow older.”  With that, she stood and waved her arms and all watched in wonder as she sprouted, growing a full foot and now standing 6 feet tall.  No longer did she have a youthful face, but that of a grown woman.

The men all gasped.

“I am no longer too young.  I request, again, that you make me one of your knights.”

Arthur thought.  What was the meaning of this test? He couldn’t just let any person join his retinue, and more, women were not allowed to serve as warriors.  It would be-- unChristian of him. “You may no longer be too young,” he said. “But you have not proven your skill with a sword.  You must defeat another knight in a duel if you would be shown as worthy.”

“Very well,” Ceridwen said.  “I challenge every man in this room to a dual.  Who will fight me?”

The men all shrank back and averted their eyes.  Not Gawain nor Pervical, not Galahad, Agravain or Lancelot would meet the challenge.  First, because it was unheard of for a man of noble Christian blood to fight a woman, and second because this woman clearly knew magic.

Three times in total did Ceridwen call out the men of the roundtable, and three times the men did decline to meet her in battle.  Mordred sipped his ale, loving it all as both Arthur and his men seemed utterly cowed by this arrogant woman-- if she, indeed, was a woman and not a goddess!

Ceridwen then turned to Arthur. “None of your brave knights will meet me.  Therefore, by the laws of chivalry, I am declared winner over them all.  I ask for a third time that you make me a knight of the round table.”  She looked Arthur directly in the eyes, and her look was of total defiance.

Arthur considered, and shook his head.  “You mention the courtly laws,” he said.  “Then, surely you must know by those very same laws that a woman can not be made a knight.  Would you ask me to dishonor myself by breaking the law?”

“No, my noble lord, but I would point out that the laws do allow a king to make any, and I do quote, “ any person a knight who he deems worthy, the judgment of the king superseding all other strictures.”

At this, some of the men chuckled.  Mordred laughed out loud, as he loved seeing his Uncle made to look the fool.

Arthur grimaced.  This girl, miracle or not, was proving as annoying as Mordred, and she was trying his patience, and it snapped.  “You are being ridiculous,” he said.  “You are  a sorcerer, a witch, and your spells and trickery do not change the fact that women are not meant to fight.  I can no more make a woman a knight than I could make a kitten a tiger.  Be gone from my hall, and waste no more of my time with your foolishness.”

The hall grew silent as all waited to see what Ceridwen would do.  The only sound was the popping of the fires.  Ceridwen sheathed her sword. She put her face in her hands, and for a moment seemed to be sobbing, but then she looked up, a wicked smile on her face, and she raised her hands, crying out, “You say a woman can not serve as a knight, Arthur?  Perhaps you should be one!”

With that, a great wind once more swept into the hall, forming a vortex which lifted Arthur off his feet.  He began to spin, slowly, struggling against the wind which seemed to have pinned his arms to his sides, to have taken his voice.  Arthur’s men rose, meaning to rush to his defense, but the wind pushed them back, heels scraping across the floor, and they were all thrown against the walls and pinned there, writhing helplessly against the power of Ceridwen.

All eyes were on Arthur now, and all looked in wonder as each time he spun, he was changed.  Turn-- and long, thick hair now swirled about his head.  Turn-- and now he seemed smaller than before.  Turn--- and his breeches and tunic vanished, replaced by a woman’s gown.  Turn-- and the gown did hug a shapely figure, slender waist, rounded hips.  Turn- and from the top of the dress spilled soft white breasts. Turn-- and now narrow shoulders replaced his manly frame.  Turn-- and dainty white arms dangled from his sleeveless dress.

The hall went dark, and all could hear Ceridwen laughing.

“Arthur King, did he declare, a maiden could not be a knight

He swaggered and bellowed and played the man

But Ceridwen had other plans

Now that king a man no more

Now does he take a woman’s shape

Now does he face a woman’s fate

Small and pretty and soft and weak

No this girl is not a king

Nor can she a warrior be

Lady Arthur is meant for homemaking

A fertile mother and devoted wife

This now becomes Arthur’s life

Oh, why or why, she will cry

Oh my, oh my, she’d rather die

For being a woman, after once a king

Only sorrow her new life brings

The winds died down.  Arthur lowered to the floor, stumbling slightly.  He had felt himself changing, but did not understand the nature of the changes.  He now looked down to see his fresh, new breasts-- soft and round.  He felt cold, and plucked at the clothes he wore, realizing he wore a dress, horrified, humiliated.  He looked at his hands, his slender wrists, his soft white arms, and his mind fought against it. He struggled, refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him, the words of Ceridwen’s song.  “A woman?”  He said, shocked at the sound of his voice.  “No.”

Arthur’s knights stared at him, at the woman he’d become.   In truth, it was part due to shock, and it was part because he was now the most lovely woman any of them had ever seen, with a face that would make an angel weep.  They all knew this fair maiden was none other than their King.  They all stood frozen, no one knowing what to do or say.  Ceridwen continued her song.

Is there no hope?  Must Arthur be

A maiden fair for all his years?

There is a way for our damsel dear

To escape her little life of tears

By midsomer, our virgin sweet

Must use her pure and womanly heart

To tame a unicorn with feminine art

To present to me by end of longest day

Shall the lady fail or be delayed

a maiden faire then she must stay

Arthur, sweet lass, for ever more

No more a knight, no more a king

This truth from her own mouth

She did decry.

Once more, Ceridwen waved her arms.  The knights and Arthur found themselves freed from her spell. The men charged Ceridwen, but she leapt upon her steed and rode out of the hall, leaving behind only her laughter.  Arthur had tried to charge his tormenter, but unused to a woman’s dress, he’d stepped on the hem and stumbled, falling to the ground, his long, black hair hanging around his face like a curtain.  He felt the wrongness of his body, his clothes.  It didn’t seem possible that he found himself a woman. No.

A hand reached down, coming into his vision.  Arthur took it, and was helped to his feet, surprised how small and soft his hand felt in this man’s coarse, calloused grip.  As he stood, he looked up to see Mordred’s grinning face looking down at him--  how short am I? Arthur wondered.

“Milady,” Mordred said, putting a hand on the small of Artthur’s back and guiding him toward the exit.  “You must flee!”

Chapter Two

In which Guinevere does gaze upon her husband, now a maiden fair.

The mind of Arthur, as he found himself led back to his chambers, would best be described as a seething cauldron of denial. This could not be happening to him.  He could not be a woman, and so he warred with what his eyes and senses told him, scarcely even aware of Morderd’s hand on the small of his back, guiding him past the gawking faces of servants.  It was a trick of the spell that all who knew Arthur, looking now upon his now lithe and winsome shape, did recognize the mind of Arthur now ensconced within the shapely form of a young woman.

Arthur did not notice the stares.  He focused only on this strange delusion he suffered, the feeling of his dress swirling about his legs, the odd way his body seemed to -- jiggle. He looked at his small, soft white hands, and he glanced down at his chest.  No.  He thought.  What has happened could not have happened.

It was the third time he tripped upon the hem of his dress that he finally, exasperated, clutched at the soft material and lifted it, not aware of how utterly feminine he looked, like a woman born as he finally began to become aware of his surroundings.  They reached the stairs.  He suddenly became aware of the hand at his back.  “Get off me,” he hissed, once more wilting at the sweet sound of his voice in his own ears.  The lilting sound of his voice was just another matter for him to refuse to believe.

Mordred, finding himself quite pleased with all that had befallen Arthur, obliged, but could not resist commenting: “Yes, milady.”

“I am not a lady,” Arthur said.   The stairs forced him to further lift his dress, and those servants who had gathered at the bottom of the stairs saw a flash of white ankle, and the sparkling slippers he wore upon his tiny feet. Arthur hurried up the stairs, eager for the solitude of his room, a chance to think, to deny and defy all that his mind was telling him he had now become.

“He is quite lovely,” one of the maids said.

“Pretty as a picture,” another added.

“Better keep our heads down.  Things will be quite upset around the castle.”

When they reached Arthur’s chambers, Mordred reached to open and hold the door for Arthus.  Arthur slapped Mordred’s hand away.  “Go away,” he said, grabbing the handle to the door.  “I wish to be alone.”

“Of course,” Mordred said, with a small bow. “Do let me know if you need anything, Auntie.”

Arthur plunged into his rooms, barring the door behind him.  He seized a hand mirror and forced himself to look.  He did not see the handsome, manly face that had looked back at him for so many years. No,  a lovely female face gazed back at him, her eyes wide with feminine surprise, her skin smooth and bright.  “No,” he said, his heart racing.  “No.”  But he kept the mirror in his hand, staring at this face, the face his eyes were telling him was now his.   “Impossible,” he said.  “Unacceptable.”

The seething cauldron of denial further consumed him.  He set the mirror on his bed, and stood, looking over at the full length mirror that rested by the window.  A golden ray of sunshine cut across the room, right in front of the mirror.

Arthur once more looked down at himself, once more at the hands that could not be his.  No man had hands so small.   “This isn’t real,” he decided.  “This can’t be real.”

He strode toward the mirror, tripping once more on the hem of the gown he refused to believe he wore, the gown that so perfectly clung now to the body he could not inhabit.  He dreaded what the mirror would show him, and yet it drew him, pulled him across the room.  He dropped his eyes, taking position in the ray of sunlight, and then slowly he raised his head, looking upon--

“Her?”  He said out loud.  The image in the mirror-- a vision of startling beauty.  That same angelic face, and a female form of such perfection that it made him gasp.  He stepped closer toward the mirror, shaking his head, his thick, black curls bouncing as he did so.  He put his fingertips to the mirror, touching the cold glass, his fingers to her fingers. Looking down at himself-- herself? The dress, the shape, all wrong.  “Impossible. Impossible.”

***

As King Arthur struggled to accept his new sex, Arthur’s knights had raced after Ceridwen.  Some chased on foot.  Lancelot and others had leapt upon their steeds.  It did not matter.  Ceridwen’s mount, speeded by her magic, raced away from them, thundering off into the distance until they were forced to stop, lest their own steeds perish from the chase.

Meanwhile, word of Arthur’s pleasing new shape spread. While the men had gathered in the Great Hall about the roundtable, Geuneviere and the ladies had celebrated in the Queen’s Hall.  She and the others, not concerned with miracles and the doings of their men, had eaten and now nibbled at the fantastic array of desserts and liquors which had been furnished by the queen.  Mordred quietly entered the hall, walked to his mother, Morgan LeFey’s side, and whispered in her ear.

The other women watched, curious, for there was something about Mordred’s air that suggested his errand was of dire import.  As soon as he finished, Morgana removed the napkin from her lap and declared, “My queen.  May I speak with you in private?  It is most urgent.”

Alarmed by the tone in Morgana’s voice, Guinevere smiled apologetically and rose.  “Do forgive me, good ladies,” she said.  In the hall, Mordred and Morgana waited.  Guinevere looked about to make sure there were no nosy listeners.  “What is it?”

Morgana took Guineviere’s hand and said, “I have shocking news.  It is about-- Arthur.”

Mordred related the story of what had happened, now putting on a mask of concern for his poor Uncle’s plight.

“I do not believe it.  Is this your idea of some jest?  I am not amused,” Guinevere said.

“The lady-- I mean, Arthur, has gone up to your chambers,” Mordred said.  “You may see for yourself.”

“I will,” Guinevere said, no more able to accept what she’d been told about Arthur’s change than Arthur himself.  She spun and stormed off, mind racing, wondering what manner of mischief Mordred was up to now, for the boy was well known for his childish antics.

***

And so it was Queen Guinevere, having entered their chambers by her own door, made her way to Arthur’s rooms.   She froze at the sight of the beautiful girl, standing at the mirror, whispering, “Never.  Never.”  Instantly she knew at once this girl was in fact her husband, the king. As soon as she looked upon the ravishing shape he now wore, one that could not be mistaken for anything other than female, she began to wonder:  What would this mean for the kingdom?  For Guinevere, herself?  Was she still married?  Could this girl still call herself ‘husband?’  Could she still call herself King?

As much as Arthur’s change made Guinevere worry for her own future, she was also a fine, Christian woman, and as such compassionate and loving. Her heart went out to her husband, guessing at what a shock and horror it would be for him to find himself reshaped to such a lovely girl.  How could he face the world with that pretty face?  Those white arms?  “Arthur?”  She called out.  “Is that really you?”

The girl pulled her eyes away from her image in the mirror.  She looked back over her smooth, round shoulder.  “Yes,” she said.  “It seems so.”  She turned, and Guenivere now took in the whole of her comely shape.  As Arthur felt his wife looking over his slender waist, his soft curves, he blushed with shame.  “I am sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?”  Guinevere answered.  “Why would you be sorry?”

“I have failed you,” Arthur said, and Guinevere could not help but note he had as lovely a voice as any girl in the kingdom.  Her eyes dropped away in what seemed maidenly distress. “I am unmanned.”

Guinevere instantly went to her, to the girl Arthur, and put her arms around him, hugging his soft body to her own. She knew what to say, she knew she needed to be strong for Arthur.  “You did not choose this,” Guinevere said.  “And I am yet your wife, your queen, and I will always stand by your side.”

“Truly?” Arthur said.  “Even as I am--  a mere girl?”

Guinevere knew that Arthur needed her more than ever, so she put her own fears aside.  She put her hands on his cheeks-- they were so soft!-- and met his eyes. “I know that still within you beats the heart of the man I swore to love.”

For a moment, Arthur thought he might cry, but he remembered that he was yet a man, and he fought back the strange new impulse to weep.  Matching his wife’s gesture, he reached out and put his hands on Guinevere’s cheeks, staring into her eyes, and he found in those emerald eyes all the strength he’d ever needed.  The tumult in his mind settled, and he faced the truth.

“I have a maiden’s form, but I am yet a man.  I will always be Arthur.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Send for Merlin. I must speak to him at once.”

“And you say he is a  beautiful maiden?”  Morgana asked, sitting in the room which had been set aside for her visit.

“An English rose,” Mordred said, chuckling.  “He looks younger, too.  The face of a girl, though there can be no doubt he is of child-bearing age.”

“What do you mean?”  Morgana was thrilled, imagining her brother so shaped.  “Tell me.  I want all the details.”

“He is a most buxom lass, and with generous hips, mother.  It is quite extraordinary, and his face?  Men would start wars to win but a smile from her.”

“It is too perfect,” Morgana said.  “Too delightful.  And this means, we must seize upon this opportunity, my son.  You are meant to be king, and I will see you on the throne.”

“And what of Arthur?”

“You said in the prophecy that the goddess decried he shall be a wife and mother! Oh, I can’t wait to see his belly swell with child!”

“Unless he tames a unicorn, mother.” The thought of Arthur, belly swollen with child, unnerved Mordred, and in fact his mother’s near feverish delight in the prospect unnerved him even more. “ Do not forget that part of the witch’s spell. He has until midsummer to bring a unicorn to Camelot.”

“Well, we shall have to make sure that our fair, virgin lady does not succeed in that quest, then, shant we? Midsummer? Let’s see,” Morgana began to calculate in her head, “49 days. If our fair little Lady Arthur has any hope of taming a unicorn, we must deny it.”

“Indeed.”

“You, my son, will sit upon the throne, while my sister, Arthur, suffers the pangs of childbirth.  Did I not tell you the old gods would return?”

“You did,” Mordred said, with a smile.  “And well they have.”

Mordred left his mother to her schemes, climbed to the top of the tallest tower in Camelot, and made his way out onto the flat, stone roof.  Night had fallen, and the air had grown cold.  His breath escaped him in great gouts of silvery steam.  He and his mother were both pleased at what had happened, and yet Mordred did not fully understand his glee.

For the door to open for him to seize the crown? Of course, this pleased him.  But why did he take such delight in seeing his Uncle reformed into a damsel?  Why did it make him feel so-- excited?  He didn’t understand it, and he decided he didn’t care.  He turned his eyes to the twinkling stars in the heavens, and he offered a prayer of thanks to Ceridwen for her wonderful works of magic.  His prayer finished, he plunged back down into the castle.  There was much to do.

Chapter Three

In which Arthur seeks the aid of the wizard Merlin, and the Lady Guinevere warns him of new dangers he must now consider as a damsel.

The sound of Merlin’s snoring echoed through the crystal cave.  Nimue lay next to him, sleeping blissfully, great tufts of cotton sticking out of her ears.  The messenger Arthur had sent, a mere stableboy named Hoven, lingered outside the entrance to the cave, lantern in hand, nervously shuffling from foot to foot.  He raised the lantern and peered into the darkness beyond the entrance, but he could see nothing.  He could only hear the snoring, though he wondered if it was from a man or a grizzly. “Merlin?” He hissed.  “Merlin?” His voice echoed back to him-- Merlin… Merlin… Merlin..

A sliver of cold, spring moon hovered in the sky above him, visible through the still denuded trees, and he could also hear waves crashing on the distant shore.  “Merlin?”

The boy’s knees knocked as he contemplated the threshold.  The thought of entering the wizard’s cave terrified him.  What if Merlin turned him into a toad?  He did not like the thought of a toad’s life, what with the diet of flies and always sitting on logs.  But the Queen had been clear and insistent, and Camelot aswirl with wild rumors and a growing sense of panic.  This is my chance to prove myself, Hudor said to himself.  In fact, he had ambitions to become a knight someday, and he could not fail at this task if he hoped to impress the Queen and-- King, if that was still the right word.

He stepped into the cave, and then went further.  His lantern lights caught sparkling stalactites and stalagmites, and deeper into the chamber he saw side caves filled with wondrous apparatus, as well as a raised area on which he could make out a bed.  The cave was warm, no doubt heated by some unseen magic.  Hudor crept closer and closer to the bed, his lamp hand shaking, throwing light around the cave, wild, threatening shadows rising up on the cave walls.

“Merlin!  Merlin!”  He shouted, his terror getting the best of him, and he ran up the steps onto the dias, stumbling and falling onto the bed and across the bodies of Merlin and Nimue.  It is a little known fact that Nimue, as a nymph, had little use for what she considered the silly ways of the mortals, and she did sleep without a stitch of clothing.  Consequently, Hudor landed with his face planted firmly in her soft bosom.

“W- what?  Who dares?”  Merlin shouted, rousing himself, seeing an assailant with his face in a place it ought not to be.  “Scoundrel!”  Grabbing Hudor by the scruff of neck, he yanked him off his still slumbering beloved and hurled him across the cave, sending Hudor’s lamp smashing to pieces against the rock-- the light extinguished.  The cave was now pitch black.

Hudor’s teeth chattered as he crawled in the direction of what he hoped was the entrance, all thought of his mission gone and replaced by his terror of the angry wizard.  He had only made a few -- what is the word? Crawls?  Creeps?  Moves?  Well, forget it- he had made only a few movements, when his head bumped into something. “Oh, no.”  He reached out and felt the coarse fabric of a robe, and then a calf.

“Oh, yes,” Merlin said, igniting the magic fire on the tip of his staff.  Seeing it was just a boy and dressed in the Kings’ livery, Merlin held his hand.  “What are you doing here?”

“First, let me say, I had no impure intentions toward your lady, and--”

“Never mind that!”  Merlin roared.  “No doubt the King sent you. And I suppose the message is he wants to see me.”

“Y-yes,” Hudor said.  “Well, in fact, it was the queen, and you see--”

“Up!  Let’s go, you prattling fool. The sooner I find out what new predicament Arthur has gotten himself into, the sooner I can go back to sleep.”

“Yes, milord.”

“I am not a lord,” Merlin said with disdain.  “I am a wizard.”

Hudor followed Merlin toward the front of the cave.  “Should I apologize to your lady?”

“Best she never knows what happened.  Leave her to sleep.”

“Would she turn me into a toad?”

“No.  Probably just trap you in a pillar of amber of all eternity.”

Seeing the boy’s face grow pale with fear made Merlin chuckle, in part because, well, he wasn’t joking.

Meanwhile, back at the castle, Arthur had his arms bent around his back and was turning in circles once more-- this time trying to reach the laces at the back of his gown.

“Arthur, allow me to help,” Geuneviere said.

Arthur grinned.  “I have taken more than a few dresses off you, my love!  I know very well how to do it!”

Men!  Guinevere thought to herself.  Never wanting to ask for help.  “Very well,” she said, sitting down and watching, amused, as Arthur struggled.  He sat, bent over, tried rubbing the laces against the bed post.  Once more reached back, straining, making frustrated little noises like a mouse.  Finally, making a violent twist in an attempt to reach the tops of the laces, he stumbled and fell backward on his behind.  His hair fell all in his face.  Guinevere thought he looked rather fetching and ridiculous.

“Fine,” he said, trying to get back to his feet, finding it difficult with his feet tangled in his long gown. He plopped back down.

Guinevere offered a hand.  Arthur took it and she helped him get back to his feet, “Your hand is so soft!”  She couldn’t help but gushing.  Indeed, it was perhaps the softest hand she’d ever held.

Arthur turned his back, looking back over his small shoulder.  “Please.”

Guinevere, having overcome her shock, was now feeling playful, and she decided to tease Arthur a bit.  “Do you wish your wife to help you out of your dress, my dear husband?”

Arthur knew what she was doing, and his eyes sparkled with amusement.  “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“A little.”  Guinevere untied the began to pull loose the silken laces.  “Now you have some sense of what we women go through.”

Arthur started to argue, thinking to explain she had no idea what it was like to be weighed down by a suit of armor, but he thought better of it.  Instead, once the laces had been loosened, he pulled the clasps off his shoulders and shimmied out of the dress, letting it fall to the floor to pool at his feet.

Guinevere caught a glimpse of his maidenly shape, naked, in the mirror. ‘Oh, Arthur! She thought.  He was a vision.  How could a man such as he’d been live with such a body?

Arthur stole a glance as well, confirming without any doubt that he now bore a fully female form. Being a Christian man and knowing it was a sin for him to gaze on the body of any woman other than his wife, even if he was that woman, he pulled his eyes away of the alluring female in the mirror. Shamed at what he had become, he went to his armoire and  quickly pulled on britches and a tunic.  The pants were too long, the tunic strained scandalously against his ample bosom.  He did not need a look in the mirror to know he would not feel confident wearing a shirt that so displayed his bust., He added a cloak, pulling it closed over his body, hiding his womanly shape.

He sat, and while Guenivere slipped the dainty slippers from his tiny feet, he pulled his hair from the cloak and tossed it back over his shoulders.  “I will need a haircut,” he said, “before my journey.”

“Journey?”

But before he could elaborate, there was a knock on the door.  “Merlin to see you,” the doorman called.

Arthur, feeling a bit more himself now that he wore a man’s garb, got up and unbolted the door.  Merlin strode into the room as Arthur rebarred the door.  Merlin gaped at Arthur, then his wife, then back to Arthur.

“You sent for me?”  Merlin said, adopting a straight face.

“Yes.  I did.”

“Is something amiss?”

Arthur rolled his eyes.  “Yes, Merlin, something is a-miss.  In fact, that is the issue.  I am a miss.”

“I hadn’t noticed.  Your disguise is so convincing.”

There was a moment of silence, then they all laughed.  “It seems I sent for a wizard and a jester arrived instead.”

“Laughter, my lord, is the best medicine.”

They sat at Arthur’s table, and Arthur recounted the tale of how he had come to find himself a woman.  When he finished, he got right to the point.  “Can you dispel this magic?”

“I can try.  Step back, my queen.”

Merlin spoke in ancient words, rife with magic.  He waved and incanted, chanted and thrashed about Arthur’s form with his staff.  Arthur, whose hopes had risen at the arrival of the wizard, felt his heart sink.

“Ceridwen,” Merlin mumbled.

“What sort of witch is she?”  Arthur demanded.

“No witch,” Merlin said, his voice growing dark and dire.  “But a goddess of the Celtic peoples.  Such magic can only have come from a being of divine power.  It is beyond my skill to remove this enchantment from you.”

“Then I must accept her challenge.  I must find and tame a unicorn,” Arthur said.

Guinevere had returned to the table, and she now took Arthur’s hand.  “You can’t mean it,” she said.  “It is too dangerous.”

“I have been on many quests, faced many perils.  I have not failed, and I will not fail in this.”

“But, you are only a girl now.”

Arthur, who, unused to the new weight, had been slumping, now straightened his back and raised his chin.  “No.  I may have a maiden’s form, but I am still a man.  I am still Arthur.”

“Yes, we spoke of this, but you have a girl’s body. My husband, you do not know what it is like for women.  There are dangers I dare not speak of that only a woman knows. You will not be safe.”

The comment shook Arthur.  He knew what dangers she spoke of, and it did shake his nerve as he considered, for the first time in his life, what every girl was taught to dread.  But Arthur pushed away this new, troubling womanly fear. “I am a warrior, still, no matter my body.  If anyone should menace me, he will find he deals not with some helpless damsel, but a skilled swordsman.”

“Arthur!  I do not doubt your courage, but your arms?  They are-- delicate.  There are serving girls in this castle with more muscle.”

‘My arms?”  Arthur said, suddenly self-conscious of how slender they seemed.  “My arms are--”

“I will accompany Arthur,” Merlin said.  “He will not quest alone.”

“And I shall carry great Excalibur, and--  wait. My sword?”  Arthur looked about the chamber, and then remembered that in his shock, he had left it in the Great Hall.

His men were sent to retrieve it, but when they returned they bore ill news: Excalibur was gone.

By the time Lancelot rode back through the gates of Camelot, Gawain at his side, the sun rose behind him, throwing a golden light across the silvery land.  The air smelt of spring-- freshly blooming flowers, budding trees.  “Did we truly see what I think we saw?” Lancelot asked, recalling in his mind the image of Arthur, turning and turning in the air, turning and turning into a maiden fair.

“I do not know if I trust my eyes,” Gawain said.  “For they seemed to tell me that our KIng is now-- a girl.”

“Yes.  That is what my eyes also told me.”

“What are we to do?”  Gawain asked.  “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” Lancelot said. “There is no map to guide us through these lands.  I will see the King,” Lancelot finally decided.  “Perhaps there I will find answers.”

“Do you wish me to join you?”  Gawain asked.  In truth, he had grown tired from the long night, and what’s more he found the idea of seeing the king in the shape of a woman disturbing.  It unnerved him, the thought that man could be woman, woman man.  He did not know why.  And so he was relieved when Lancelot sent him on his way.

The Church of Saint Servanus stood at the end of a crooked, flagstone path near Legion’s Gate, in the old town section of Camelot.  Few were the souls who visited Camelot without making time to see the chapel, considered one of the most marvelous buildings in all the isles, for the Romans had constructed it with a domed roof, an art which was then still unknown to the Britons and, indeed, most of the world. Many believed the building had been constructed using magic, but Mordred knew better.  It was an art called Engineering.

Yet, wondrous as it may be, Mordred had not come to admire the building.  He had a darker purpose.  He pulled the door open and stalked among the pews, his steel shod boots ringing against the stone floor. “Friar Lowbottom!”  Mordred called.  “Friar!”  Nothing, but Mordred knew where he must be.  Bounding down the stone stairs to the crypt, he saw flickering torchlight and poked his head through the door.  “There you are!  Eating a healthy breakfast, I see.”

Friar Lowbottom peered over the top of his pewter mug, frothy foam from the ale he’d been sipping clinging to his mustache.  “Care to join me?”

The honored dead from the Roman times now shared the crypt with mighty oaken casks.  Mordred did have to admit the Irish had brought fine wines and ales along with their new religion.  It was almost worth it.  He grabbed a mug off a hook and, choosing a cask at random, pulled the stopper, letting the dark brew flow into the cup, the air filling with the tart smell of fermented grains.

Sitting, Mordred raised his cup.  “To Christian Virtue,” he said.

“Amen,” Friar Lowbottom answered. They drank.

“Have you heard the news?”  Mordred asked.

“If you are referring to that nonsense about the maiden king…”

“It is not nonsense, I witnessed it myself.  The King now makes a most fetching lass.  It was-- remarkable.”

Lowbottom downed the rest of his ale.  “This is shocking news.”

“Indeed.  And, your grace, you have a vital role to play now.  Girls, you know, they are so emotional.  They can not think with reason, and are prone to the most foolish decisions.  You would agree.”

“Of course.”

“They need guidance, and the Lady Arthur is no different now than any other silly girl.”

“Well, I suppose that depends on--”

“She is just another flighty female, Friar.  I am telling you.  And she needs your guidance.”

“That is one of the requirements of my office.”

“Oh,” Mordred said, reaching into his cloak. “Before I forget.”  He held out a small leather purse, then tossed it onto the wooden table.  “A donation.  For-- your good work.”

Friar Lowbottom lifted the purse and held it in his palm.  “Most generous.”

“Yes.  I have a few thoughts on how you might counsel our fair king.”  Mordred leaned forward, copper his hand to Lowbottom’s ear, and whispered.

Chapter Four

48 Days Remain until Midsummer.

In which plans for the quest take shape, and the Friar doth offer most unwelcome counsel.

Arthur felt himself spinning, felt his body changing, found himself plucking at the skirt of a dress, saw himself in the mirror, but not himself, the maiden he had become. He woke with a high-pitched shout, put his hands to his smooth cheeks.  Images from the previous day swam in his mind, the face in the mirror, the body.

Bright, morning sunlight poured through his window and across his bed, bathing him in a golden light.  He rubbed his eyes.  He was still a woman.  Well, there was nothing to be done but to prepare for his quest.  Merlin had gone back to his cave to gather some supplies and to tell Nimue of his decision to join Arthur.  Arthur, for his part, needed to gear up as well.  None of his old armor would fit, but he was not shorter than some of the knights, now standing the same height as Guenevere, who was not short for a woman.  He would also need a new sword.  That he would be traveling from Camelot without his trusted Excalibur did unnerve him.  Had someone taken the sword?  Had it been taken away by some angel of the lord, denied him as no longer worthy?

He remembered his own decree that no woman could serve as a knight.  Had he sealed his own fate, declaring himself unworthy now due to his sex?

He made his way to the sitting room where he, Merlin and Guenevere had met the night before only to find his wife sitting at the table, busy with needle and thread.  There were piles of clothes all around.

“My dear,” Arthur said. “Did you not sleep?”

“No,” his loving wife said, eyes on the needle she pulled through a tunic.  “As much as a fear for your safety, I know you will not be dissuaded from your quest, and so I am adjusting your clothes so they will fit.”

“I am so fortunate to have you,” Arthur said.  He went over and put an arm over her shoulders, and he began to lean down to offer her a kiss of gratitude on the mouth, but Geunevere turned so his lips landed instead on her cheek.

The move puzzled Arthur and made him feel a sting of rejection, but he pushed it away, focusing instead on being grateful for his wife’s efforts.  He picked up a pair of trousers, and saw that they had been shortened.  “Marvelous,” he said.

“I am glad you are pleased.”  At the moment, Guenevere was busy stitching darts into the sides of one of Arthur’s tunics, making space for his newly shapely bust.  She did not mention it, as she felt her husband did not need to know.

There was a knock on the door. “Sir Lancelot to see you,” the footman said.

Tension immediately rose between the husband and wife.  When Arthur had learned that his wife and best friend had had an affair, it began the darkest period of his life.  He had never even considered that either one of them would betray him in any way, and it had shaken his faith in people, and in God.  When he learned that their affair had been known throughout Camelot, and that he, alone, seemed unaware, that had added humiliation to the already soul- deadening moment.

He and Guenevere had worked hard to repair their marriage after that, and he had even forgiven Lancelot and welcomed him back to the roundtable.  But the trust and friendship they had once enjoyed had not returned.

Arthur glanced at Guenevere.  “I wonder what he wants?”

“You should ask him in and find out.”

Arthur felt troubled by the thought.  This man had lay with his wife, cuckolding him. Would they be tempted to lay in each other’s arms once again now that Arthur could no longer be husband?  He thought of the way Guenevere turned her head when he’d tried to kiss her.   But, with a sigh, he decided to let Lancelot enter.  “Let him pass,” Arthur called.

The door opened.  Lancelot strode in, stopped in the doorway, frozen.  Arthur was wearing his sleeping gown, and his long hair was a delightful mess, framing that radiant, feminine face.  He met Arthur’s wide, sparkling eyes, and he could not stop staring in wonder at this lovely woman.  Seeing her dressed as she was, in a man’s sleeping gown, with that wild hair, she brought to mind many mornings spent with many conquests, and he felt an electric charge pass between them.

Arthur, who had not yet felt the heat of a man’s lusty gaze, put a hand to his heart and stepped back, shocked.  No man had ever looked at him like this before.  He did not like the feeling.  “Don’t look at me like that,” Arthur said.

Lancelot, who’d been acting on instinct, was equally as shocked as Arthur to realize what he’d been doing and thinking and feeling towards his king.  He pulled his eyes away, meeting Guenevere’s.  “My queen,” he said, wanting to break the tension.

Guenvere slit her eyes, appalled but only slightly surprised at Lancelot’s behavior. “Sir Lancelot,” she said, some acid in her voice.  In truth, she was both enraged to see her husband looked at in that manner, as well as jealous.

“I have come,” Lancelot said, now striding fully into the room.  “To offer my assistance in your quest.”

“Your assistance?”  Arthur said, craning his neck back to look up at Lancelot.  Being around Guinevere and Merlin he had not felt small, but standing next to Lancelot now, he felt almost like he’d become a child once more.

“I would ride with you on your journey and offer my sword to your protection. You are and always will be my King.  I would die for you.”

The gesture impressed Arthur.  His wife’s comments about his small arms came back to him.  “Perhaps it would be wise,” Arthur said.

“My darling?”  Guinevere said.  “A word?”

“Shall I--?”

“No.  You may remain here.  Can we speak in my chambers, Arthur?”

“Of course.”

Arthur followed Guinever to her room, and she patted her bed.  The two sat next to each other.  “You must not travel into the wilds with Lancelot.”  She said.

“Why not?”

Guinevere brushed a stray hand away from Arthur’s eyes.  “As you well know, Lancelot has a weakness for maidens.”

“I am NOT a maiden!”

“I know.  I see still the man you were before me.  But you must understand that many girls who swore they would never surrender themselves to him eventually found themselves in his bed.”

“I am not going to lay with a man!”  Arthur got up and stormed across the room.

“Of course not. But, you must take care of your reputation.  If you go off with Lancelot, there will be rumors.  A woman, and you will be seen by many as a woman now, must guard her reputation as she guards her life.”

That stopped Arthur.  He had not even considered the possibility of rumors, and Guinevere’s concerns struck him as -- real.  How would he feel to return from his quest, restored even to his sex, only to have half of Camelot believe he’d given himself to Lancelot?

“That is not something that crossed my mind.”

“It wouldn’t have,” Guinevere said.  “That is why I wanted to offer my advice on this.  For a man to be suspected of laying with a beautiful girl, it is just another conquest.  But for the girl, it can be devastating.”

Arthur sighed, tossed his hair.  “Must everything be so complicated for women?”

“Yes,” Guinevere said.

“I swear,” Arthur said, “I shall be far more understanding of what women suffer in our world after this.  I have only been one for a few hours and already I miss the freedom of being a man.”

“So, we should tell Lancelot,” Guinevere said, getting up.

There was something in her tone-- eagerness?  But, it struck Arthur as wrong and brought back all the pain of his wife’s previous betrayal.  An idea struck him as forcefully as a hammer:  she means to sleep with him as soon as I leave the castle!

Arthur seethed at the thought.  His mind went to war. Had she not urged Arthur NOT to go questing?  And yet perhaps that was all part of a clever ruse to throw him off as she planned to romp in the hay with her old lover now that Arthur was but a maiden, unmanned?

“Arthur?”  Guinevere said, seeing him deep in thought.

“Oh, yes,” Arthur said, going back to the sitting room.

Guinevere followed.  Lancelot, who’d sat down at the table, immediately stood as the ladies entered the room.

“I do not feel you should join me on my quest,” Arthur said, getting right to the point.

“May I ask why?”

Arthur now positioned himself so he could see both of their faces. “Because I need you to ride to Londinium.”  Arthur was-- almost-- sure he saw a flicker of disappointment on Guinevere’s face.  Though he couldn’t be sure.  As for Lancelot, he kept his face blank as he assented, though he’d long been trained to accept orders without betraying any sense of his feelings towards those orders.

Arthur sent Lancelot away.  “Londinium?”  Guinevere asked.

“Yes.  I will need him to govern the Eastern Province in my absence,” Arthur said.

Guinevere did not respond, but went back to sewing.

Arthur went off to find armor.

And so it was that same day Arthur did call together his knights of the roundtable once more, and he stood before him dressed in his own clothes, though none in the room could deny that his face was as lovely as any they had ever seen.  Arthur explained that he would journey forth on the quest that had been given him.  He asked all the knights to stand strong in his absence, to defend Camelot and serve the Queen with courage and honor.

“Hear!”  They shouted.  “Hear!”

“Pardon,” a boozy voice called from the back of the room.  Friar Lowbottom strode forth from the shadows.

“I will accept your blessing upon this quest in my private chapel later,” Arthur said. “Thank you, Friar.”

“I will NOT be blessing your unholy quest!”

The room grew silent.  Arthur frowned. “Speak,” Arthur said.

“You are now a woman,” Lowbottom called out, making the hourglass shape with his hands men often used to suggest a woman’s figure.  “And you may no longer act like a man.  It violates God’s law!”

“God’s law?”  Arthur said.  “This curse was placed on me not by God, but a pagan witch!”

“Be that as it may, nothing happens in this world but by God’s design.  God allowed this to happen.  God chose for you to be made maiden. You must accept God’s will.  You must do your duty as a Christian woman,and serve as a proper example to all the girls of England as to what a woman must do, how she must live her life.”

“And what is that duty?”  Guinevere called out.  She had long disliked the Friar, and to hear him now disrespect her husband, and all women, made her temper blaze.

“It is the duty of all womankind to take a husband and bear his children.”

“Fool!”  Guinevere screamed.

“My love, I can handle--”  Arthur started to say, reaching to take his wife’s hand, but she had stood and charged toward Lowbottom.

“You booze sodden piglet’s waste!  You root of a weed!”  Guinevere raged.  “Do you truly claim that is all a woman may do with her life?”

Lowbottom, shocked by her rage, held his ground, though his voice shook when he spoke.  “The Lady Arthur is a woman!  She must accept her place as a woman and--”

He could not finish.  Guinevere’s foot had planted itself deep into his groin.  Lowbottom immediately sunk to his knees, hands on his aching jewels. The men all winced at the sight. “Get out!”  Guinevere screamed. Grabbing a mug from the table, she dumped the ale over Lowbottoms head, then began to beat him around the ears with it.  “Get out!  Get out!”

Lowbottom crawled piteously to the door, which the doormen, eyes wide with shock, pulled open.  Lowbottom tried to get to his feet, wanting to at least walk out with some dignity left, but as he got halfway up, Guinevere did kick him hard in the buttocks and send him tumbling through the doors.

Guinevere turned.  Every pair of eyes in the room were locked on her.  Also, several warriors who’d lost eyes had their single eyes locked on her.  Even Champ, the old English Bulldog that was allowed into the room to eat the scraps, stared at her, his tongue lolling out on surprise.

“Oh!”  Guinevere said, coming back to herself.  “Goodnes!  I seem to have lost my temper!”  She knew she had behaved in a most unladylike manner, and now with the fever of her rage broken, she felt quite embarrassed.

But then, Arthur cleared his throat.  “Ladies and gentleman,” he called.  “Have I mentioned that Queen Guinevere will be in charge of the kingdom while I am gone?  I do suggest you avoid making her cross.”

The comment broke the tension.  Everyone laughed.  Guinevere rejoined Arthur.  “My love,” Arthur said.  “You are quite amazing.”

“Arthur,”  Guinevere said, and this time it was she who kissed him-- right on the mouth.

Mordred leaned over to Sir Benethor.  “The Friar did make some valid points.”

“Hush,” Benethor whispered back.

Mordred hid his smile behind a drink.  The seeds had been planted.

Morgana, for her part, whispered to Lady Whynn, “His wife does defend him now.  It seems she is more man than he.”

Lady Whynn, like Sir Benethor, deferred comment, but, indeed, the thought was planted in her mind. Truly, Arthur’s wife seemed more a man.

Chapter Five

In which the quest begins, and falls into peril.

That night, Arthur sat as the barber cut his hair.  By request, he trimmed it in a rounded, pageboy style.  “You must remain silent regarding my husband’s look,” Guinevere explained.  “Speak to no one as to how you cut his hair, nor how he looks now.”

“Of course, your majesty,” the old man did say, scissors flashing and clicking as he cut Arthur’s luxurious locks, which did fall to the floor all about him.  When he finished, he gathered the hair in a cloth and shoved it into his robe.  “With your permission, my lord and lady, I would like to use this hair to fashion a wig.”

“A wig?”  Arthur said, getting up and looking in the mirror, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, enjoying the feeling of freedom he once more enjoyed, freed of the long, womanly hair he’d endured this past day.

“You will NOT make a wig of the king’s hair,” Guenievere spat.  “It is uncouth, and you should not even think it.”

Arthur raised a hand.  “What would you do with such a wig?”

“Forgiveness, but there is a young lady who has lost her hair due to a rare ailment.  I but thought that would make a lovely wig, quite suitable to her complexion.  I should not have thought it.” He removed the bundle of hair from his robe and held it toward Arthur.

“Keep it,” Arthur said.  “I cannot deny such a gift to a lady in need.”

Guinevere winced.  She did not like the idea at all, and yet she admired her husband’s nobility, and so she acquiesced, only adding, “But let it remain a secret that this gift comes from Arthur.”

“Yes,” Arthur said.  “Of course.  Such a gift must be offered without any desire for thanks.”

“Yes,” the barber said, bowing and leaving the room.

Once the barber left, Guinevere went to her husband, brushing the bangs from his forehead.  They each knew this was to be Arthur’s last night in Camelot before leaving on his quest, and that knowledge cast a bittersweet mood over them both.  “Oh, Arthur, my love,” Guinevere said, staring into his eyes.  “I do worry so.”

“You need not worry,” Arthur said.  “I will return to you, and once more I will be the man you love.”

“You are, Arthur.  I have told you.”

“You did not worry about me so when I had yet my manly frame.”

They moved to the balcony together.  The night was cold, and a full moon hung above Camelot in a cloudless sky.  Arthur took Guenivere’s hand. He squeezed, and Guenivere squeezed back. “Tell me you believe in me,” Arthur said.

“I believe in you,” Guinevere said.  She put her hand over her heart, and felt it beating, even beneath the now soft swelling of his maidenly bosom. “But you must promise me you will remember that though you are still a great warrior, and a man amongst men, that you wear a damsel’s shape, and there will be times you must think not as a man, but a woman.”

Arthur put his hand to Guenivere’s soft cheek. He understood his wife’s concerns.  Indeed, her warnings about his reputation and the need to protect his-- virtue-- he almost choked even thinking the word-- had made him consider that he would need to be careful of situations a man need not consider.  “I shall, and I accept your counsel.  Until the spell is broken, I will seek to act as Christian man, and Christian woman.”

“I will pray for you each morning and each night.”

“And I will pray for you.  I know you govern Camelot with grace and honor in my absence.  It must be said, though, you are not the only one who will worry.  I shall think of you always as I journey on my quest.”

“Arthur!”  Once more, their lips met, and then the ladies Arthur and Guenivere did hold each other tight, warming themselves in the chill beneath the cold light of the moon.

With 47 days remaining now until Midsummer, Arthur rose before the dawn.  He dressed by candlelight, donning the suit of chainmail he’d found to fit his new body.  He belted on his weapons-- a short sword and a dagger.  Indeed, he’d found a long sword unwieldy with his slender arms, but felt he could fight well enough.  On his back, a smaller wooden shield. Finally, a hooded cloak.  His clothes hid his shape, and with his haircut in the manner it was, he thought he would pass as a boy-- a very pretty boy, but a boy nonetheless.  None the lass, the thought, with a chuckle.

Finally, he gave sleeping Gueinivere a kiss, and slipped out of the castle and to the Old Gate, where Gawain waited with his steed, upon which had been bundled a bedroll as well as food and water. “Godspeed, my King,” Gawain said.

“Be at the Queen’s service.  Protect her should danger call,” Arthur said, and the two clasped hands, as men do.  Arthur climbed upon his horse.  He felt bigger, of course, than he had seemed to Arthur previously, but he was certain he would get used to it.  It was now pre-dawn.  The sun had not yet risen, but the coming of the sun had cast the world in a purple light.  Gawain watched as Arthur rode off, heading down a narrow, disused path into the forest.

“He looks so small,” Gawain thought.  His heart fluttered.  He felt a mighty desire to ride after this maiden king, to offer her his protection, as a knight was called to protect women, but he had his orders.  “I must remember, Arthur is not a girl,” he thought.  “He can defend himself.”  Yet, Gawain like all the others had seen the king’s narrow shoulders, and his lithe arms.  The memory unnerved him.

Arthur’s heart raced as he rode off into the forest. It was not fear, but excitement.  It had been many years since he had gone on a quest, and many more since he had gone off without a retinue of knights around him. More, he’d woken with none of the aches and pains that he’d become accustomed to as an older man and a warrior.  Indeed, this young body of his seemed a bundle of energy and vibrance.  This, combined with the sense of total freedom he felt, made him feel young, as indeed his body was young, and it could only be said that he was thinking only of adventure, optimistically expecting nothing but success as he sallied forth.

He followed the paths through the forest as Merlin had described them, the sun rising, warming the cool air.  Sunlight now cut through the branches of the ancient trees like pillars, and the air filled with the songs of morning birds. Arthur found himself thinking of the plan.  He would meet Merlin at the Lost Pond, and they would journey to Northumbria, to the village of Pittenween.  There was a druid there named Colban, who according to Merlin, would know where to find a unicorn.

“Crack.”

Arthur reigned in his horse.  He glanced behind him.  Had he heard something?  Was he being followed?  He waited, but heard nothing more.  “I am being ridiculous,” he decided.  “I am not going to start acting like some silly girl, jumping at the least sound.”  He began riding once more.  “Forests are full of cracks and creaks, and animals often make for suspicious sounds.”

Several times more, he thought he heard sounds, but each time a glance showed nothing, and eventually he stopped worrying about it at all.  Finally, sometime around mid-day, as the sun hovered directly above, Arthus came to the Lost Pond.  It was a lovely spot, surrounded by the swaying branches of willows, reflected back in the still blue waters of the pond.  The sound of croaking toads filled the air.  Arthur dismounted, tied his horse to a branch, and stretched.  Looking about, he wondered-- where is Merlin?

Wizards, Arthur thought. Never on time.  With nothing else to do, he found a soft spot in the shade, tossed down his bedroll, and closed his eyes.  He did not mean to nap, but rather just to rest his eyes.  In moments, though, he did sleep.

A shadowy figure moved about in the brush, creeping to a place where it could watch the maiden king sleeping.

***

“You’re sure?”  Mordred said. He wore a leather mask, and made a gruff voice to disguise his identity.

Killmack, the hunter, who was crouched low to the ground, his hand in the soft soil of a leafy, woodland path, nodded.  “A horse passed here, and I will vouch it was this very morn.”

“Very well.  I would have you follow this horse.  You will find a girl.  Take her prisoner.  Make sure no harm comes to her in her capture.”

“Who is this girl?”

“You need not know,” Mordred said.  He’d chosen this hunter because he knew the man had never met Arthur, so the spell would not reveal her true name.  “She will, likely, make various claims as to her name.  Ignore her.  You need only capture her, take her to your cabin, and hold her there until I come to claim her.”

“As you wish,” the hunter said, bowing.

“Do this, and you will have a cure your daughter.”

“She will live?”

“She will,” Mordred said.  “Now, go!”

****

“Wait,” Gurgen, the goblin said. “Do you smell that?”

Fundyn sniffed the air.  “Girl flesh!”  He grumbled, greedily.

“Delectable and sweet!”

“Let us sneak up on her!”  Lumpy and green with warts and boils over their faces and bodies, goblins are hideous beasts that dwell in the wilds.  As wicked as they are ugly, goblins love nothing more than to boil humans and make of them great stews with tasty turnips and weeds.  Indeed, they preferred most of all to boil naughty children who sneak off into the woods without their parent’s permission, but second only to children was their delight in making stew from girl flesh.  Men, yes, they would eat if they must, but they found men often tasted sour, almost as if they were made of puppy tails and besides the meat was tough.

Gurgen and Fundyn now moved with stealth, for goblins could slip amongst the forest as silent as cats when they wanted, and they found their way to the edge of the clearing that surrounded the Lost Lake. Gurgen, crouching, pushed a branch aside, and gasped as he gazed upon Arthur’s sleeping form.

“She looks tasty!”  Gurgen whispered.

“Delectable!”

Fundyn started to rise, meaning to race down and seize the maiden, but Gurgen grabbed his arm and pulled him back.  “Wait,” he hissed.  “Look.  She does have a sword.”

“A girl with a sword?” Fundyn said.  Looking, he saw that Gurgen spoke the truth.  Indeed, the girl did sleep with her hand upon the pommel of a sword. Goblins are cowards.  It is their nature, and so the thought of any sort of fight was to be avoided at all costs.  “We must sneak down and catch her while yet she sleeps.”

Neither of them noticed the shadowy shape moving through the woods towards them from the right.

Killmack, for his part, had also come to the lake.  He now crouched to the left of our goblins, gazing upon the sleeping face of Arthur, admiring the sleeping maiden’s beauty. Who is this girl?  He wondered.  He had never seen a maiden so fair, and he felt drawn to her beauty.  However, his hunter’s ears had picked up the murmuring of the goblins, and he hesitated, glancing through the woods, trying to pinpoint their position.  He had not counted on having to deal with such foul creatures.  Of course, as always, his mission seemed to have become more complicated than expected. He decided to knock his bow, wait for the goblins to emerge from the woods, and then shoot them down once they entered the clearing.

Fundyn and Gurgen had just started to sneak forward, when they heard a great shout from behind.  “Flee, creatures,” a man shouted. “Or fall on my sword!”

The goblins turned, brandishing their clubs.  From the forest rose a warrior dressed all in gleaming white, his face hidden behind a great helm.  I have already told you goblins are cowards, and so they did consider running.  But the scent of the girl had made their tummies growl, and their greed as well as their advantage in numbers gave them courage.  Gurgen hissed and charged, while Fundyn circled behind the warrior. “Grrrroook!”  The goblins howled. “Grrroook!”

Killmack, hearing the commotion, seeing the trees and branches sway, the sound of battle, swung his bow back over his shoulder and bounded from the woods, closing in on the girl.

Arthur, hearing the sounds of battle, sat up with a start, instinctively drawing his sword.  As he got to his feet, head still cloudy with sleep, he saw a man charging toward him. “Hold!” Arthur called, brandishing his blade.  “Come no closer!”

Killmack chuckled at the sight of the maiden and her sword, drawing his own blade and closing the distance between them. He decided to try to fool her. “Do you not hear the sound of battle? Come!  I will take you from harm’s way!”  He reached out his hand.

“Come one step closer, and it is you who will be harmed!”  Arthur shouted, remembering Guienever’s warnings about men.

“I only wish to protect you!”  Killmack could not help but chuckle.  This girl did have some spirit!

Arthur glanced at his horse, thinking to make a run for it, but the man’s smirk and condescension enraged him.  He took a fighter’s stance.  “I have warned you.  Leave now or face my steel!”

“Very well,” Killmack said.  He knew he had to take the girl without hurting her, so he resolved to disarm her.  He swung his blade, and was surprised when the girl did parry his stroke with ease.

“Surprised?”  Arthur said.

“A little,” Killmack said.  Now seeing the girl had some skill with her weapon, he focused more intently, now attacking her with a flurry of blows all meant to meet her sword and knock it from her hands.

Arthur parried the blows.  The huntsman was poorly skilled.  He telegraphed each swing, and all were sloppy and inefficient.  But each also shook his small arms as the clanging of steel rang out, and he found himself being driven backwards.

Arthur tried to circle, but he found now that he struggled with his footwork.  It was the chain mail.  It was too heavy for him, and it slowed his movements.  The hunter now attacked with a sweeping motion, and Arthur saw too late what he intended as their swords locked at the pommels. Arthur pushed with all his might, but the man was too big and heavy.  “Fool girl,” he said, and Arthur felt himself thrown backwards, overpowered.  He fell to the ground, and before he could recover the huntsman fell upon him, twisting the sword from his grip and then pinning his arms to his sides.

“Get off me!”  Arthur gasped, struggling helplessly beneath the man’s weight.

The huntsman, now eager to get away with his prize, covered Arthur’s mouth and nose with a cloth.  Powerful herbs filled Arthur’s lungs, and he felt himself growing faint.  “No!”  He gasped as he sunk into darkness.

The huntsman lifted the girl and carried her from the lake, vanishing into the gloom of the forest.

The mysterious white knight, meanwhile, found himself battling not only the two goblins he’d originally assailed.  Their calls of “grrrrooook” had brought a dozen more, and he spun and slashed and smashed them with his steel gauntleted fist, slaying 9 of the infernal beasts, and scattering the others.  Blood now staining his white armor, gasping for breath, exhausted, he pushed his way through the trees and down to the lakeshore.  Looking about, he saw Arthur’s horse, and his bedroll, but Arthur was gone.

The knight sank to one knee, looking for tracks. A confusion of foot prints.  There had been a battle!  He looked and looked, and then he found the steps of the hunter.  He looked to the sky in despair.  The sun was setting, and it would soon be too dark to see well enough to follow the tracks.  He would have to wait until morning.  “Arthur!”  He cried out in despair and concern.  “Arthur!”

Chapter Six

In which Arthur finds himself captive.

“Let me go! Let me go!” Arthur demanded, annoyed at how weak and feminine he sounded. He writhed and wiggled, but to little purpose. His ankles were bound together, and his wrists had been tied behind his back.

“You keep chirping,” Killmack said, “I’ll be forced to gag you.”

The thought of being gagged did not please Arthur, and so he paused and considered his situation.  He’d found himself first carried some distance through the forest, thrown over the man’s shoulders like a sack of potatoes. It was another reminder for Arthur of how much smaller he was now as a woman.  Then, he’d been tied to the back of a pony and brought to a shambles of a rustic cabin with a grass roof and weathered wood that looked like it had been hewn right out of the forest.

The man who’d captured Arthur now busied himself at a small stove, the crooked chimney pipe rising up through the ceiling. Initially, Arthur had been focused entirely on trying to free himself, but now that he’d accepted he could not escape his bonds, he was given time to think. He recalled what Guinevere had said to him, her warnings about the dangers particular to women traveling alone in the wilds.

Was that what this was all about? Was this man planning to have his way with Arthur?

The thought gave Arthur chills, the dangers of his new sex now manifestng ina very real manner.  Arthur resolved that, should the man prov so dishonorable, so savage, then he would fight tooth and nail to preserve his maidenly virtue.

He decided to try new tactics.

“I can pay you,” Arthur said. “Gold. More than you’ve ever seen.”

“I have no need of gold,” the man said. “The forest provides all I need or care for.”

“Why have you taken me prisoner, then? For what purpose?”

The man, who’d put a crude pot onto the stove and had been stirring, stopped and looked at Arthur. “You’ll find out soon enough.”  The man then stared at Arthur, a dark look in his eyes.

“What does that mean?”  Arthur said. “Soon enough?”  The man’s penetrating stare made Arthur’s skin crawl, and his womanly fears redoubled. “If you dare touch me, you will hang for it!”

“You’re pretty enough,” the man said. “Well shaped. But I am offended at even the suggestion. You nobles are all the same. You think commoners little more than animals.”

“What makes you think I a noble?”  Arthur said, and then realizing his accent was giving him away, added, “Er, aye main, wha’evr gives ya such a thought as that, aye?”

Killmack burst out laughing.  “Is that how I sound ta ya?”

Arthur looked away. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess it is obvious.”

“It is and at the same time it isn’t,” Killmack said. “You are clearly a lady, but this is the first time I have ever seen a lady out alone, and dressed as a boy. And, I might say, you aren’t the most graceful girl I’ve seen.”

This time it was Arthur’s turn to laugh. He felt the two were bonding, and he wanted to try and get the man to take his guard down.  “It’s hard to be graceful all trussed up like this.”

“I suppose,” the man said.  He came over, and Arthur’s hopes rose as he thought the man might untie him, but instead he just pulled Arthur off the floor and placed him in a sitting position.  “I’ll feed you some soup, your majesty.  You must be starving.”

“If you untie me, I can feed myself?”  Arthur said, hopeful.

“And you could also throw this hot soup right in my face, couldn’t you?”

“But, I am just a girl, and a lady, as you have noted. Surely, you do not fear a woman?” Arthur smiled and batted his eyes. It’s worth a chance, he thought.

“You can eat my way, or you can starve. Which is it going to be?”

Arthur’s tummy was, indeed, grumbling. “Your way,” he said, dropping the smile and the pretense.

The soup turned out to be boiled greens-- solid peasant food, which Arthur had not had in some years.  It reminded him of his younger years, before the sword in the stone, before he became King, before Camelot. The taste of the traditional soup sent waves of nostalgia through Arthur, a balm of bitter-sweet memories and a simpler life from long ago.  Some of the soup dribbled down Arthur’s chin, and Killmack wiped it with a rough cloth.

“Thank you,” Arthur said.

“Course.”

His belly full of food, the stress of his day began to take its toll, and Arthur’s eyes grew heavy, blinking, blinking shut as sleep over took him.  His last sight was Killmack, sharpening his sword.

Arthur woke sometime in the night, initially panicking--where am I? What’s happened? Before the events of the day came back to him and he remembered being taken captive. The room was dark save for the orange light pouring from the embers still burning in the stove. The night was filled with the steady hum of insects, an owl's hoot-- and the sawing of Killmack’s snores.

Arthur saw a pair of beady little eyes across the room from him, orange in the firelight. What the devil?  But then he realized it was just a rat, scrounging around looking for food. For a moment Arthur wondered if he might find a way to get some food onto his ropes, lure the rat into gnawing them off?  But, when he tried to move, he realized as he slept Killmack had tied him to the base of the bed. “Here ratty rat,” he whispered, nevertheless. “Here, little ratty.”

The rat paused to sniff the air, then went back to foraging.

I suppose if I were a girl I would be screaming right now, Arthur thought to himself. Women were such emotional creatures, and so easily frightened. He’d even amused himself as a boy by catching rats by the tail and running about, wagging the rat at the girls, who always shrieked and run away. I suppose those girls might have a laugh if they saw me now, he thought.

Girls. Screams. Maybe I can use this to once more show my capture what a frail and dainty lady I am?  Arthur thought. If he could convince the man he was just another silly girl, perhaps he would let his guard down? He resolved to scream and play the maiden.  Now!

Nothing came out. It shamed him, come right to it, to act like a girl. He was a man, and this was a man, and how could he let himself be a maiden? It was not honorable.

And yet?

Come on now, Arthur, he thought to himself. Be a man and play the maiden.

He took a deep breath, and mustering all his will, he screamed!

“What? What is it?”  Killmack shouted, torn from his slumbers. He rolled from the bed, grabbing his sword.

Arthur screamed again, and then whimpered, “Rat!  There’s a rat! Help me!”

Killmack looked just in time to see the rat scurrying away.

“For the love of all that lives in the forest,” Killmark said, shaking his head. “He’s more scared of you than you are of him.”

To his surprise, Arthur found tears rolling down his cheeks. “He was going to bite me!” Arthur gasped through sobs.

“Women!” Killmark spat. “This is why I live alone now. Go back to sleep.”

“I was scared,” Arthur said, glad he was facing away from Killmark, as he was struggling not to smile, amused at his own acting.

“If you wake me again,” Killmack said. “Well, there will be, um, er, no breakfast! Now be quiet.”

No breakfast? Arthur sighed. Truly, he knew that men often treated women as children, but it was quite insulting! Though the whole thing had been an act, it made him just a bit cross to have Killmack dismiss his feelings so callously. Just like a man, Arthur thought, aware of the irony and loving it just a little. I go through all the trouble of faking tears and he is scarcely moved!

Still, Arthur felt he had, indeed, conveyed what he’d intended. Killmack now thought him just another girl, and that could prove useful!

Chapter 7

In which Morgana and Mordred do plot to steal the throne, and Arthur resorts to feminine wiles to attempt escape!

Morgana sat at the desk in her guestroom, dipping her quill in a jar of ink and carefully writing out a note to Guinevere. Candles flickered about the desk, and a fire blazed in the heath, casting all in shades of red.

Dearest Queen Guinevere;

I write you as your loyal subject, sister in law, and forever friend to Arthur and all in his court.  Please do not hesitate to avail yourself of my services should you require ought.  My aid is yours, and the swords of my modest holding, Tauroc. You are forever in my heart!

The Lady Morgana

Just as she finished signing her name, a wicked smirk on her lips, she heard footsteps in the hall outside her rooms, and soon Mordred entered, cheeks still flush from the cold.

“How fared your errand?”  Morgana said, giving her son a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“The Huntsman has been tasked with the capture of Arthur,” Mordred said. “He will send word once he has him.”

“Her,” Morgana corrected. “Arthur is now a mere girl. Oh! How I wish I could see her face when she is imprisoned in the nunnery!  Rather like a maiden in a romance! Oh, he will be so vexed. Arthur. Oh, Arthur.”

Morgana clutched her hands beneath her chin. “It will be ever so delightful to welcome him back to Camelot once the curse is permanent and he must face life as a girl! I shall make him wear the prettiest dresses!.”

Mordred, for his part, while pleased at the prospect of being made king much sooner than he had imagined, found his mother’s pleasure in Arthur’s transformation distasteful. Still, he knew better than to suggest her behavior in any way untoward.  “The knights will never think to look for him at the Priory.”

“Indeed, and Arthur shall have such fun spending months dressed and living as a nun!” This time, Morgana could not help but cackle in glee at the thought, and Mordred could not hide a wince.

“Why do you flinch?” Morgana said.

“I worry at what you might make of me,” Mordred admitted, “should ever you grow angry with me.”

“Oh, Mordred,” Morgana said. “You know I could never harm my cherished son. I long only to see you placed on the throne, your rightful place.”

“It is a comfort to know.”

“Now, we must turn our attention to Guinevere. She still stands in our way. We must remove her from the throne before Arthur’s return, so that you are made king in her absence.”

“And how shall we do such a thing? She is much loved by the people.”

“You speak truth, and you also author the very means by which we shall see her thrown down: hate. We will make the people hate her, doubt her, look for salvation from you.”

Morgana went to her chest, unlocked it and removed a bulky book with black, engraven with runes of ancient Celtic. “Black magic! The dark arts! The spells I shall weave will ensnare Guinevere as in a spider’s web!”

46 Days now remain until Midsummer

A single ray of golden light sliced through the sod roof of Killmack’s cottage, falling on Arthur’s face, bathing it in golden light. Killmack, who woke always before the dawn, had been up for some time, rebuilding the fire, cutting up some bacon. Later, he would send word to the masked man who had hired him to capture this silly girl, who had been such a fool to wander alone in the wilderness. The wilds were no place for women.

He looked at her now, her pale face golden in the morning sun, and he marveled to look upon such a soft, angelic face. Never had he seen such beauty! Indeed, gazing in wonder at her face, he felt doubly sure she should never have been alone. What sort of father or husband did the girl have that she could have snuck out, and dressed as a man?

Yes, looking upon the lovely vulnerable girl, Killmack's heart was so moved that he began to question whether he should turn the lass over to the masked man. The fellow had a darkness and a menace about him, and Killmack felt certain he had nothing but the worst intentions toward her.

Arthur woke with a start.  He saw Killmack sitting at his rough hewn table, just-- looking. Being held in the man’s gaze made Arthur feel quite unmanned.  He did not care for it one bit. But, before he could find words to ask the man to stop staring, a new imperative came to Arthur’s attention: he needed to make water.  This, he thought, could be a chance to escape.

“Um, this is most embarrassing for me, as a lady, to speak of, but I need to… um… ?”

“Spit it out!” Killmack said, but just as the words left him, it occurred to him what this girl needed. “Oh! I see. Yes.”  He went over and untied Arthur’s feet, then picked him up and stood him up. “Out back,” he grunted, guiding Arthur out the door, then leading him around the back of the cottage to a small stream in the woods.

“I’ll give you some privacy, but do not be fool enough to try and run,” Killmack said. “You will not get far.”

Arthur, who was loathe to lie, merely shrugged. Then, he batted his eyelashes as he had seen maidens do. He knew it had a most powerful way of weakening a man’s will. “Um, my hands?”

“You think me a fool?”

“Well, would you pull my pants down, then?” Arthur said, pressing his knees together and hopping up and down. “I have to go so bad!” In fact, Arthur’s need was growing urgent, the tinkling sound of the nearby creek making even greater the pressure he felt.

“Pull down your–? I can’t…? Blast!!” Killmack grabbed the rope around Arthur’s wrists and untied it. “There.” With that, Killmack turned and walked away, looking quite embarrassed by the whole thing.

Sweet man, Arthur thought, having noticed Killmack blush at the awkwardness of the whole encounter. Arthur took care of his needs, then pulled his pants up, trying to remain as quiet as possible. “Just a moment,” Arthur called.

“Hurry up,” Killmack said.

Arthur began to creep away, carefully stepping across the stream, then making his way up the bank. Picking his way carefully through the undergrowth, he found a stick and took position behind an ancient oak. Then, he waited.

Not wanting to catch the girl in a rude position, Killmack also waited, gasping with exasperation every few seconds. And, he waited, and then he grew angry, for he was certain the girl had decided to run. “Foolish child,” he spat, then made his way to the stream, the path the girl had taken as obvious to his skillful eyes as as if it had been lit with fairy dust. He hoped over the stream.

Arthur took a peek, saw the Huntsman hop the stream, and he threw the stick off to the right as far as he could. The Huntsman’s head snapped up, and he bounced off to the right, in the direction of the sound.  Arthur bolted to the left, racing away through the forest, hoping to escape.

It was a foolish hope!

The Huntsman quickly recognized the ruse, and raced after Arthur, crashing through the forest.  Arthur hopped over a fallen tree, glancing back to see the Hunstman easily closing in on him.  Realizing that his escape plan was futile, Arthur grabbed a thick branch from the forest floor, and dropped into a fighter’s crouch. “Stay away from me!” Arthur shrieked.

“Girl, do not be a fool,” the Huntsman said. He lunged. Arthur swung. The Huntsman caught the stick and yanked it from Arthur’s small, soft hands. Once more, Arthur was horrified at how small and weak he’d become. The Huntsman stepped forward, towering over Arthur now, making him feel like a child. The Huntsman held out his hand. “Come along.”

Feeling a fool, Arthur glanced over his shoulder, thinking to run once more, but he knew the Huntsman was too fast. Swallowing his pride, Arthur took the man’s hand. “Does this mean I do not get breakfast?” Arthur asked in a small voice.

“Oh, you’ll get your breakfast, young lady, but you’ll also be getting a spanking.”

“What?”

Arthur felt the Huntsman’s arm lock around his waist, then he was lifted in the air and soon found himself over the Huntsman’s knee. “You need to learn to obey,” the Huntsman announced.  It’s not right for a girl to be so hard-headed.”

“Don’t you dare!” Arthur screamed, shocked to find himself bent over a man’s knee. “Don’t you--”

Whap! The Huntsman’s hand swatted Arthur’s fanny. Whap!

“You will regret your--!”

Whap! Whap! “You will mind your tongue, girl!” Whap! “This is hurting me more than it’s --whap-- hurting you.”

“I am not a girl!”

Whap!

“Arrrgghhhh!” Arthur finally called out, a guttural scream of pure fury as he wiggled and kicked and punched, trying to free himself. His vision went red. He began to hyperventilate.

“You will cease this tantrum! You will learn your place!”

“Unhand her, you brute,” a deep, man’s voice called out.

Chapter 8

In which the mysterious Unknown Knight does join Arthur’s Quest!

Killmack’s hand had been raised above Arthur’s backside, ready to deliver another slap, but it froze in the air, midspank as a voice called out, “Unhand her, you brute.” Arthur, for his part, winced. While having the humiliation end was desirable, at the same time being the “her” in such a cliche, storybook rescue of a maiden was a new and equally unwelcome humiliation.

Killmack turned to see a stout knight adorned in pure white armoe, his face hidden behind a visored helm. What was not hidden was the way the edge of his steel blade flashed in the cool forest’s gloom.

Killmack shoved Arthur from his lap, sending him tumbling to the ground. ‘Ow!” Arthur wailed, as he slammed into the Earth.

“Villain!” The Unknown Knight growled, advancing.

In a quick movement it was little more than a blur, Killmak plucked one of the knives from his belt and hurled it at the Knight.  It tumbled through the air, heading directly for the slit in his visor, but the Knight swung his mighty sword and batted the knife away, sending it to stick into a tree, pommel shaking. Killmack’s eyes went wide. Not only was this knight huge and physically powerful, but quick as lightning and skilled with his weapons. He looked down, thinking to grab Arthur and use her as a hostage, but she had already rolled to her feet and run to take a position behind the knight.

Throwing three more knives, Killmack turned and plunged into the forest. The Unknown Knight slapped them all away, then stood, staring at the space in the undergrowth where the man had vanished. “Do not let me see you again!”

“What are you doing? Go after him!” Arthur screamed. “He kidnapped me! He struck me!”

“I am here solely to protect you, er, um, milady. I am at your service. Yet, I cannot pursue your attacker without leaving you alone and undefended here in this dangerous wood.”

It must be noted that even a man such as Arthur, now with a maiden’s form and a girl’s heart, couldn’t not help but find himself flustered by the sound of this manly fellow offering protection, devotion. Indeed, his cheeks blushed slightly and he cast his eyes downward, overcome with this strange new feeling. “What is your name, brave knight?” Arthur asked, in a silvery voice. “That I may thank you?”

“I am the Unknown Knight.”

“My thanks, Unknown Knight. And how did you know I was here? Indeed, may I ask if you even know who I am?” Arthur did not relish the idea of this mysterious man knowing that the maiden he’d just rescued from a most ignoble spanking was actually Arthur, King, but he was unsure who the knight was, and even if he could trust the man. Indeed, Arthur was rapidly developing a maiden’s instinctive insecurity as to the intentions of the male population.

The Unknown Knight paused, scratching the bottom of his helm. “I choose not to reveal how I knew you were here. Further, I prefer to keep any knowledge I may possess as to your identity a secret.”

“Truly?” Arthur said. “And would you do me the honor of showing me your face?”

“We must move from this place,” The Unknown Knight said, changing the topic. “The Huntsman may have allies.  I have your horse and your gear. I will serve as your protector, milady, and join you on your journey, if you will have me, of course.” With that the knight took Arthur’s hand, and began to lead him back toward the Huntsman’s cabin.

Arthur pulled his hand free. “Do not be too familiar,” Arthur said.

“Of course,” The Unknown Knight answered. “I beg your forgiveness.”

As the Knight led the way, Arthur took in his height, his frame. It was clear the man was disguising his voice, but Arthur sensed he knew the man. Indeed, Arthur was discovering another advantage of his new sex, as his woman’s intuition began to assess the situation. For one, he felt certain he could trust this man and need not fear for his virtue. And another, well, it would only be a matter of time before he knew this brave gentleman’s name! He was clearly a true knight, and there were few who matched this man in strength and skill.

As they made their way back to the clearing where the Knight had tied up their two horses, Arthur filled the Knight in on his quest. He mentioned only that he needed to capture a unicorn and was heading north to meet a druid he thought could help, but not why he needed to do such a thing.

The two rode north the rest of the day, a ride which took them out of the forest and into a country of rolling fields.  As the sun set, it lit up the neat rows of wheat once more in a golden light, and little plumes of smoke could be seen rising from the chimneys of the little farmhouses that dotted the countryside. “Perhaps we should seek shelter from these good farm folk?” The Unknown Knight suggested.

“I prefer to travel in secret as much as possible,” Arthur answered. Then, plagued by a sudden new impulse to be polite and considerate, he added, “But I do thank you for your suggestion, good sir.” Arthur, it seems, was developing a maidenly sensitivity to the feeling of others he quite lacked as a man.

“I see a place that will suit us nicely, then.” The two were not at the top of a large hill that looked down on a wide valley, and as the man pointed, Arthur saw a burnt out barn on the edge of the settlement, in an isolated nook near a creek.

“That does look most excellent,” Arthur said.

They made their way down the hill, among a twisty series of disused trails, and then came to the remains of the barn, which amounted to little more than charred beams sticking up out of the earth. The sun had set by the time they’d arrived, but a big, bright moon had risen, casting all in wondrous silver light.

The Knight went about making a fire.  Arthur, meanwhile, was delighted to find some hay left over that was still good, and he brought it to the horses, who happily munched, neighing with pleasure.  Arthur smiled, petting their necks, and even found himself giving his horse a kiss behind the ear.  As a knight himself and an avid horseman he had always appreciated a good, healthy steed of superior breeding, but he found himself now rather falling in love with this beautiful horse. A feeling many a girl can identify with, and few men! “You are so pretty,” he whispered. “Such a beauty!”

The Unknown Knight’s horse whinnied, and Arthur went over to show him some love as well. “Oh, you are, too! I love you both!”

What did I just say? What am I doing? The man Arthur had been backed away, terrified and ashamed of the feminine outpourings he’d just displayed, and had not even questioned. I feel I am becoming quite a damoiselle, Arthur thought, fretting over it. I must remember I am a man!”

A tidy little fire crackled merrily when he returned to the little camp they’d made, and the Unknown Knight sat there, propped on his bedroll. He’d laid out some jerky and dried fruit on a cloth next to Arthur’s bedroll. “Eat,” he said. “You need your strength.”

“Strength?” Arthur said, looking at his slender little arms. “I am afraid I am quite helpless. I thought I could defend myself, but that foul Huntsman quite easily overpowered me.” Famished, Arthur grabbed a piece of the jerky and began to munch on it.

“You are a slender and petite woman,” The Unknown Knight. “But perhaps not as helpless as you think.”

“What would you know,” Arthur answered, his mouth full of food, “being so big and strong? It seems women are not meant for lives of battle.” Even as the words left his mouth, Arthur remembered saying the very thing himself while still a man.  It didn’t strike him as so simple and just now.

“And yet when I was a boy, I bested men twice my size.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes.  Not only did the statement give him some hope for himself, but his woman’s intuition clicked all the little clues he’d gotten into place. He laughed, a sweet, woman’s laugh, full of pleasure at his discovery.

“Why do you find that humorous?”

“I am amused, Unknown Knight, because I have fathomed your true name!” Arthur said.

“Oh? And what is it?”

Chapter 9

In which the Lady Arthur does fathom the name of his knight in shining armor!

The fire glinted off The Unknown Knights white armor, painting in reds and oranges. He sat back, alarmed.  “If you know my name, perhaps it would be best not to speak it,” The Unknown Knight said. “It would be better for us both if I were to remain anonymous.”

“Your words sound most wise, Unknown Knight. Were I but some silly girl perhaps I would head them.  I am, however, Arthur, King of the Britons, and no fool, Unknown Knight. Or, shall I call you Lancelot?”

The Unknown Knight sat, thinking.

“Do you deny it?” Arthur said, amused.

“Fine!” Lancelot said, kicking a small stone into the fire. “You guessed rightly and ruined my plan. I hope you are pleased with yourself!”

“I am most pleased,” Arthur said, with a smug nod.

“How did you know?”

“I suppose you could call it my woman’s intuition. It seems my transformation to the fairer sex has given me some gifts to compensate for what was taken away.”

Lancelot fumed. “I did not count on that.”

“Anyway, I would know you anywhere. Did you think to fool me with that absurd voice?” Arthur lowered his voice as much as he could and made a serious, frowny face. “I am the Unknown Knight!”

Lancelot could not help but laugh. “Fine. Perhaps my plan was poorly conceived.”

“If it were conceived at all.”

Arthur, indeed, was quite charming, his big eyes sparkling in the firelight. Lancelot felt himself warming to the new Arthur, despite his sass.“In my defense, I had little time.”

“Yes, well, please take off your helmet at least. There is no reason to conceal your face.”

“You speak true,” Lancelot said, unbuckling his helmet.  As he removed it with one hand, he ran the other through his long golden hair. “It is a relief to finally be able to breath!”

Arthur looked at his old friend in wonder.  He had never noticed just how handsome he was. Arthur, of course, had recognized the other man’s good looks, and knew the women of the court did swoon over him. But now, it seemed he was looking at him with new eyes, and the sight of that rugged square jawed visage moved him as it never had before.  It felt as if his whole body sighed.

“What is it?” Lancelot said, meeting Arthur’s eyes.

They each froze. Arthur’s cheeks reddened. Lancelot had been feeling drawn to Arthur in a new way, seeing how adorable and sweet he seemed as a female, and they each felt the heat in the other’s eyes as they started, a powerful magnetic attraction that had not been part of their relationship before.

Subconsciously, Arthur’s hand went to the crucifix he wore around his neck, under his shirt. Guinevere had gifted him before they had even married. The new feelings toward Lancelot disturbed Arthur, though he was not yet able to admit to himself what they were, and as he pushed those romantic inklings down, anger rose in their place. He felt furious at Lancelot for making him feel this way! Of course, the newly shaped maided could not confront her feelings and the true reason for her discomfort, so she displaced them onto something else, something more manly. “How dare you?” Arthur snapped.

“Pardon?” Lancelot sad, shocked out of his amorous gazing at the beautiful woman before him by her-- his-- sudden fury.

“I ordered you to Londinium!” Arthur said, his voice cold and hard. “You disobeyed me!”

“I had no choice--”

“You did, and you chose to defy me!”

Arthur stood. “I am still your king!”

“I do not deny--”

“Then how do you justify refusing my orders? Following me? Creeping around the forest like some -- rogue?”

Lancelot’s temper rose in response to Arthur’s attacks. “It’s a good thing I did, or you would still be captive of that foul Huntsman!”

“Don’t you dare try and justify your actions!” Arthur shouted, outraged as he remembered the humiliating position he’d been in when Lancelot had come upon him-- bent over the Huntsman’s knee, receiving a good spanking.

Lancelot stood, towering over Arthur, his eyes blazing with rage. Arthur was reminded of how much smaller he was now, how much weaker. He almost flinched, but held firm.

And then Lancelot dropped to his knees before Arthur. “Don’t you see I had no choice? I am sworn to defend my king. And more, I could not allow a lady to go off unprotected. I did what I did to honor my oaths to you as your loyal knight, and to do my duty to protect you as a lady.”

“I am not a lady,” Arthur said, but his voice was now shaky, unsure. Lancelot’s words and the strength of his devotion had shaken Arthur.

“Yet, you are,” Lancelot said. “It cannot be denied.  The world does not care who you are inside that shape. It will see only a woman, as your experience with the Huntsman has proven!”

Lancelot continued on. “Indeed, it was my concern for your reputation, a concern you raised, yourself, that inspired me to pose as the Unknown Knight, that none would gossip about you. Don’t you see?  All believe I am in Londinium. Your virtue will not be questioned.”

“Well,” Arthur said, completely thrown off. “When you put it that way it does make some sense.” Arthur considered, but the logic of Lancelot’s words and the passion, while comforting, still aroused his anger, so he decided to ignore the reasonableness of the other man’s deeds and instead he crossed his arms and said, “I am still furious at you!”

And with that, Arthur spun and stormed off to the barn.

Lancelot sighed.  He acts like a woman, Lancelot said. However much he may claim otherwise! He had endured more than a few such scenes with the various women he had known over the years. He knew what to do. Wait a bit, then go find her.  Him.

Arthur, for his part, immediately rued his action and found himself sitting on an old keg in the barn. The night had grown cold, and he shivered, looking up at the stars. His mind now turned to one question: where was Merlin?

Chapter 10

“Go now,” Morgana said, having explained her plan to Mordred. “We must move with haste.”

“What of the huntsman?”

“He will wait for your return, should he arrive in your absence.”

“Of course.” Throwing up his hood, he raced off into the night.

Morgana pursued her grimoire once more before entering her magic circle. She knelt, and began to incant, the dark magic flowing through her, making her hair rise and crackle and spark.  Morgana completed her spell, the circle of candles she knelt within flying and then going dark. The room smelt of sulphur and sin. Getting up, she threw open the shutters, eager for the night breeze to clear the scent of her infernal magic from the space.  Staring out across the moonlit countryside, she wondered of Arthur’s fate. They had yet to hear back from the huntsman. Could something have gone wrong?

Guinevere, for her part, had received the note Morgana had sent promising her loyalty. To say the letter failed to deceive her would be quite an understatement. Indeed, she had never trusted Morgana, and the letter had only served to make her even more alert for treachery.  Lowbottom, too, called for attention. Guinevere knew she needed eyes, and so she sent for Aideen. Then, looking out her own window, she too, wondered where in that great wide world her husband slept tonight.  She had always worried about Arthur when he’d out for war or adventure, even hunts. It was part of being a wife, but now? He was so small now, so pretty, and he knew nothing of being a girl. There was little more she could do than worry, and then go to her private chapel and offer prayers for his safety.

Arthur would have been most pleased to know of his wife’s prayers, but even more so he would have loved a blanket. The night grew chillier by the moment, and the wind had picked up. Guinevere had often complained of chills in rooms he’d found perfectly warm, and he now empathized with her. His slender female form needed warmth!

He glanced toward the warm glow of the fire, toward his bedroll. He longed to for the heat, but Lancelot was out there! Lancelot! He was still angry at that, that-- brute! I would rather freeze than go crawling back out there! Arthur huffed.

He heard movement. Lancelot poked his head around the corner. “My King?” Lancelot said.

Arthur crossed his arms, put his nose in the air.

“I brought you a blanket,” Lancelot said.

“I don’t want it!”

“Please, your highness.”

Arthur sat there, pretending to ignore Lancelot, who came forward, placing the blanket gently over Arthur’s shoulders. “I bid you goodnight.”

The blanket immediately warmed Arthur.  As Lancelot withdrew, Arthur almost called out to him, but he restrained himself. They would sleep on this, he decided.  The morning would be a new day. Pulling the blanket closer, he waited a bit, then crawled onto his bedroll, rolling it around himself along with the blanket. It had been a long day, and sleep came quickly.

44 Days Remain Until Midsummer

Arthur woke to the sound of fighting. Snapping awake, he struggled to free himself from his bedroom, looking around frantically, calling out, “Lancelot!”

“Over here!” Lancelot called.

Looking over, Arthur saw Lancelot with a thick wooden stick, striking at the trunk of a thick oak tree. “Morning exercise,” Arthur murmured, slightly annoyed at his panic.

“Join me!” Lancelot said. “It will be good to get the blood flowing before out ride.”

“I don’t much see the point,” Arthur said, walking over the Lancelot. “I tried to fight the huntsman, but in this body? I am too small and-- weak.” It pained him to say the words, but he could not deny the weakness of his new sex.

“It is true, Arthur, that you may no longer rely on mass and strength to win fights. But you have new strengths.”

“Such as?”

“You are small and quick, my Lord. You need only learn to fight like the lynx instead of the lion.”

“I will only look a fool.”

“I can teach you,” Lancelot said, picking up a branch he’d cut to the length of a short sword. He tossed it to Arthur. “Let’s begin.”

Arthur griped the stick. Lancelot had even whittled the end down to fit his smaller hand. “Block my blows,” Lancelot said. He advanced, swung, the blow shook Arthur’s arm, stung his hand.

‘Don’t meet the blow. Deflect it.”

“I am too small!”

“Nonsense. Swing at me.”

Arthur swung. Instead of meeting the blow with a full, strength based block, Lancelot deflected it and stepped aside.  “See?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. “I was trained in this maneuver. I just never used it.”

“Use it now!” Lancelot said, swinging.

Arthur deflected it, stepped aside, spun around with a counter strike that Lancelot had to rush to parry. “Oh!” Lancelot shouted. “You nearly got me!”

Arthur’s heart sang! Perhaps he could still fight, defend himself, be a man! He needed only to fight like a-- well, he didn’t want to think the thought,  but he could not deny the reality– he needed to fight like a girl.

They began to circle each other. “Stay small. Stay quick. Use your speed and agility!” They scrimmaged, parried. Arthur kept moving. Remembering how the huntsman  had overpowered him, he never allowed himself to get into a position where Lancelot could use his size and strength to overpower him, and soon they were both slick with sweat breathing hard.  Often, Arthur didn’t even bother to deflect Lancelot’s swings, instead darting away from them, letting Lancelot swing wildly into thin air.

“I can do this,” Arthur said, ducking under a swing. He was quicker and more elusive than he’d ever imagined. “I might even be able to beat you!”

“Do not get arrogant,” Lancelot said. “I will admit you are doing very well, but I am still Lancelot.”

True, but Arthur had noticed that Lancelot had been getting lazy, perhaps due to growing tired from the sparring. He was taking big swings, and leaving his back leg wide open.  Arthur waited until the next time Lancelot attempted such a swing, then instead of darting away as he’d been doing, he rolled toward Lancelot, kicking his leg out from under him and rolling on top of Lancelot, pointing his stick at Lancelot’s throat.

“Got you!” Arthur shouted, a lopsided pirate’s grin on his pretty face.

“A lucky break,” Lancelot said, taking  one finger and pushing the stick away from his throat.

“Luck?” Arthur laughed. “You lie!”

Arthur was sitting on Lancelot, straddling him, his thighs pressed against Lancelot’s ribs. Without even thinking, Lancelot put his hands on Arthur’s hips and squeezed. “You can’t believe you could beat me?”

The feeling of Lancelot’s hands squeezing his soft hips made Arthur suddenly self-conscious about his -- um-- position. Blushing, he quickly jumped off Lancelot. “We better eat and ride,” he said, dusting the dirt from his pants, not wanting to talk or even think about what he’d felt.

“Yes,” Lancelot agreed, also eager to avoid a repeat of the previous day’s awkwardness. “Breakfast.”

They each got their food and ate, not looking at each other. When Lancelot finished, he brushed the crumbs off his chest as a question suddenly occurred to him. “Where are we going, anyway?”

Chapter 11

As they rode along the old farm road, Arthur explained the plan to Lancelot.  The morning had drawn bright, the air clear and fresh. A light breeze teased the leaves of long, white birch trees that lined the rutted path between low, stone walls. “We travel to Pittenween, in Northumbria. A druid there is said to know all the lore of unicorns.”

“Druid? I thought their kind had passed into history.”

“Some remain, it seems, living in isolated places, deep in the mountains, or practicing their religion in secret.”

“Just days ago, I would have called their Gods false,” Lancelot said.

“I as well,” Arthur agreed.

“Pittenween is some five days ride,” Lancelot said. “How much time will that leave you before–?”

“I will have 39 days from the time we reach Pittenween,” Arthur said, unable to hide the worry from his small voice.

“It will be enough time,”

“It must,” Arthur said, risking a look into the handsome face. “It simply must.”

As they made their way along the rolling hills, they encountered few people- a farmer on a wagon, a lone horseman, a few children walking along, shepherding a flock of baying sheep. The rustic folk were used to the occasional traveler, and used to shunning outsiders.  So, much to the relief of Arthur and Lancelot both, they were greeted only with suspicious nods and an occasional “g’day.”

They made good time, the travel easy. They talked little. Both Arthur and Lancelot had been disturbed by the feelings they’d experienced. Each time Arthur remembered straddling Lancelot, he blushed. Lancelot was not much of a blusher, but he felt instead a quickening of his blood quite unacceptable when thinking of his King.

Shortly after the sun passed its zenith, they spotted a winding brook just down the hill from an old apple orchard. “Let’s rest the horses,” Arthur said.

Lancelot nodded. They led the horses to the water, where there was also some excellent grass, tied them up and found a spot in the shade beneath one of the apple trees, on which a heart had been carved. Arthur had jerky and some dried fruit from his saddle bags, which he nibbled.  Lancelot ate similar food. Once more, they struggled to find words. Yet, without the steady clip clop of the horses, the silence between them threatened to exceed the possible threat of words. In addition, the sparks they felt whenever they looked into each other’s eyes were dangerous, indeed, to their Christian values, so they found themselves looking about, pretending to be fascinated by the still, unmoving shapes of the trees around them.

Finally, Lancelot felt it his duty to break the tension. “The weather is most favorable,” he said.

“Indeed,” Arthur answered, relieved to have something innocuous to speak of. “Most favorable.”

“Yet, this is England,” Lancelot said.

“It may rain,” Arthur said.

‘It will rain,” Lancelot countered.

They each smiled. Joking about the rain in England never got old.

Arthur sighed. “I am concerned about Merlin.”

“The old wizard can take care of himself. And mysterious comings and goings are his wont.”

“But what if this witch or goddess or whatever she may be has done something? To try and prevent him from helping me on my quest?”

“I do not see what you can do now but pursue the unicorn,” Lancelot said. “If I may offer my thoughts. You have little time.”

“Perhaps when we reach Pittenween I can send a message to Guinevere.”

Just then, Arthur spotted a pure white squirrel, clinging to the trunk of one of the apple trees. “Look,” he said, pointing. “A good omen.”

“Indeed,” Lancelot said.

Just then, a bushy tailed, brown squirrel came bouncing from the woods and began to climb the tree.  As it approached, the white squirrel skittered a little away. The brown squirrel followed a bit. Pausing. The white squirrel ran a little further up the tree. The brown squirrel followed.  At last, the white squirrel began to run, jumping from limb to limb, pursued frantically by the brown squirrel.

Lancelot laughed. “Looks like she’s not in the mood. Probably has a headache.”

Arthur laughed. “Perhaps she plays hard to get?”

“It would surprise me little,” Lancelot said.  ‘The maiden criest no, when she means make haste.”

Arthur didn’t laugh. The line was from a popular song. “The Muddled Maiden Mind.” It was all about how dumb and dishonest and weak and silly women were, and thinking of it now made him cringe a bit. Am I destined to become another muddle minded maiden? He wondered. If I am trapped in this form?

Just then, the white squirrel seemed to slow, the brown squirrel catching up. Suddenly, the awkwardness returned to the pair, and without further comment on the birds and the bees and the squirrels, they went to fetch their horses.

Chapter 12

Over the next few days, as Arthur and Lancelot rode north from Mercia into Northumbria, the rolling fields and farmland gave way to wilder lands. They slowed, riding along what were scarcely more than game trials through forests, crossing streams. Eventually, they came to the edge of Waterhead Moor, where they were greeted by a series of mossy standing stones carved with ancient runes.

“Be careful,” Lancelot said as Arthur moved past the stones. “The moors are treacherous, and to leave the paths could mean death.”

“You do not need to protect me,” Arthur said, though Lancelot’s tone of concern moved him strangely. “I am still Arthur. Don’t treat me as a woman.”

“It is not because you are a woman that I caution,” Lancelot said,”but because you are my King.”

Arthur smiled to himself. Lancelot truly was, despite his flaw, among the noblest of knights. From the marshy lowlands, they rode toward the center of the moor, where the land rose from the grassy, damp lower lands. As the sun set to the west over the Largs’ Bay, they could see the lights of the village begin to flicker to life, and taking a winding trail up and up, they eventually came upon a village, the small, low houses constructed of stone, their roofs covered in thick peat.

Arthur paused at the edge of the village. His horse whinnied in annoyance. The sight of the village promised shelter, hay, and he was not pleased at the delay.

“What is it?” Lancelot asked.

“I am not sure how to proceed,” Arthur said. “Merlin. He knew of this druid Colban, and was meant to serve as my liaison here in the village.” He thought for a moment.

“He is not here,” Lancelot said, not understanding the problem. “So, you will have to seek yourself.”

Arthur turned to Lancelot. “I do not wish for people to know that I am- that I am a woman. Yet, were I to take on a false name, that would be a lie, a form of dishonesty. When I seek the unicorn?” He struggled, not wanting to finish the thought.

“Your maidenly purity might be in question,” Lancelot said.

“Yes,” Arthur said, chagrined.

“Then let me speak for you,” Lancelot said. “My maidenly virtue has long since been sullied.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh. “I think that will work,” he said.

“If anyone asks, I will merely say you are my companion.  We need neither reveal your identity nor lie about it.”

“Very good.” Once more, Arthur felt a new, feminine sense of gratitude overcome him, and he quickly pushed the disturbing feeling away. Truly, he was deeply ashamed to find himself in a woman’s shape, and now that it came to engaging with strangers, with people he did not know and trust, he shrank away from the idea.  He was disguised as a boy, but there was no disguising his soft voice.

They proceeded into town. Most of the houses were dark, and the streets deserted. The people did not feel there was much reason to waste precious fuel on lights when there was little to do at night anyway. “Perhaps we should knock and ask someone after Colban?” Lancelot suggested.

But, just as he spoke, the two heard the sound of laughter. Riding around a bend in the road, they saw a building, warm light glowing from within, and a sign hanging over the doorway that read “Misty Law Tavern.”

“Excellent,” Lancelot said.

“Thank the Lord we are in England,” Arthur said. “Where every town has a pub!”

They hitched their horses to the fence outside the tavern and made their way to the thick, wooden door.  Arthur once more found himself feeling strangely nervous. As a younger man, before his days as King, he’d made himself familiar with a few taverns. But this was the first time he’d entered such a place as a woman, and he was not sure how to act or behave. What if the men saw through his disguise?

Once more, Lancelot came to the rescue. “Stay close, and allow me to do the talking.”

Arthur nodded, unable to resist the urge to put his hand on Lancelot’s arm and give him a small squeeze of thanks. Immediately, he regretted the gesture. It seemed like something a woman would do. What’s wrong with me? Arthur wondered. Why am I so uncertain, so meek?

But he didn’t have time to pursue the thought, as Lancelot pushed the door open and strode into the small room, ducking under the low doorway. Arthur followed, slightly behind and to the side of Lancelot.

As the door creaked open and Lancelot entered, all eyes turned to the strangers at the door, and the conversation stopped.  The only sound was the crackling of the fire in the old stone hearth. The local townsfolk’s eyes hardened as they assessed the strangers, and Arthur couldn’t help but slip further behind Lancelot, his fear at being discovered a woman spiking under the gaze of all these men.

“Pardon me for interrupting, good people,” Lancelot said. “We are two weary travelers seeking shelter for the night.”

The eyes continued to stare.

The Innkeeper carefully judged the possible threat. The strangers were well dressed, and Lancelot’s accent, inflected with a bit of French, suggested -- class.  “Class” was not  a good thing in the minds of the Scotsman. It was a word associated with the effete oppressors from the south, always pestering the Scots with their demands and their attempts to “unite” England. But, they surely were no bandits and likely had coin. “We are hospitable folk, weary travelers. Friendly to those who are friendly. Mind you sharing your name?”

“I am Lancelot Du Lac,” he answered flatly.

Murmurs. People now glanced at each other.

“THE Lancelot?” The Innkeeper said, incredulous.

“The one and only,” Lancelot said, now unable to restrain a slightly prideful tone.”

“Well, look here,” the Innkeeper said. “An actual famous knight! Come on in!”

Lancelot gave Arthur a little shrug and led him to a table in the corner. The men around the Inn greeted Lancelot, shook his hand. Fame was a magical thing, and the fact Lancelot was not really one of those southern English but a foreigner, well, they all supposed it was fine.  While Lancelot charmed the locals, Arthur sat at the corner table, glad to be ignored, slumping, almost trying to hide.

Once they all had their chance to bask in the radiance of Lancelot’s fame, some did inquire about Arthur, wondering if he, too, were famous, but Lancelot dismissed him with a wave saying, “just my companion. No one you would ever have heard of.”

The folk seemed satisfied. Arthur was relieved, but hungry. He would have gone ahead and asked for food, but he was too ashamed of his voice, too nervous it might betray his sex. So he sat quietly and waited, stomach grumbling.

Finally, it was the Innkeeper who intervened, as the men around the room had been begging Lancelot to regale them with stories of his adventures, and Lancelot had been happy to oblige, taking up a place next to the fire and entertaining them with stories of dragons and and beasts, black knights and damsels.

“If only half of what he said was true,” Arthur mumbled, both resenting Lancelot’s arrogance while also admiring it. He really is quite charming, Arthur couldn’t help but admit to himself, even if he can be an ass.

Finally, the Innkeeper, fearing this would go on all night and wanting some sleep himself, made his last call.  Lancelot asked for food, and the Innkeeper promised some fine rabbit stew.  Lancelot came back to the table where Arthur waited with two wooden mugs full of frothy ale.

Chapter 13

“You put on quite a show,” Arthur said as he accepted the ale.

Lancelot chuckled, leaned close and said, “I am quite charming, aren’t I?”

“Some think so,’ Arthur said, sipping the ale.

The Innkeeper came with the stew.  The small tavern was starting to clear out, the fire burning down to embers, lamps sputtering.  The Innkeeper busied himself cleaning and closing down for the night.

Arthur lifted a wooden spoon of the thick, steaming stew to his nose and sniffed. Then took a small taste with the tip of his tongue. “Quite--” tasty he had meant to finish, but when he looked up he saw Lancelot staring at him. “What?”

Lancelot shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I was--- er-- just waiting to find out what you thought of the stew.”

“It’s good,” Arthur said.

Lancelot dug his spoon into the bowl, and then shoved a heaping portion into his mouth, chewing and swallowing. “Innkeeper! Excellent!” Lancelot ate some more. “What a pleasure to get out of the stifling formality and pretense of Camelot,” he said. “Look at this place! Those wooden beams. It looks older than Roman times.”

‘Indeed,” the Innkeeper said. “This taven has been here since before the Romans came to Britain. Long before. The exact date it not known, but some say it was here before the town, which grew up around it.”  Walking over, the man lay a large, metal key on the table. It was so dirty and worn it was hard to tell what sort of metal it was made from. “Room at the top of the stairs,” he said. “I am turning in.”

“Thank you for your hospitality and this fine repast,” Lancelot said. ‘I wish we had food like this in the south.”

“Fresh ingredients cooked right,” the man said, then he turned his attention to Arthur. Seeing Arthur in the warm light of the dying lamps, the man immediately was struck by his big eyes, the long, curly lashes, the full mouth and-- was this a boy or a girl? “I almost forgot about your friend here. And how do you find my little tavern young-- er--?”

Arthur looked away.

“He,” Lancelot said, “is my valet. And a little shy. Do not be offended.”

“Hmmm. Well, good night to ya.”

The man left.

“So,” Arthur said, feeling free to talk now that the room was empty. “Tomorrow we go about finding this Colban.”

“Yes. I would have perhaps asked tonight--”

“But you were too busy performing,” Arthur said.

“I was building good will.”

“You were being an ass,” Arthur finally spat out, slamming his food down. “The plan was for us to remain incognito!

“It was a foolish plan…”

“Arrogance has always been your fatal flaw.”

“Confidence is my greatest virtue.”

“You don’t think about anyone but yourself!”

“The fact that I am here proves you wrong on that point, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t prove…” Arthur started, stopped. “It only…” Arthur stood and grabbed the key. Finally, realizing he had no argument, Arthur turned and stormed off. “Just shut up!”

Lancelot watched Arthur stomp his way up the stairs. He’d taken his coat off, and the pants he wore hugged his shapely new body quite nicely. “ might be fun to …”  As soon as he realized what he was thinking, Lancelot pulled his eyes away. “You mustn’t even think it!”

He waited a bit, letting Arthut calm himself. The thought of a bed made him smile-- even an old country mattress stuffed with hay would be a relief!

Making his way upstairs, he found a single door at the top of the stairs. He tried the handle. The door was locked. He knocked. Gently. “You’ll have to sleep downstairs,” Arthur said. “There is only one bed and quite a small one.”

Lancelot groaned and went down, making a small place to sleep beside the smoldering hearth.

Outside the shuttered back window, a shadowy figure chuckled, “They seem like an old married couple, indeed! Better tell my master.” He slunk off into the darkness..

Upstairs, Arthur undressed. He supposed a bath was too much to ask. He smelled like his horse and would have loved to get some of the sweat and grime off his body, but at least he had a bad. Slipping out of his shirt, his breeches, Arthur was once more confronted with the soft, roundness of his body. During the day, as long as he was away from people, he didn’t feel so conscious of everything. In fact, riding along on his horse, lost in thought or examining the trail, he rather felt like himself again.

But now, feeling his chest sway, the cold air eliciting an embarrassing tightening, once more he was brought fully into this new shape, and he climbed under the covers feeling awkward, unbalanced, and egregiously annoyed as his sensitive new body was, and especially his chest, which seemed to react to everything they brushed against. Finally, he put his shirt back on, smelly as it was, because it at least had provided some-- comfort?

Arthur closed his eyes and breathed. God, help me.

Gradually, he drifted off to sleep.

In the murky blue haze of diffused light that just proceeds light of just precedes dawn, Lancelot woke to the feeling of cold steel at his throat. In a flash, he’d knocked the blade from the hand of the man who’d held it, bashed him in the face and sent him reeling across the tables. Three more men circled, these armed with knobby cudgels. “You may take one of us,” one of the men said. “But can you take all three of us?”

“Easily,” Lancelot said, grabbing one of the chairs, smashing it and brandishing a chair leg as the man circled. “You do know I am Lancelot? THE Lancelot?” Lancelot had to keep turning. They men were trying to get one of them behind him, out of his line of sight.

“Aye, we heard of your boasting,” the man said. “But I suspect your skull will break just like any man’s.”

“If you could land a blow,” Lancelot said. “Which I rather doubt.” With that he spun and kicked the man who’d been closest to behind him in the belly, swung his cudgel down on the head of another that had made an unfortunate decision to go after Lancelot’s legs and punched the third hard in the face.

Lancelot stood in the center of the floor, the three men already cowed by their rapid beating, holding various aching body parts.  “Should I beat you down further until no teeth remain in your skull, or do you want to scurry now? Lancelot said.

“Nah,” the man said. “I have a better idea. Meet my friends!”

The front door opened. The shutters. Lancelot could see the tavern was surrounded-- forty men or more. Lancelot dropped his chair leg. Everyone seemed to sigh with relief. Then, he picked up two of the dropped cudgels. “Shall we?”

“You can’t be serious?” The leader said.

“I’m not serious. I’m Lancelot. Do your worst.” Indeed, Lancelot felt he had no choice. Upstairs was a king and a lady he was sworn to protect. He had no idea of their attentions, but if these rude rustics were to find out that Arthur was a lovely woman, well, Lancelot had heard stories that some of these country folk could be quite brutish.

“Well, men, let him have it.” The leader and his three men cleared away, but to Lancelot’s surprise the crowd did not attempt a direct assault. He watched as they loaded stones into slings.

“Christian people tell the story of David and Goliath,” the leader said. “You know how this ends. Men? At him!”

Stones whistled through the air. Lancelot ducked under one, flipped a table on its side and crouched, but then more stones were flung in from the windows. One struck him on the shoulder, another on the back, stinging pain. He was trapped, and there was no way out.  All he could do was hold out long enough for Arthur to…

He heard a scream. A woman’s scream. From upstairs. No. He stood, meaning to charge for the stairs, no matter the cost to himself.

The door slammed open, and he saw a man coming down the stairs. Arthur struggled helplessly in the man’s arms.

“Hold! Hold!” The man said. “This has gone too far. Let’s put a stop to this before someone gets seriously hurt.”

Arthur thrashed, once more infuriated by how small and weak he was. How dare this man treat him this way? Wearing only his shirt, he was scandalized to have all these men see his long, bare legs. Worse, he hadn’t buttoned the shirt all the way up when he’d gone to bed, and he could feel cool air against the top of his maiden breast.

“Let go of--” there was no use denying it. “The girl.”

The man pushed Arthur down to the bottom of the stairs. He saw all the local village folk gawking at him, letting their eyes rise up those long legs, linger on his chest and face, then back down. The looks in the men’s eyes were more than appreciative, as some had the manner of a hungry wolf that he just found dinner.

To Arthur, having men look at him like that was a punch in the gut; he felt afraid, and he felt ashamed. He stopped struggling. It only made him feel more pathetic.

“I’ll let her go once you have given me assurances that the violence has come to an end.”

“It was your men who started it.”

“Well, let’s sit down and talk peaceably.”

“These men clear out. We talk.”

“Very well.” The man nodded. The villagers left.

“You start and end hostilities without reason,” Lancelot said. “I do not know what to think of a man whose decisions are so erratic.”

The man did not answer, but let go of Arthur. “Young lady, I am sorry for the rough treatment. You can go back to your room while we talk.”

Arthur had had enough. He felt the need to assert himself. As a man. “I’m staying,” Arthur said.

“Are you sure?” Lancelot asked, remembering Arthur’s previous desire to keep-- all that-- a secret.

“I am sure,” Arthur said, pulling his shirt closed, buttoning it up.

Lancelot uprighted his table. Found a couple chairs. The three sat down. “Well, now this is a lot better,” the man said.

“Your name?” Arthur said, intending to lead the conversation.

“I am Colban,” the man said. He turned his attention to Lancelot. “I heard you were looking for me.”

“Indeed,” Lancelot said. “Though I was not expecting to be attacked.”

“I must apologize for that. You see it is forbidden on pain of death for me to practice my religion. Occasionally so-called witch hunters come abouts hoping to earn a bounty by putting my head on a stake. ”

“I see,” Lancelot said. “Well–” The two men now faced each other and spoke directly to one another as if Arthur wasn’t even there, and the King had not been ignored like this since he was a child. He seethed with resentment and rage, not least because he knew it was because he was a woman.

“Excuse me,” Arthur said, his voice cold. “It is not my friend who was looking for you, but I. You will speak to me.”

Colban looked at the young woman and frowned. “And I had heard that young ladies in the south were taught good manners.”

“I am no young lady,” Arthur declared. Then, taking a deep breath, straightening his back, he declared, “I am Arthur, King.”

Chapter 14

“So, the rumors are true,” Colban said, now looking more closely at the young woman sitting before him.

“Rumors? So quickly?” Lancelot said.

“We are druids and close to nature. Do you not think the crows gossip?” Colban tilted his head to the side as his eyes played across Arthur’s face. “What is it like?” He asked. “To be a man, a king, trapped behind such a lovely face?”

“You are impudent--” Lancelot started, but Arthur shushed him.

“I did not come here to discuss my face,” Arthur said, “but to seek your aid in finding a unicorn.”

“A unicorn? How many times have so-called Christians come up here looking for unicorn horns? I will not aid you!”

“I am not hunting it,” Arthur said. “Nor do I want its horn. I mean it no harm.”

“Then what purpose do you have?”

Arthur swallowed. “I must tame it.”

Colban starred, face blank. “Tame it?”

“It is a quest I have been given by your goddess Ceridwen if I would once more be a man.”

Colban seemed to think of this, brow furrowed. And then he unleashed a full bellied laugh that shook the timbers of the old tavern.

Lancelot clenched his fist and begged Arthur with his eyes-- let me smash some respect into this pagan fool, but Arthur shook his head. As much as part of him would have enjoyed the sight of Lancelot teaching this rude peasant a lesson, Arthur did not feel that was the way a maiden pure would handle such a situation.

When Colban stopped laughing Arthur further straightened his back, though he had not been slouching. “You earlier made mention of the manners of the south,” Arthur said, steel in his small voice. “But it seems to me it is the men of the North who lack manners and dignity.”

The smile left Colban’s face. He looked for a moment like he might get into a war of words with Arthur, but the darkness passed, and when he spoke once more his tone was conciliatory. “I did not mean offense, and my laughter was not directed at you so much, but rather just a recognition of the cleverness of the goddess Ceardwin. I mean, you must appreciate the humor, right? That you must play the maiden, should you hope to be a man?”

“I am living the irony,” Arthur said, nodding, easing the tension in his own voice. “But it does not strike me as humorous just now.”

“Well, it is said that time makes mirth of our sorrows.

“Indeed?” Arthur said. “That is a good saying. I will remember it.”

There was a pause.  They both felt they had come around to the point of the business. “Well,” Arthur said, “will you help me?”

“I’ll tell you where to find a unicorn,” Colban said. “You will locate one in Golden Hollow. I’ll draw you a map. I should probably give it to Lancelot, though, as we all know women are not good with directions.”

“You should come to court some day and regale us with your boundless hilarity,” Arthur said. “You are ever so amusing.”

“So they say,” Colban said, laughing. “Well, let me draw up that map for you.”

“Wait,” Lancelot said, unable to restrain himself any further. “Just like that? You don’t ask for anything in return, but merely agree to help?”

“Lancelot?” Arthur said.

“There is one thing,” Colban said.”But I will ask it once the map is made.”

Lancelot sat back. “Very well.”

Colban grabbed a scrap of wood from among the rubble left over from the fight and began to carve a crude map.  His hands moved quickly, with impressive dexterity, and he was clearly skilled at carving. When he finished, he turned the slab of wood over, hiding the map. “Now, as for what you can give me in return.”

“Gold. Jewels.” Arthur said. “Whatever you desire.”

Colban’s eyes softened, and he looked away, clearly struggling to find the words. “Well,” Colban finally said. ”I am a little embarrassed myself to ask it, but I have never seen a maiden so fair, with a face so utterly divine. I would like, and if this is asking too much I understand, but here, on my cheek, would you give me just a little– kiss?”

“That’s enough,” Lancelot said, standing, and this time Arthur did not stop him.

Arthur sat back, his hand going to his cheek in shock. “You cannot ask this of me. Ask me for near anything else, and it shall be yours.”

“I have no need for gold or jewels,” Colban said. “I seem to have fallen under your spell, and I do not ask this lightly.”

“Shall I take the map?” Lancelot said. “And maybe the knave’s hand as well?”

“That would be stealing,” Arthur said, almost to himself, while thinking, it would not be ladylike at all. He looked at the board, thought of his other options. Surely there was some other who knew where to find this Golden Hollow? But there was still the matter of time. He needed that unicorn. “Very well,” he said with a sigh.

“Arthur…” Lancelot said.

“Turn away,” Arthur said. “I do not wish you to see this.”

“But…”

“That is a command from your king.”

Lancelot turned away.  Arthur half stood, leaning forward, and Colban offered his cheek.  Arthur pressed his soft lips to the man’s rough cheek, then quickly pulled away.

“Truly, I thank you, milady,” Colban said, shoving the map toward Arthur who snatched it up.

“Good day to you,” Arthur said, his voice cold as ice.  Colban didn’t seem to notice, he had a dreamy, far away look in his eyes, and a blissful smile on his face.

“Let us go,” Lancelot said, putting a hand on the small of Arthur’s back and steering him up the stairs.

Back in his room, a flustered Arthur dressed, trying hard not to think about his maidenly shape and the-- kiss. As innocent as it was, it had rattled his sense of self, and more he felt troubled by how Colban had become so charmed, had fallen under the spell of Arthur’s beauty.  He had seen himself, and he knew well he’d been given a fetching female form, and yet still it seemed odd. Was there some other spell? Some wicked magic that would make men fall in love with Arthur?

The thought unnerved him, and he thought of Lancelot, and the way his friend had acted. I shall have to be cautious, Arthur thought to himself. He remembered Guinevere’s warnings about being a maiden, how different things would be for him.  As long as he was in this shape, he would have to be wary of male passion!

Yet, as Arthur dressed in manly garb, it made him feel more confident to adorn himself in his male clothes-- britches, shirt and waistcoat. The smell of sweat and stead that had offended him the night before he now embraced. Men should stink, he thought to himself. We smell of blood and grime and we love it!

Pulling on his tiny boots, which perfectly fit his dainty feet, he saw they were scuffed and dirty. Good! He thought.  Back in Camelot all was polish and refinement.  When was the last time he had gone hunting? He could scarcely recall. The nation had been at peace. There had been no wars. So, what had Arthur, King been doing? Hosting parties for visiting lords and ladies.

What had Colban said? That he must play the maiden to become the man? Well, perhaps playing the maiden would help him become more the man he once had been! He would spend less time, he resolved, when this was over, worrying about how his boots gleamed and more time wrestling in the mud!

Once dressed, Arthur met Lancelot outside where they had tied up their horses. The village folk were up and about. As Arthur emerged he saw them huddling, whispering, glancing over at him. The maidenly blush which had become his nature crept once more to his cheeks, turning them pink with shame. No doubt, word had spread through the village that this stranger was a lass, was a girl, and was also the famed King Arthur of Camelot.

“You ready?” Lancelot said, reaching for Arthur’s elbow, meaning to help him mount his horse.

“I can do it,” Arthur hissed, knowing all were watching, annoyed that Lancelot would make him seem like any silly girl who couldn’t even mount a horse without a man’s help.

Mounted, the two trotted out of town, taking the road north toward Golden Hollow. Arthur rode upright, his head high and proud, only wincing inside when he heard one of the local women say, “He is a pretty little thing, isn’t he?”

Arthur did not respond. He would handle all such matters with the grace and dignity befitting a man-- or woman-- of his station.

Once they were clear of Pittenween, riding along the narrow trail that wound out of town and up into the jagged hills, Arthur felt himself relax. Just as before, when not around people, riding in the country, he largely felt himself, despite his new body’s tendency to-- jiggle. Yet, even that passed from his awareness as they rode, and he felt once more simply Arthur, the man he’d always been.

He now had 38 days to capture the unicorn and return to Camelot. It had seemed a paltry amount of time only a day ago, but his hopes rose now as he patted the wooden map in his satchel. They had a three day ride ahead of them, and Arthur estimated a 10 day ride home. They would reach Camelot with weeks to spare! He knew right where to find the unicorn, and what could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 15

“The girl escaped,” The Huntsman said. “Or, rather, she was rescued.”

“Escaped? Rescued?” Mordred, once more masked, seethed. “How? Rescued by whom?”

Once more, the two had met near the edge of the forest.  Sunlight dappled the shadowy forest floor, and gnarled limbs stretched over their heads.

“A knight armored in white.”

“A knight?”

“I tried to fight him,” The Huntsman said. “I did, but he was too strong for me to face alone.”

Mordred looked at the man. “You do not look like you have been in a fight.”

The Huntsman looked away. “I did what I could.”

“It wasn’t enough. Go. FInd the girl. Bring her to me as agreed.”

“But the knight?”

“Your daughter is still sick, is she not?” Mordred said.

“Yes. Please, I need the potion you promised.”

“And you will have it when I have the girl. Now, I tire of the sight of you. Go.”

“Please, have mercy.”

“I did say to go, did I not, peasant?”

The Huntsman gritted his teeth, biting back his scorn. Instead, he turned and headed off back into the woods, back towards his cabin, where he would pick up the trail. What he would do when he found the girl, he did not know, for he had truly fallen under her spell.  Yet, he loved his daughter more than anything in the world, and had to find some way to save her.  Mordred headed back to see Morgana. The blasted fool, Mordred thought to himself as he walked. To have Arthur and lose her? Idiot! The thought of this mysterious knight also unnerved him. Who could it be? He had thought Arthur alone and helpless. It was not good he now had a man to protect him.

As Mordred moved through the town that surrounded Castle Camelot– the stone walled, thatch roofed cottages of the peasants– he smiled.  Street nearly deserted. Stalls empty. The few people who did move in the streets had faces covered, and moved warily to the other side of the path as any approached.  Mordred paused outside one of the homes, listening, listening…

He heard coughing from within, and he smiled.

Back in the castle, he found Morgana in her room, where she spent most of her time these days. “Well?”  She said, eyes gleaming with excitement as Mordred entered.

Mordred closed the door, then checked carefully around the balcony, wary of spies. “Arthur remains free,” he finally said.

“What? But the signal was sent. The pyre on Gallows Hill lit!”

Mordred took up the poker and jabbed into the burning wood of the fire. Sparks flew. “Yes, but only to tell me Arthur had been captured– and then rescued.”

“Rescued?”

“It seems our fair maiden has found her champion.”

“Fie!” Morgana shouted. “Champion? Who?” She went to the window and looked out across the lands of England. Arthur was out there somewhere, and she had to have her!

“I know not. I sent that woodland fool back out with orders to bring the girl to me. He knows his daughter’s life lies in the balance.” Mordred threw a fresh log on the fire. “You have no idea how horribly that fool smells,” he said. “There are no animals that smell worse, I would wager.”

“Who cares about his smell?” Morgana said. “I am more concerned that you have chosen a fool! How can you be so nonchalant about this? This is your chance to be king!  Ruler of all England.”

In truth, Mordred was not sure he did want to be king. It seemed a rather dreary life from what he’d seen.  Yet, his disdain for Arthur was great enough that he would take the throne merely to see Arthur thrown down.  He yawned, unable, however, to hide his disinterest in his mother’s drama.

“You would yawn?”

“The plan proceeds, dear mother. The whole of Camelot falls to the plague you conjured. Lowbottom already whispers lies, spreading the word it comes as punishment for having a false queen on the throne. He goes from home to home to pray with the afflicted, each time repeating the same falsehood.. The people will turn on Guinevere. And as for Arthur, we know in the end he returns to Camelot. If he evades us now, we simply capture him upon his return. Soon enough, you will have your doll and play dress up with him as you please.”

“Do not underestimate her,” Morgana said.

“Calm, mother, calm.”

“I will not have this opportunity slip through my fingers,” Morgana said. “You shall be king, and Arthur will spend the rest of her life in dresses!”

Mordred left without further chat. He wanted to drink, and there was a comely wench down at the tavern he’d longed to “converse” with. He’d decided to have as much fun as he could now, for if his mother’s scheme came to pass, he would be king soon and far less free to be Mordred.

The road once more rose into the mountains– twisting and narrow, sheer cliffs of dark granite rising on either side. The road made Lancelot nervous. There would be no evading any brigands on this path, nor any pursuers. They would need to fight. Arthur rode in front. Lancelot did not like allowing a lady to take the lead, but nor did he wish to have a woman riding behind him, where he could not keep his on her.

Him, he tried to remind himself, his eyes falling to Arthur’s long, slender neck. I must remember this is Arthur and not a mere damoiselle. And yet his mind went back to the events of the night before, how helpless Arthur had looked held firm in the arms of his captor, struggling, his pretty face a mask of need, calling to Lancelot- save me!

Few things inflamed the passions of Lancelot like a helpless maiden in need! Even dressed as a boy, Arthur’s fine shape was not utterly hidden, and looking upon his narrow shoulders, Lancelot began to undress Arthur in his imagination, seeing the shirt slide off those soft, round shoulders, revealing the dramatic rush to a delicate little waist…

Just then, as Lancelot found himself lost imagining the sight of Arthur;s slender, female form, Arthur glanced back over his shoulder, checking on his friend and knight. Seeing the look in Lancelot’s eyes sent a shiver through Arthur–  a shiver of ungodly pleasure! He had seen this look in the eyes of men several times since becoming a woman and it had always made him feel disgusted, but now suddenly being the intense object of this other man’s passions filled him with a strange new excitement! Blushing, Arthur quickly looked away, squeezing the leather reins with all his might, scandalized by what he felt, was feeling.

I must relate, further, dear reader, that Arthur had already been struggling with still more strange new feelings. Indeed, he replayed the very scene Lancelot had been dwelling upon in his mind– the man’s powerful hands gripping his arms, the feeling of being so small and powerless– helpless!

But now, he felt an odd– thrill? Excitement? Attraction? The thought of being so small and helpless, totally at the mercy of a man now seemed– delicious to him, or at least a part of him.  The old Arthur felt only rage and disgust!  How odd, he mused, to feel such an unnatural pleasure at the idea of being captured and– well– rescued.  He remember meeting Lancelot’s eyes as he was forced down the stairs, seeing all the manly strength there and knowing he was safe, that Lancelot would save him.

It had been at that moment, as his heart had quickened and warmed, that he stole the glance back at Lancelot and seen such hunger in the man’s eyes the maiden in Arthur has bloomed brightly.

Terrified of their feelings, Arthur and Lancelot did what all good Christians must do at such times, and turned their minds to prayer, and their thoughts to God, asking his forgiveness and to relieve them of their sinful thoughts!

Near sundown, they reached the first of the landmarks on the map Colban had given them– Sidhe Springs. A narrow side branch led down to a large shelf, where steam rose from the milky surface of a series of pools, surrounded by bushes of holly, green with their bright red berries. “We should camp down there tonight,” Lancelot said.

Arthur almost said- yes, dear, but the utterly feminine nature of the response shocked him and he stopped himself. Truly, he found himself more and more thinking like a woman, and suddenly he now discovered he liked it when Lancelot took charge and made the decisions for them. Resisting the urge to smile and agree with the man, Arthur instead said– “It will grant us greater visibility.  And, a flat surface to sleep upon.”

With that, Arthur dismounted and carefully led his horse down the trail. Lancelot followed. The two of them set up their small camp, risked a fire, as the mountains in the north grow most cold in the winter, and then sat, eating their dry rations. Lancelot, meanwhile, faced a new dilemma, one that went beyond his growing amorous feelings for King Arthur. The truth was, Arthur had grown– stank? The small was quite unpleasant, and after spending the whole day riding in  Arthur’s wake, Lancelot did not think he could stand another moment.

Here were the springs. Why not bathe? Were Arthur yet a man, Lancelot would have simply told him he stank, and after some back and forth, they would have jumped into the pools. But, Arthur was now a lady, and Lancelot did not know how to tell a woman she smelled awful. The fact this woman was Arthur did cause him to consider merely making the suggestion, but Arthur seemed more and more the woman his body indicated, and as such he was likely very emotional. Lancelot would not risk upsetting her.

“The pools look warm and inviting,” he said. “I wouldn’t doubt they have some curative powers, as such pools always seem to, don’t they?”

Arthur glanced longingly at the steam rising from the nearest pool. It was more the warmth that drew him, as he had decided smelling terrible was a sign of his masculinity. Yet, given the way Lancelot had been looking at him and his own seething passions, the thought of getting naked in this body in the vicinity of any man, let alone Lancelot, made him– uneasy. His dear wife’s warnings about men echoed in his mind.  “I am sure they do,” Arthur said. “But, perhaps they are also cursed?  They are, after all, named for the Sidhe.”

Blast! Lancelot thought as at just that moment a breeze slammed him in the face with Arthur’s horrific odor. So awful was it, his face pruned into a grimace of pain.

“What is it?” Arthur said, alarmed by his friend’s sudden pain.

“Nothing. Nothing,” Lancelot said. “Just a cramp from riding all day.”

Arthur sensed the lie. “No. What? Tell me. Maybe I can help.” Do I sound like a woman, offering to help? Arthur wondered. It seems feminine, maybe I should mock him?

Another breeze, and Lancelot struggled not to vomit, covering his mouth with one hand.

Arthur, now utterly confused on what would be the manly response, leaned back. “If you are going to vomit, please do so far from camp.”

Another breeze, and Lancelot doubled over in pain, the stench was so great. The horses, tethered nearby by, whinied in annoyance.

Arthur started to get up and go to him, offering comfort, but was he being a woman? And what if Lancelot took it the wrong way and tried to kiss him? Vexed, Arthur froze, his hands clasped at his chest. “I don’t know what to do,” he finally confessed.

“Take a bath!” Lancelot shouted, unable to contain himself as he stood and at least moved down wind of Arthur. “I am sorry to say, but you smell like a pig sty gone bad!”

Arthur took a step back in shock. “But, that is part of being a man. We eat and drink, fight and stink!”

“Then, please,” Lancelot said, “and I say this with both love for my good friend and desperation on the part of my nostrils, be a lady!”

Finally, Arthur, assessing the entirety of the situation, couldn’t help but laugh. “Is it really that bad?”

“Worse than you can imagine,” Lancelot said, laughing now as well.

“Why didn’t you just say something?”

“I didn’t want to offend you, since you’re… um…”

“A lady? Lancelot, please, you mustn’t think of me as a lady.” Without realizing it, however, Arthur planted one hand on his round hip, while running the other over his short hair in a classically feminine manner. “I am still Arthur.”

“Of course,” Lancelot said. “I was being a fool.”

“I will bathe,” Arthur said, his concerns about Lancelot’s manly passions making his head buzz with concern. He decided now he had no choice but to play the lady. “But you mustn’t look.”

“Of course not,” Lancelot said.

“Not even a peek,” Arthur insisted, now with both hands planted on his hips, in a classic pose of feminine resolve.

“I will sit behind this holly bush,” Lancelot said, “and do my nightly prayers.”

“Very well.” Arthur did not have to wonder at how he was so nervous about disrobing even in the presence of a man. He had seen himself, and he knew he was now very beautiful. For now, the days when he and the other men would leap into a lake and bathe together were gone.  Making his way over to a pool, checking the sight lines to make sure Lancelot could not see from behind the bush, Arthur began to unbutton his shirt. More than eliminating the smell, he longed for warmth. He’d felt cold since the time he’d become a girl, and it was even worse up here in the mountains.  Soaking for a bit in a nice, hot spring would be most welcome.

Lancelot sat behind the bush, his back to Arthur. He was not praying.  In spite of his best intentions, he was eagerly imagining what Arthur looked like as he slowly removed his clothes, revealing that exquisite shape. It took all his willpower to fight against the urge to take a glimpse.

Chapter 16

In which Lancelot’s will doth fail.

We return to the scene of Lancelot, hiding behind a bush of holly, as Arthur prepared to disrobe and bathe himself in the steaming waters of the spring. Lancelot, we will remember, had suggested to Arthur he intended to perform his evening prayers in order to occupy his mind.  If only he had, perhaps the good Lord would have given Lancelot the strength he needed to control his curiosity. Lancelot, instead, had chosen to rely on willpower, and when has a man’s willpower ever won out over the heat in his loins?

“I’ll hate myself for this,” Lancelot mumbled as he turned and positioned himself to get a glimpse of this fairest of the fair maidens. Arthur, his back turned to Lancelot’s position, approached the edge of the spring. He hesitated, then pulled up one pant leg, revealing his dainty ankle, rounded calf, and then he stretched out his long leg, just dipping his toe into the green, luminescent waters.  The glimpse of ankle was alone enough to make Lancelot tremble, and Arthur now began to unbutton his shirt. “Turn away,” Lancelot mumbled to himself.”Turn away.”

Arthur opened his shirt and slipped it off his small, round shoulders, letting it drift to the ground at his feet. Lancelot could now see the length of Arthur’s back– the pretty little shoulder blades, the curve of his ribcage tapering to his tiny waist, his skin quickly taking on a soft pink color in the silvery light of the rising moon.

Chilled, Arthur shivered slightly, and Lancelot could only imagine the pleasing tremors that sent through his body, and then with urgency he began to undo his trousers, wiggling his hips side to side as he pulled them down, revealing that perfect body. With one arm clearly across his chest, one out to the side, Arthur stepped into the spring, the steam swirling around him, his movements caution and dainty as any maiden.

He glanced back.

Over his shoulder.

A sudden move, like a doe sensing danger.

Lancelot ducked, terrified Arthur should realize his best friend was breaking his word and not just looking, but staring. He crouched down behind the holly. That’s it. I will not look again! He insisted.

But, alas, Lancelot had no choice. He simply had to see! This time, hoping to be more discreet, he stayed low, pushing aside the branches of the bush, creating a gap through which he could enjoy the view of this most beautiful of all women. The sun had plunged behind a towering mountain peak, it’s rays blazing upward like a great fire.

Arthur could now be seen only in silhouette- he’d turned to the side. Lancelot saw the maiden silhouette, and then Arthur dipped his head into the waters, then flung it back, lifting his arms, running his hands over his short hair, thrusting his chest forward, his hips back.

Lancelot bit his lip and trembled with desire! He had no choice now. He felt himself losing control, and he turned and fell to his knees, and he began to pray fervently for the strength to control his desires for the maiden Arthur.

It seemed to be working. He felt his lust lessening, his resolve strengthening.

Then, he heard Arthur call out in a softer, higher voice: “Lancelot?”

There was need in that voice, and Lancelot felt elation– and doom. Oh, God, he thought, Arthur is giving in to his maidenly needs! He calls for me! But, no! I must be strong.

“Lancelot?” Arthur called again, his soft voice more urgent. “I need you.”

“No!” Lancelot shouted. “We cannot consummate our love!”

“Lancelot!” Arthur screamed. “I need you now!”

Wait, Lancelot realized. Those do not sound like the calls of a passionate maiden. They sound like—? He stood. Arthur was in the middle of the pool, water up to his shoulders. Around the pool, Lancelot saw the stalking shapes of “Barghest!” He yelled, leaping over the bush, rushing to grab his sword.

The dire black wolves, who’d been so eagerly looking forward to a quick bite of what appeared a helpless girl, now growled, circling around Lancelot. Even in the darkness, he could see them bar their haggard and bloodstained fangs.

Lancelot brandished his sword. “Run!” He shouted to Arthur.”Run! I will hold them off.”

The barghest hunted in packs and worked together with an almost supernatural precision. They circled their prey and baited them with lunches and snarls, all the while working to get a clean shot at their back. They could sense Lancelot was a strong one, and they circled and baited, circled and baited, knowing he would eventually tire, make a mistake, and they would pounce.

“Lancelot!” Arthur cried out, but no longer for help. Now, he feared for the life of his friend. The barghest had forgotten about him, so he began to make his way toward the edge of the pool, where he’d dropped his gear. He had one arm across his breasts, and he used his other hand to hide his maidenhead as the rose from the waters. As much as he may have looked a bashful maiden, he was more a shamed man. Yet, his friend in peril, he stood, dripping, trying to figure out what to do.

Finally, he grabbed his shirt and coat, and held them against his body, then, grabbing one of his short swords, he sent it spinning through the air at a barghest that had just leapt toward Lancelot’s shoulder. The blade hit and hacked deep, the wolf-beast whining and mewling, rolling across the snow, leaving a trail of blood.

Fool girl, Lancelot thought. Why won’t she let me protect her? Yet, he saw Arthur grab his second short sword and begin to move, counter to the barghest’ circling. Lancelot, intuitively knew what Arthur was doing, and he began to circle with them.

Confusion now reigned among the barghest  as they found themselves circled. Lancelot took advantage as one of the wolves had fixed on Arthur, leaping forth to deliver a spine crushing blow to its back, the wolf immediately collapsing, paralyzed. Lancelot attempted to leap back, out of reach of any attack, but instantly saw a wolf rise up out of the darkness, leaping at his face. He raised an arm, and the wolf latched on, its great maw piercing the hard steel of his armor and cutting into his flesh.

“Lance!” Arthur cried out, but he had his own problems as two of the wolves now hectored him, coming at him from either side. Arthur, no longer concerned about hiding his body, waved his shirt and coat like a bullfighter, and one of the wolves leapt for them, shredding them with his claws, while the other lunged, only to find himself impaled on Arthur’s sword.

Lancelot, meanwhile, finding a wolf attached to his arm, began to swing it about like a great club, bashing away the barghest, keeping them at bay. He could feel warm blood flowing down his arm.

Arthur, freeing his blade from the skull of the wolf he killed, now took up position with Lancelot, the two of them back to back, blades flashing in the moonlight.

The biggest of the barghest growled and growled again. The barghest began to back away. What had looked like an easy meal had turned into something much less appetizing. With a final growl of command, they turned and ran off into the darkness.

The wolf on Lancelot’s arm still lived, thrashing and struggling to free itself. Lancelot sank to one knee, exhausted, meaning to kill it, trying to find an angle with his longsword. Then, Arthur appeared, plunging his sword into the wolf’s skull.

“Are you okay?” He said, voice full of feminine concern.

“I am—” Lancelot’s eyes fell to Arthur soft’s shoulders. The tattered rags he held in front of himself could not fully cover the soft roundness of his chest and in spite of himself Lancelot’s eyes fell there.

Arthur stepped back. “Lancelot!” He said, scandalized, ashamed.

“Please dress,” Lancelot said, his voice gruff. “I will dislodge my new friend.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, sensing once more that as long as he was a woman, things between them would always be– awkward. He backed away, not wanting to give Lancelot a glimpse of his back, and he went to gather his clothes.

Lancelot began to pry at the wolf’s jaws, straining until they popped free, and then he kicked the foul beast away from him. Arthur, meanwhile, pulled on his trousers, then his tattered shirt and coat. He could feel cool air against his body, and the tears now left glimpses of his maidenly shape visible. Cursing, he once more put an arm demurely across his chest and returned to his wounded friend.

Lancelot had pulled off the armor from his arm. The wounds didn’t look too deep, but they bled freely. Arthur knelt next to Lancelot. “For the love of God. We must clean the wound and staunch the bleeding,” he said.

“I’ll just bandage it,” Lancelot said, the presence of Arthur now doubly disturbing. “The wounds are not deep.”

“The barghest are filthy and unclean,” Arthur said. “ The wound will grow infected. I have some tonics in my bag. Just sit still. I will be right back.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Just stay there,” Arthur insisted.

Lancelot closed his eyes and prayed for strength. Arthur returned, Lancelot hissing as he cleaned the wound with water from the spring, then poured on the tonics. Finally, he wrapped a strip of cloth around Lancelot’s arm, tying it tight. Lancelot was propped up, Arthur kneeling at his side. Having this little maiden fuss over him and tend his wounds only increased the torment in his heart. Arthur felt it as well. They exchanged a glance, full of yearning and gratitude, the energy between them now utterly man to woman.

Arthur’s eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. He wanted Lancelot to kiss him. He couldn’t deny it.

Lancelot saw the desire in the young woman’s eyes. Saw the way her lips parted, how she tilted back her head. He could not resist, and putting a hand to Arthur’s soft cheek, he leaned forward.

The still night air was cut to shreds by the chilling howl of a single barghest, somewhere off in the hills. Arthur and Lancelot froze at the sound, which was answered by another, and another, until the whole night filled with the howling calls of the fell beasts.

“They rally for a return,” Lancelot said. “We must flee!”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, grabbing Lancelot’s arm and helping him to his feet, the two of them relieved they had been spared the kiss that had come so close, and may have led to so much more, yet each of them aching with the need for it still.

The threat of the barghest attacking in greater numbers was sufficient to wake them from their romance, and they quickly gathered their gear, mounted their horses, and rode!

Chapter 17 (37 days)

Once more, Arthur and Lancelot rode through the narrow, twisting canyon path, only now they spurred their horses on, hoofs clattering. The baying of the barghest grew louder and louder still. Glancing back, Lancelot caught glimpses of their fell shapes, moving like shadows along the path, while still more leapt along the top of the cut in the mountain. The glance nearly cost him, as he had carelessly tugged the reins in the direction he’d glanced, and nearly drawn his horse into crashing into a sharp turn in the path. Alarmed by his horse’s neigh, he turned back just in time to avoid the collision.

“On! On!” Arthur shouted, as he saw ahead of him a split in the path, one going up and to the left, the other down and to the right. He tried to remember anything from the map, but could not recall the proper path. He started left and up, but at the last second yanked the reigns right and plunged down, down, further down.

The barghest had closed the distance on Lancelot and now snapped at the legs of his horse. He drew his sword, preparing to bat them away, following Arthur, barely noting their descent. Lancelot’s steed, brave as any, began to panic at the harrying from the barghest.

Ahead, Arthur looked up to see the monsters above, racing ahead, preparing to leap down and cut them off, pin them in from both sides. He cursed himself for failing to bring a bow. He could do nothing to stop them, but he drew his short sword and let it flash in the moonlight. “Do you wish to die?” He howled.

Lancelot could not strike at the beasts harrying his horse, nor could he turn. He could only ride , spurring his terrified horse on even as he struggled to retain control.

Looking ahead, Arthur saw the path vanish into darkness. The path seemed to vanish into the side of the mountain. A tunnel! But then he saw them, a half dozen or more of the foul beasts, gathering on a ledge above the tunnel entrance, fangs bared, mouths drooling. They prepared to pounce. Once more, Arthur had to make a choice. If he plunged ahead, even if he got past the monsters, Lancelot would be left surrounded. Even so great a knight would be torn to shreds. No. They would make their stand together!

But, even as he prepared to pull in the reins, to fight for his life, an arrow whizzed through the night, plunging into the neck of one of the barghest above the cave entrance, sending it plunging to it’s death with whimper.

Then, another and another and another! Three more fell, and the remaining beasts panicked, scattering from the exposure on the ledge. Arthur spurred ahead, plunging into the tunnel, his heart rising at his sudden good fortune. He offered up a quick prayer of thanks to his God.

The danger was not over. The tunnel soon echoed with the howling voices of the beasts, the thundering of the horses’ hooves. Arthur saw the flickering of torchlight ahead, as he got closer he saw torches atop totems, and the tunnel opened up into a large, wide cavern, dripping with stalactites. “Oh, no,” he thought, pulling on the reins, his horse rising up on its back legs.  He could not see an exit, though the back of the cave was lost in darkness and some sort of mist. Now. the beasts would surround them. The race was over, he decided, leaping from his horse.

Lancelot came thundering into the cavern, pulled up as well, looking around, assassin the situation.

Arthur gave his horse a slap, sending it running off, clear of the space he expected to be the sight of the great and possibly final battle. Lancelot, seeing what Arthur planned, dismounted as well. “We make our stand?”

“We do,” Arthur said.

They could see the glowing eyes of the pack leader at the mouth of the cave, his haggard teeth.  Behind him, the pack howled in fury, their voices echoing around the cave, which smelled of moss and damp.

“If it ends here,” Lancelot said, “I could hope to find my end with a finer– King.”

“I could not ask for a finer knight at my side, and if this is to be our end, let’s make it one for the ages!”

They waited. The barghest starred.

“Why do they wait?”

“Toying with us, I suspect,” Lancelot said.

The pack leader crept forward, placing one paw into the cavern, and then he raised his nose to the air and sniffed. Then, he put his nose to the ground and sniffed again. Head low, he backed away. The pack howled. He howled back. And then, quiet. Soundlessly, the pack turned and retreated.

“I do not feel good about this,” Arthur said, looking back toward the darkness and mist at the back of the cavern.

“What did the beast smell that cowed him so?” Lancelot said, following Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur sniffed the air, but smelled only the moss, the tang of the mist, which seemed to be spreading toward them.

Then, they heard the sound of– laughter. Like the laughter of a child.

“Who’s there?” Arthur shouted. “Show yourself!”

More laughter.

The mist now began to surround them, clouding their vision. There was a hissing sound, like serpents, and Arthur could not help but look down, unnerved by the thought of slithering snakes, poison fanged and deadly.

“Perhaps we should retrace our steps?” Lancelot said. He sensed magic, and he did not care to do battle with things which did not respond to the cut of a blade.

“Barghest…. Barghest… barghests await…” the voice taunted. “Choose your death, choose your fate.”

No doubt, Arthur thought, the pack did await them. Whatever they feared, it started and ended at the mouth of this cavern. Now completely surrounded by the mist, he decided to step forward, to plunge ahead. If only I had Excalibur, he thought, if only Merlin had come!

“Stay close,” Lancelot said, following Arthur, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Arthur could not help but feel a blush of feminine gratitude for his protector. “Show yourself!” He shouted. “What manner of fiend are you?”

“Descendant of Cain!” The creature hissed, the voice seeming to come from every direction now. “Sister to the monstrous hell-bride, herself, felled by mighty Beowulf!”

Arthur glanced at Lancelot. Could it be true? Such a creature of legend would be a fearsome foe. He continued to move forward hissing and jumping back as he felt something slither against his ankle.

Lancelot leaned down and whispered in Arthur’s ear. “Let me lead. The danger is too great.” He started to step around Arthur, but Arthur barred him with a slender arm.

“No. I will face this creature, and not cower like a girl.”

“Closer,” the Cave Hag called. “Closer.”

“I do not fear you!” Arthur shouted, striding forward with purpose.

“You should.”

A blast of wind, and the mist cleared. Arthur could now see the Daughter of Cain– she had the body of a woman, sheathed in gleaming armor, but she did not have legs. Instead a mass of tentacles spread out, writhing and twisting, their scales flashing in the flickering torchlight. She was huge, at least 10 feet tall, and in her eyes glowed an unholy light. Behind her, a great mass of treasure gleamed– gold and silver, and all manner of weapons– great swords and shields, helmets, spears and bows. Along the back of the cave hung the mummified heads of her victims.

“Lord, protect us!” Arthur whispered.

“Your God cannot save you now!” The Cave Hag howled, and all her tentacles lashed out at once. Remembering what Lancelot had taught him, Arthur dodged and darted, using his small size and quickness to dodge the attack.

Lancelot lashed with his sword at the tentacles, sparks flying as steel met scale. The blade failed, as the hard scales deflected it easily. One of the great tentacles wrapped around his midsection, and he found himself lifted off his feet.

“Lance!” Arthur shouted, ducking under one grasping limb, then rolling over another. He swung his own blades, likewise drawing no wound.

The grievous Cave Hag brought Lancelot toward her, and he neared her mouth spread, growing wider, wider, razor sharp fangs revealed. “Another head to add to my trophies!”

Lancelot gathered all his strength and swung his mighty sword in a great arc, the blade aimed at the creature’s neck. The cavern rang with the war song of hardened steel and Lancelot’s arm shook and grew numb from the impact.

The Cave Hag only laughed as one of her arms seized Lancelot’s sword hand and bent it back, sending needles of pain shooting through his shoulder. “No iron nor steel l can harm me Not bronze nor any mortal metal forged!!” The Hag sang out, once more bringing Lancelot toward her gleaming maw. “A gift from the dark lord of the shadow elves!”

Leaping. Dodging, Arthur heard her words, and tossed his swords aside. He saw Lancelot crushed within the monster’s grasp, moving closer and closer to the now grotesque face of their enemy. No. I must not allow this to happen. But what could he do against such ancient evil?

He scanned the room. Yes! Once more using his small size and quickness, he leapt to the creature’s horde and seized hold of a great crossbow. It was almost too heavy for him, but straining, using all his strength, he raised it and raised it until it pointed toward the creature’s head. His tiny arms shook, and strain as he might, he could not raise it any higher. Seeing the foul beast about to snap Lancelot’s head off, he shouted “Prepare to die, you unclean beast!”

The Cave Hag, who’d been about to bite off Lancelot’s head, turned and looked at Arthur, her tentacles growing calm. “You little fool,” she said. “Did you not hear me? Go ahead. Shoot me. I took that crossbow from the dead hands of Hrothgar, whose head hangs now in my hall.”

Lancelot watched, struggling to free himself. He could feel the hot, disgusting breath of the Cave Hag on his face. Arthur, Arthur, he thought. I have failed you.

“Pride,” Arthur said, goeth before the fall!” Now, using the weight of the crossbow, he allowed himself to drop back, the sights of the crossbow rising above the head of the beast.

“Fool girl,” The Cave Hag said with a laugh.

Arthur fired. The bolt flew true, crashing into the base of a great stalactite.

“You missed!”

Arthur, dropping the crossbow, rolled to his knees and came up grinning. “Did I?”

The Cave Hag’s face twisted in confusion, and then she looked up just in time to see the point of the stalactite right before it plunged into her face. She collapsed, instantly dead. Lancelot dropped to the hard, stone cave floor, landing with a shriek of steel.

Arthur rushed to the fallen creature to make sure it had died, and there could be no doubt. It’s head shattered, impaled by the great stone. Turning his attention to Lancelot, he ran to the knight’s side. “Are you okay?” He asked. Arthur’s leaping and dodging had left him gasping for breath, and his chest heaved.

Crashing down to the cave floor had left Lancelot stunned, his vision blurred. “I need a moment,” he said. “My head.”

“Lift your head,” Arthur said.

“It hurts, I…”

“Lift your head!” Arthur insisted, his tone like a mother scolding a child.

Lancelot lifted his head. As Arthur suspected, the hair on the back of Lancelot’s head was matted with blood. “”You’re bleeding.”

Lancelot started to rise, and Arthur pushed him back down. “Stay still. You might make the injury worse.”

“You just told me to raise my head,” Lancelot said, feeling mildly annoyed.

“That was before. Now, lay still.”

“Make up your mind, already,” Lancelot said, laying back down.

“I’m going to get something to bind the wound.” Arthur found a scrap of linen, and retrieved his tonics from his horse, who had refused to go anywhere near the creature, instead lingering near the mouth of the tunnel. Soon, Arthur once more found himself kneeling at his friend’s side, wrapping a bandage around Lancelot’s head, fretting for the health of his wounded friend.

“That should do. Now, sit and rest. Drink.” He handed Lancelot a waterskin.

“Very well,” Lancelot said, still woozy. He drank deeply.

Arthur, meanwhile, had gone to the treasure horde. It was truly a fortune worthy of a King, and yet he sought something much more humble, which he found in the form of a knight’s tabard, emblazoned with the image of a boar. Arthur’s shirt had been further torn, and it was now showing much too much of his round, maiden’s chest. He pulled the tabard over his head, the garment, which typically came to a knight’s knees, dropped to Arthur’s ankles.  Sighing, he cinched the belt, pulling it loosely around his waist.

Lancelot watched, amused. The tabard looked like a dress on Arthur’s small frame, and he looked quite adorable as he now searched among the creature’s treasure. It was a relief that he was now more modestly dressed. Lancelot had caught another glimpse of Arthur’s milky white breasts, and even stunned and bruised and battered, it had once more ignited his smoldering passions.

“The Lord smiles upon us,” Arthur said, now at the far back of the cave.

“I don’t suppose you found a unicorn back there?” Lancelot said.

“Ha! Your humor returns. No unicorn, I am afraid. But, there is another way out.”

“Very good news, indeed.”

Arthur returned to searching through the treasure, seemingly looking for something specific and not just browsing. He picked up a few things, shaking his head before tossing them aside.

Lancelot tried to stand, but his head swam and he sank back down. “What are you looking for?” Lancelot said.

“A gift for Guinevere,” Arthur said. “She would positively kill me if I didn’t bring her something pretty.”

“True,” Lancelot said. The comment summoned an image in his mind. He, standing behind Arthur, laying a glittering necklace around Arthur’s slender neck. Arthur, who in this vision wore a gossamer gown, lifted his long, flowing hair, and Lancelot fixed the clasp. Arthur turned, gazing up with wide, happy eyes, a pretty smile on his face. “It’s lovely,” he said, his fingers gently running along the chain.

“You’re lovely,” Lancelot answered in his fantasy, before pulling Arthur to him, kissing him, a long, lingering kiss that…

“This is perfect, don’t you think?” Arthur called.

Lancelot snapped out of his reverie to see Arthur holding up a delicate gold chain. It seemed the very necklace he’d been imagining. It disturbed Lancelot, the coincidence, if it was a coincidence. He almost told Arthur to put it on and let him see how it looked, but he held back the words. “Guinever will love it. I am sure.”

Chapter 18

In which Arthur does look upon diamonds with a maiden’s eyes!

Lancelot got up and went to inspect the tunnel at the back of the cave. Long and dark, but glowing light way back did suggest the tunnel would, indeed, lead them out.

While Lancelot had his back turned, Arthur grabbed a few things for himself. As he’d searched for a gift for Guinevere, his heart had fluttered at the sight of all the pretty jewelry, diamonds and rubies and emeralds glittering in the firelight. He had simply had to claim some for himself. He picked up a diamond ring and clutched it to his chest. Oh, he adored diamonds now. He simply adored them.

Arthur knew he had adopted another female trait, that he was looking on these treasures with a woman’s eyes, that he was sticking them in his pockets– that Roman Necklace would look stunning on him– he was acting with a woman’s will,  but he didn’t care. He could have spent a week going through the anklets and chokers, the brooches and ivory hair combs. It was almost enough to make him wish he had long hair again!

Lancelot, little to Arthur’s knowledge, had turned and was now silently watching the little female as she bustled and bothered, her cheeks flush with excitement as she found pretty baubles, admired them, shoved them into her pockets. Arthur found a thick silver bracelet, flashing with sapphires, and he slipped it on his wrist, then held it out to admire the way the jewels shone. His hand was bent upward at the wrist.  As he gazed at the pretty stones, he lifted one knee, flashing his brightest smile.

He looked utterly female, and thoroughly woman, and Lancelot turned away, as seeing Arthur in that delicate pose shook him to his manly core. Lord, give me strength, he prayed. That I might not seek to ravish my KIng!

“I’ll get the horses,” Arthur called, his soft voice echoing through the cave. He’d now lifted his tabard and used it to create a kind of bag where he could keep more of his precious finds, and he wanted to hide them in the saddle bags. He couldn’t have Lancelot know he’d gone diamond mad!

Relieved, Lancelot began to look through the treasure, focusing on the weapons and armor. How many died at the hands of this monster? He wondered. Hundreds of warriors over thousands of years. The tales of its defeat would be sung in halls across the land. If they told it. Lancelot did not relish the idea of the scalds singing about the time the mighty Lancelot was rescued by a maiden, even if she was King Arthur. Perhaps they could keep this story between themselves?

The mundane weapons had rusted, decayed. He attempted to draw a once fine long bow, and the string snapped even as the bow, itself, crumbled into dust.  There were, however, some enchanted items among the piles of gold and silver. The crossbow, a roman short sword, a shield emblazoned with Celtic runes.

“Find anything?” Arthur called, still blushing from his own finds.

“Enchanted weapons,” Lancelot. “I will bring them back to Camelot.”

“Be you careful,” Arthur said, voice full of feminine concern. “Enchanted objects can be dangerous.”

“Of course,” Lancelot said, resisting the urge to add, “My darling.”

They led their horses along the twisting tunnel. The light they had seen did not turn out to be an exit, but a crevice letting light seep down from above. They passed further and further before finally coming to an opening, just wide enough for their nervous horses to squeeze through. The tunnel led out into a meadow, frosted silver, the purple walls of the mighty mountains rising up above them, snow-capped peaks hidden in the clouds.

Arthur got the map out and looked around. “I don’t know where we are,” he said.

“Let me see,” Lancelot said, taking the map from Arthur’s hands without waiting for him to answer. The move vexed Arthur, and he also kind of liked Lancelot taking charge. I’m becoming such a maiden! He thought, having no idea the trials to come.

Lancelot looked at the map, back at the mountains. He pointed to a spot above and to the left of the tunnel they’d just exited. “The springs are there,” he said. “We dare not return there, so we should seek to find a passage that would meet the route further to the East.” He pointed right.

“How do you know?” Arthur said, impressed. “I mean the location of the springs?”

“I paid close attention to our movements as we fled the barghest, and then in the twisting tunnels,” Lancelot said. “I suspected we might need to retrace our steps, you see.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, impressed. “That was clever.”

Lancelot didn’t respond. His eyes were on the map. In fact, he’d just guessed. He had no more idea where they were than Arthur, but he didn’t want his little female companion to worry. “We ride East and seek another path into the mountains.”

Arthur nodded. Lancelot put the map into his saddle bags. He would be taking the lead now. Lancelot rode in front. Arthur followed. The sun was sinking behind the mountains when they came upon a narrow path that led up and up into the mountains. “We should camp and begin our ascent in the morning. The darkness falls quickly in the mountains.”

Arthur nodded. They dismounted and worked together to set up a camp. Despite the risk, they gathered wood and builty a fire. It was simply too cold. Arthur was glad the meadow provided plenty of forage for the horses, he found himself worrying over them. How long since they’d gotten a good brushing? He got up.

“Where are you going?”

“To take care of our horses,” Arthur said. “They’ve been through so much.”

Arthur found the brush and began to brush. His horse, Hengeron, whinied in delight.  The horse seemed so big now, Arthur thought, standing on his tiptoes to reach the upper back. Arthur put a hand on Hengeron’ thick, muscled shoulder. “You’re so strong,” he whispered. “Pretty boy.” Arthur found himself falling in love with his horse. He was beautiful! As a man he’d certainly respected this mighty steed, among the best in England, but as a girl? Oh, his heart would be broken if Hengeron were to get hurt!

“Will you care for Gringolet while you’re at it?” Lancelot called, studying the map  by the firelight, hoping his guess had been correct.

“Of course,” Arthur said. Don’t bother to even offer to help! He thought, but then he delighted in brushing the horses, and why make for argument? He kept his irritation to himself.

“Quite an adventure we had,” Lancelot said.

“Indeed.”

“Of course, we will want to keep the story of this quest to ourselves.”

“Why is that?” Arthur said, thinking of his heroic defeat of the monster.

“If the scalds sing of your maiden quest, the people will remember always that Arthur became a girl,” Lancelot said. “Better they should forget, lest Arthur the man is forever diminished.”

“Diminshed?” Arthur said, ceasing his brushing to turning to face Lancelot. In truth, Arthur did consider himself diminished as a female, but he didn’t like anyone else to speak it. “You think me diminished?” His voice into a shrill, feminine shriek.

Oh, no, Lancelot thought, taken aback by Arthur’s anger. “I did but mean…”

“Perhaps you needed to be reminded it was the ‘helpess’ damsel that saved the knight! If not for this girl,” he shrilled, gesturing at his body, “you would be dead!”

“If that story gets out…”

“Oh!” Arthur said, as he realized Lancelot’s true purpose. “I see through you now, Sir Lancelot.”

“Arthur…”

“You feel ashamed that you were saved by a girl! It is your reputation you wish protected, not mine!”

Lancelot found himself speechless. He raised his arms in surrender.

Arthur marched up to Lancelot and handed him the brush. “A knight does not fib!” He said sternly. “Care for your own horses.”

Lancelot, still sitting, stared up into Arthur’s furious eyes. She is pretty when she’s angry, he couldn’t help but thinking. He knew there was no point arguing with an angry girl. He got up and went to care for his horse.

Arthur sat by the fire, triumphant, crossing his arms under his breasts. “The great Lancelot,” he teased. “Saved by a girl. That will make a fine saga, indeed!”

“I shall look forward to hearing it,” Lancelot said, cringing inwardly as he brushed his horse’s flanks. Women!

Arthur bit his lip. Watching Lancelot care for his horses was making his cheeks hot. There was something about watching the big, strong man being so caring and nurturing that made Arthur swoon. Men!

The next few days, the questing pair suffered endless frustration. Trails lay over the mountains of Northumbria like a spider’s web, and they twisted and turned, trails that started heading east turned west, ones that seemed to rise turned and headed back down toward the meadow. They ran into dead ends, came to forks, and all the while Arthur counted as the days he had left to fulfill his quest dwindled from 37 all the way down to 29. His fears grew with each passing day that he would be stuck as a woman. The goddess’ words  haunted him. She had said he would end up with child. He began to wonder what it would be like to have a baby growing in his swollen belly, kicking. What would his wife think to see her husband so? What would the kingdom think to Arthur made mother.  And, who would be the father?

He glanced upon Lancelot, but no. He must not allow himself to think such thoughts!

Still, their baby, he couldn’t help but thinking, would be beautiful.

The map had shown a route from Pittenween to the unicorn, indicating different landmarks. The next one had been Fingold’s bridge, but each time they thought they had come near to it, they found themselves at another dead end.

The stress finally got to Arthur. “We’re hopelessly lost!” He cried out.  “We’ll never find the unicorn in time!”

“We will,” Lancelot said. “Have faith.”

“Faith? Look at me!” Arthur cried. “Look at what our Lord has allowed! I should just– just– return to Camelot, put on a dress and accept my doom!”

“I will not allow that fate to befall you!” Lancelot shouted, though in truth part of him had come to hope for it.

“You’re just as lost as I am!” Arthur screamed. The possibility he would live out his life as a woman terrified him, the thought of a life in gowns. “If only this had never happened! If only I had not insulted that horrible goddess!” Something broke in Arthur. He covered his face as the tears poured down his cheeks. “I don’t want to be a woman,” he sobbed. “I don’t want to have a baby!”

Seeing a woman crying cut to the heart of Lancelot’s soul. He had to comfort her.  Asking God for the strength to be right, he gathered Arthur into his arms, holding his face against his chest. “There, there,” he said. “It’ll be alright.”

Arthur let himself be held in Lancelot’s strong arms. It felt so good, and he cried himself out in Lancelot’s embrace. When the crying ceased, he leaned back, and Lancelot held his shoulders. Arthur, now slightly embarrassed by his tears, but only slightly, tilted his head back, long lashes fluttering, and said, “Thanks for putting up with me.”

Lancelot gave Arrthur’s little shoulders a squeeze. It was only by the power of his prayers that he did not even try and kiss that beautiful face. “You are my King,” Lancelot said, wanting to remind them both that what they were feeling could never be.

Lancelot! Arthur thought, his heart aching. “You are the noblest of knights.”

He stepped away, sighing. It was as it must be.

“My King, I have a thought.”

“Yes?”

“We must turn to God. Let us kneel and ask our Lord for guidance. This whole quest we have relied on human power to guide us. Let us turn now to faith.”

“Yes,” Arthur said. “Yes”

They knelt across from each other. “What prayer should be recite?” Arthur asked.

“Let us say the Lord’s Prayer. You lead, my KIng, and I will pray with you.

Arthur began to recite the prayer. It was the first time he’d said it aloud in his soft, woman’s voice. The words sounded prettier to his ears. Lancelot, a half beat behind, joined his voice to Arthur’s, his deep voice ringing in harmony with Arthhur’s crystal soprano. The sound of their voices melding shook them both, and they had never felt closer. When they finished, Arthur added, “Guide us on our quest. Lead out steps,” and then, gathering his courage, he added, “If it be thy will. Whatever fate awaits me, grant me courage and grace to accept your will for me.”

Lancelot met Arthur’s eyes and nodded. It was a good Christian prayer, giving it all over to the Lord– even should the Lord choose to keep Arthur a fair maiden.

They lingered in the tension, but then broke off, their prayer finished. As he stood, Arthur suddenly laughed and clapped.

“What is it?”

“Our prayer has been answered,” Arthur said. “I know the way.”

It took two more days, but they found the path, followed the trail, and with 27 days remaining, they came upon Golden Hollow. Surrounded by a high wall, overgrown with moss and flowering vines, the single, arched entrance was, “Blocked,” Arthur said. Thick, gnarled branches rose from the ground and covered the entrance.

Lancelot tried to hack at the branches, but his sword would not bite into them. “Magic,” he said. He went and got the enchanted blade he had found, and prepared to hack away the vines.

“Wait,” Arthur said, putting a hand to Lancelot’s arm to stay his blow. “I do not think we are meant to destroy here.” He stepped forward and said, “I have come to see the unicorn. Please allow me passage.” The branches stirred. “I am–” Arthur paused, embarrassed but feeling compelled to say the words, “I am the virgin Arthur.”

The branches parted.

“How did you know to say that?”

Arthur shrugged. “Intuition?”

They walked through the archway, side by side, into a glorious world, right out of the most fantastic painting.  Bubbling brooks rose from the ground, forming crystal pools, flowering trees and bushes, gold, blue, purple and crimson, bathed the air with the most delicious of perfumes. Despite the cold and winter outside the wall, all was green and lush, like an eternal spring.

Small voices, like children, giggled all around, and Lancelot’s hand went to the pommel of his sword. Arthur covered Lancelot’s hand with his own, preventing him from drawing his blade. “They are no threat.”

“How can you be sure?” Lancelot said, disturbed by all the signs of magic.

Arthur didn’t answer. He just knew. He walked ahead, looking for the unicorn.

“Wait,” Lancelot said. Arthur looked back to see Lancelot pressing at the air, as if against a wall.

“What is it?”

“A barrier. I cannot go further into the Hollow.”

“You aren’t a girl,” Arthur said. “Wait for me. I will return soon.”

“Be careful!” Lancelot cried. “There is magic here!”

“I’ll be careful,” Arthur assured him. Yes, there was magic here, but it was good magic. He could feel it. Walking further into Golden Hollow, Arthur couldn’t help but delight in the beauty of the place, the delicious fragrance! And, so many flowers! He’d never seen a unicorn, and even if his manhood hadn’t been in the balance, he’d have been excited, and he was, his heart racing.

He made his way among the flowers, admired ancient, moss–covered  statues of fawns and nymphs, all the while the children’s voices giggling and whispering in words he did not understand. Slogging through a small brook, his boots covered in mud, he saw a gnoll all covered in dandelions, and somehow he knew.

Arthur climbed the gnoll, and when he reached the top he gasped, his hand to his heart. The Unicorn! It stood there, majestic, next to a small pool, and Arthur’s knees grew weak. He’d never seen anything so beautiful, and his love swelled, 1000 times what he’d felt for his dear steed. Pure white, it tossed it’s long, thick tail, and its long, hard horn shone in the sun,

I must have him! Arthur thought as he started to make his way around the pool, his heart now thudding in his chest. The unicorn now acknowledged Arthur, looking directly at him, and Arthur, meeting those icy blue eyes, seeing those long, curly lashes, fell even deeper in love. “You’re so beautiful,” Arthur said, drawing closer. He wanted to touch him. He needed to touch him!

“What’s your name?” Arthur asked in a shy voice, as he reached his slender hand toward the unicorn’s neck.

The unicorn whinied and reared, then ran off, down the hill, followed by laughter from the children’s voices.

“Damn!” Arthur said.  He followed, the ache to touch the beautiful growing stronger. The unicorn now stood among a ring of bushes sporting pretty pink flowers in full bloom. Arthur followed. “It’s okay,” he said, softening his voice. “It’s okay. I don’t want to hurt you.” The unicorn simply watched him, fixing him in those pretty eyes.

How does a girl capture a unicorn? Arthur wondered. “Good boy,” he said, inching closer. “Good boy.”

Once more, as soon as he sought to touch the unicorn, it fled, and Arthur found himself surrounded by laughter. Three more times, Arthur attempted to approach the unicorn, and three more times it fled. The last time, Arthur lost his patience and stomped one little foot, shouting, “I’m a damn virgin! You’re supposed to come to me!”

Once more, there was uproarious laughter.

“Where are you?” Arthur said. It was bad enough that a maddening, gorgeous unicorn was playing ‘chase me,’ but he would not be laughed at as well. “Show yourself!”

Like a cloud, the pixies rose from the bushes, all looking like miniature women in short dresses, wings flapping. They flew around Arthur, giggling, covering their mouths with their tiny hands.

They were all so pretty, and Arthur instantly adored them, despite their rude laughter. “Pixies!” He cried. It was another wonder he had never seen or expected to see! Guinevere, who had many paintings of pixies and had always hoped to see one, would be so jealous.

“You’ll never win the unicorn’s heart,” one of the pixies said, a golden haired little thing in a green dress. “I’m Spring, by the way.”

“Spring,” Arthur said, admiring her radiant skin. “But why not? I am— I’m—” Admitting his virginity to these pretty, female creatures seemed shameful.

“A virgin?” Spring giggled. “We know. Everyone in Golden Hollow heard you!” All the other pixies giggled, repeating, “virgin” in a babble of pretty voices.

“I am a virgin,” Arthur said, chagrined. “I thought unicorns?”

“Not enough!” Spring said.

“Not enough!  Not enough!” The pixies sang.

“What then?”

“Hmmmn….” Spring said, flying around him, assessing. She came back around to face him, holding her palm toward him and making small circles. “You need to change…everything.”

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Clearly.”

“Clearly…  Clearly..”

Spring flew down and sat on Arthur’s shoulder. “The unicorn’s heart can only be won by a beautiful lady,” she said. “You could be pretty if you wanted, I mean, but dressed like a boy? With that haircut?”

“No,” the pixies all agreed. “No!”

“So, what do I need to do, then?” Arthur asked, not understanding, perhaps, not wanting to understand.

“I just told you!” Spring then flew up into the air and began to sing, joined by her pixies friends:

A lovely dress, a pretty gown,

A lady she must never frown

Soft slippers and silken hair

For the unicorn a lady fair!

Sparkling earrings and I suggest

She must never look a mess

When with jewels she is adorned

Only then will she capture the unicorn!

With that, she waved her hands, and magic began to swirl about Arthur, his clothes changing as he found himself, suddenly wearing a silken dress of white, while his midsection felt like it was being crushed. He looked down at himself in shock, seeing the dress spread out beneath his slender waist. He could feel his long hair now ticking his neck. He felt humiliated, dressed in a gown in front of these pretty little female pixies. “I have to wear this?” He gasped, finding it hard to breathe, putting his hand gingerly to his tiny waist, feeling something hard underneath his dress.

“Yes,” Spring said, “you must be lovely to win the unicorn!” With that, the illusion faded, and Arthur found himself once more in his ratty boy clothes and man’s tabard. Spring rested her chin on her hand, crossed her legs and once more made a circular gesture toward Arthur’s body. “You need to make yourself pretty.”

“Pretty?” Arthur abhorred the word when applied to him. “Is there no other way?”

“Not if you want the unicorn to love you,” Spring said. “And I can tell you do. I know the look of a smitten maid!”

“Yes, fine,” Arthur said, biting his thumb. His mind filled with worry, and he spoke his worries out loud. “Where am I supposed to find a dress?”

“The elves,” Spring said. “They do the loveliest stitch work!”

“Oh, and the fabrics!” One chimed in, as the pixies all began to gush about how pretty and perfect the elves made their clothes.

“Can you tell me where to find the elves?” Arthur said, resigned to the fact he would need to “make himself pretty” in order to once more be a man.

“Better!” Spring said. “I’ll show you. I always wanted to help a damsel in distress!”

“Wonderful,” Arthur, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Arthur returned to Lancelot, Spring buzzing around him, the pixies following, giggling. “Let’s go,” Arthur said, walking by Lancelot and grabbing his horse’s reins.

“Where are we going?” Lancelot said, mind racing with questions even as he stared in wonder at the little pixies.

“To find a dress,” Arthur said as he climbed onto his horse. “And make myself pretty.”

Chapter 19

The little pixie, Spring, had assured Arthur that Snowfall Wood, where Reagenette, queen of the Frost Elves, reigned from her throne of ice was a mere three days away. Six days, there and back, plus the 10 days journey from Golden Hollow back to Camelot, and that still left him 13 days leeway. No need to worry, he told himself, repeatedly. All would be fine. All he needed was to find a dress and get pretty, and he would be a man again.

Lancelot did not like the idea of entering into another enchanted realm, particularly one inhibited by elves. “They are mischievous creatures,” he cautioned Arthur as they rode. “Playing pranks on mortals.”

“Well, do you know somewhere else up in these mountains I can find myself a dress?” Arthur asked. He did not relish the notion of wearing a dress. He’d only worn one briefly, his first day as a lass, and it had been– unmanly, to say the least. He’d sworn he’d never wear another, and now it seemed he would have no choice. He would ask Reagenette for a practical, everyday dress, such as his wife wore about the castle, he decided. It would be little different than wearing a robe. Yes, that would do. Certainly, that would do.

The next three days may have been the hardest and most trying of their entire journey. Spring chattered incessantly, sometimes telling long, pointless stories that seemed to have no purpose, nor a beginning or end, then suddenly seeing a birch or any other tree she would shriek and go into a long story about how she remembered when it was but an acorn, and then it became a sprout, and then…” She chattered on and on.

“Pardon me,” at one point Lancelot interrupted, his ears aching. “Could you stop your prattling? My ears cannot take it.”

Spring hovered in the air, putting her fist to her chin and frowning as if deep in thought. Then she smiled and did a loop de loop. “I cannot!” She declared. “I am a pixie!”

“She is a pixie,” Arthur said. “And our guide. Prattle on, Spring. Prattle on.”

As they rode, Arthur found his thoughts turning again and again to the unicorn. The unicorn was so majestic, so strong and yet so lovely. Arthur’s heart fluttered each time he pictured that noble creature in his mind, and he found himself consumed with a longing he could not fathom. Those pretty eyes, and that powerful horn! Arthur’s need transcended his quest. He longed to have the unicorn under his power, to tame that wild stallion.

After three days of suffering, they came at last to the grand gates of Snowfall Wood, their surface carved in elvish runes. “What now?” Arthur said.

“Maybe you should announce your virginity,” Lancelot said, drawing a cross look of annoyance from Arthur. “It worked before!”

“Men!” Spring said, articulating Arthur’s thoughts. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll speak to the guards.” She flittered up and over the gates.

Arthur and Lancelot waited, their horses pawing at the ground. Then, the gates began to swing open, and there was a blast of trumpets. A single elf stood inside the gates, dressed in furs and leather. He was stunningly handsome, Arthur couldn’t help but notice, tall and lean, with the most remarkable cheek bones.

“Lady Arthur,” he said with a bow at the waist. “Welcome to Snowfall Wood, milady, Queen Reagenette has granted you an audience. I am Mafine. Please follow me.”

Arthur cringed to be called lady, then referred to as milady, but he was here to ask a favor, and it seemed best not to correct his hosts. They followed Mafine through the woodland realm of the elves, Lancelot and Arthur both staring in wonder and awe. The elves’ homes were built above them among the branches in the trees, and there were bridges connecting them. Delightful little cottages, each one had the prettiest shutters and ginger-bread adornments.  On the the ground level where Arthur and Lancelot rode, all manner of shops and smithies. Just as Golden Hollow effused endless spring, Snowfall Wood seemed a perfect winter day, the whole town dappled in pure, white snow, and all along the path stood little forest creatures sculpted of snow, by the children, Arthur supposed, many of whom ran along besides them as they approached what had to be Reagenette’s Palace.

The palace took Arthur’s breath away– spires and towers that soared into the air, all encrusted in ice that sparkled in the soft, winter sun. They left their horses in the care of young elves, who took the reins and led them off, as Arthur walked into the gorgeous hall, marveling at the white marble, the lovely paintings and sculptures. “Isn’t it lovely?” Arthur said, breathlessly.

“I have never seen such beauty,” Lancelot answered, amazed.

Two footmen, each as gorgeous as Mafine, pulled the doors to the throne room open. “Presenting the Lady Arthur,” a tall, female elf in long, woolen robes, a thick gold chain around her neck. “And her valet.”

“Valet?” Lancelot said.

“Hush,” Arthur said, entering the grand throne room, which put the hall to shame in its opulence. Arthur, though, paid little attention to the room, for his eyes were now drawn and fixed upon Queen Reagenette, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen!

Her beauty cannot truly be described with any other word but ineffable. It was not merely her tall, perfect figure, nor her delicate features, nor her bright skin. Indeed, she seemed to glow, and part of her unearthly beauty emanated from a bright, silvery aura that shimmered around her, and her air of unshakable confidence and power.

Spring knelt at her feet, gazing up at her in delight.

Arthur froze, stunned by her presence.

“Come, come,” Reagenette said, her voice mellifluous, soothing and as gorgeous as the rest of her.

Arthur approached, Lancelot trailing behind, equally smitten with this elvish Queen. When Arthur reached the foot of the dias upon which her throne rested, he instinctively knely and bowed his head. Lancelot followed suit. “Queen Reagenette,” he said.

“Rise, Lady Arthur,” Reagennette said. “I welcome one so famous to my court, and please tell me what brings you to my realm.”

Arthur stood, fighting the urge to correct her, to remind her he was King Arthur, but he dared not. He had come to ask her aid. “I am on a quest to tame a unicorn,” he said, softly, in a near whisper, his eyes dropping down and away. “And I come to ask for your help.”

“It is my wish to grant it,” Reagenette said. “I desire to make friends with you, Lady. Now, tell me how I may aid you.”

She’s going to make me say it, Arthur realized. The throne room was crowded with dozens of courtiers, all watching intently.  “I need a dress,” he said, still in his soft whisper. “I need a dress, and to be made– pretty.”

The laughter he had feared did not come, but the dead silence shook him nonetheless. What has become of the great Arthur, he wondered, that he finds himself begging for a dress to wear?.

“Look at me,” Reagenette said.

Arthur looked up and met her eyes. Her beauty was such it hurt to look upon her, took all his will to look into those big, pale green eyes. Reagenette looked him up and down. “I shall make of you the loveliest girl in England,” she said.

“Loveliest girl?” Arthur said, terrified at the thought. “I–”

“The loveliest girl,” Reagenette insisted. “For anything less, and your quest will fail. The unicorn will not be tamed.”

Arthur dropped his eyes once more. “Very well,” he said.

“Belaire, Gilanderia shall be your handmaidens while you stay with us, milady. Ladies, take the Lady Arthur to her room, and assist her. And, Arthur?”

“Yes, Queen Reagenette?”

“I shall ask a favor in return.”

“Of course.”

“You will do the honor of being my guest at dinner tonight.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Belaire and Gilandria approached, each one taking Arthur by a hand, and they led him off. He looked back at Lancelot, eyes full of apprehension. Lancelot nodded and made a fist. Be brave, his gesture seemed to say, and Arthur felt his courage rise.

Lancelot watched little Arthur go, then he looked up at Reagenette. “By your leave,” he said, bowing at the waist.

“You, Sir Lancelot, will join me at dinner as well. “Daringelle,” she said. “Please take Lancelot to the guest room and help him freshen up.”

Darinelle approached, just as tall and beautiful as all the other elves. “Come along,” she said in a soft, sweet voice, slipping her arm around Lancelot’s waist and leading him away.

“With pleasure.”

Belaire and Gilandria led Arthur to a large room with a big, soft bed covered in a pink quilt embroidered with white roses. Thin, silken curtains of pink hung from the posts, and over the windows. Vases bursting with fresh, white roses crowded every corner. Arthur felt himself cringe. It was a room any woman would adore, a girl’s room, really, but he was a guest and– he had to admit, a woman. “I’ll prepare a bath,” Gilandria said, departing.

“Take off your clothes,” Balaire said.

Arthur covered his chest, overcome with modesty at the thought of undressing in front of this stunning elvish lass. “My clothes?”

Belaire laughed and touched his cheek. “Silly girl.” She pointed toward a three fold screen. “There’s a dressing gown there for you.”

‘Oh! Of course,” Arthur said. He headed behind the screen. “I am not really a girl, you know,” he said as he stripped, leaving his clothes in a pile at his dainty feet. He looked at the gown– diaphanous and pink, with more white roses. Surely they could offer him something less– feminine?

Belaire poked her head around the screen. Arthur shrieked and covered himself with his arms. “You’re a girl,” Belaire said, laughing.

“Go away!”

Belaire withdrew. “You don’t have anything I haven’t looked upon before.”

“It’s not proper!” Arthur said. “And can you get me a less– silly– robe?”

“That is the gown Queen Reagenette selected for you,” Belaire said, her voice full of amusement. “Shall I tell her you refuse her gift?”

Arthur sighed. “No,” he said. He picked up the gown with the tips of his fingers, holding it away from himself at arm’s length, as if were a skunk. He remembered Lancelot’s warning about elves and their mischief. Truly, it seemed this Queen meant to unman him, make a mockery of him. But what choice did he have? He lifted the robe over his head and pulled it down, the material seeming to cling to his new shape, the hem swirling about his ankles.

He stepped out from behind the screen, arms folded across his chest, cheeks blushing with shame.

“So pretty!” Belaire said.

“Will you stop with this condescension!” Arthur said, his temper flaring.. “I am King Arthur,” he shouted, “and I will be treated with respect!”

Belaire slit her eyes. “I am Princess Belaire,” she said, “and I will not be shouted at!”

The two stared at each other, a testing of the wills. Arthur, to his shame looked away first.

“Come,” Belaire said. “Your bath should be ready.”

Arthur followed.

“And, please remember, a lady does not raise her voice.”

‘I’m not a lady,” Arthur hissed.

“You better start acting like one,” Belaire said, “if you hope to tame a unicorn.”

She led Arthur to a stone chamber. Gilandria knelt by the bath, which had been cut into the stone floor. Flower petals floated on the surface, and the air smelled of fragrant oils. Looking up at Arthur, she said, “So pretty!”

Arthur sighed. There was no use fighting it. “My thanks,” he said, voice full of vinegar.

“She’s going to be a lot of work,” Gilandria said to Belaire, seemingly unbothered.

“You should have heard the trouble she gave me over her gown.”

“What? And she looks so pretty in it!”

They were talking about Arthur as if he wasn’t even there, referring to him as she and her. It made him furious, but he’d already tried to put a stop to it and failed. He resigned himself to this humiliation. He needed a dress, and these infernal elvish women were his only hope. “Some privacy?” He said.

“She’s shy,” Belaire said.

“Oh, that’s so lovely,” Gilandria said. “How sweet.”

Shy? Arthur determined to show them he was no shy, sweet maid. He pulled the gown off over his head, and tossed it aside, standing before them nude. “Do I seem shy to you now?” He said.

“You are a pretty girl,” Belaire said.

“There’s  much to work with,” Gilandria added, nodding. The both of them were looking Arthur up and down, assessing him as if he were a statue and not a man.

Huffing with exasperation, Arthur stepped into the bath, and lowered himself into the warm, steaming waters. They were– soothing– and the fragrance delightful. He felt the scented waters drawing all the tension from his body, and he sighed with pleasure. Truly, he had never enjoyed a bath this much, and he quickly felt himself drifting into a hazy place of pure pleasure.

“Soak,” Belaire said, her voice sounding like it was coming from far away. “Luxuriate.”

“We’ll get your dress ready for dinner.”

“Dress,” Arthur murmured as he found himself lifting a leg from the water, running his fingers over his oily calf. “Yes, I need a dress.”

Belaire and Gilandria left, smothering their giggles.

Drifting off to sleep in the soothing bath, Artur dreamt he was back in Golden Hollow. He wore the most delightful white dress, and he felt so pretty. He plucked at his skirts and lifted them, doing a twirl, giggling. Where was the unicorn?  He ran about, looking behind trees and bushes. He would catch a glimpse of him now and then, but as soon as he ran toward him, the unicorn would flee, and Arthur would give chase, laughing at their little game. “I love you,” Arthur called. “Stop running! Oh, I love you, unicorn, with all my heart.”

Back in the real world, Belaire and Gilandria stood next to the bath as Arthur, deeply asleep, whispered,”I love you, unicorn! I love you!”

“And you say she was ashamed to put on a gown?” Gilandria said.

“I guess gazing upon a unicorn has awoken the maiden in her,” Belaire said, amused to one who used to be a man so enchanted by a stallion. “We better wake her. She can’t be late for dinner.” She nudged Arthur’s shoulder. “Milady?”

Arthur sat up, blinking in surprise as he was torn from his wonderful dream. He wrapped his arms modestly over his chest. “I must have drifted off.”

Galindria held out a towel. “Hurry,” she said. “You mustn’t be late for dinner.’

Arthur, having already shown himself to these women, climbed from the  tub, cheeks blushing. He couldn’t seem to overcome his embarrassment at his body. Toweling off, he slipped back into his gown, following the girls back to his room, whereupon he froze in horror once again as he looked upon a dress hanging from a wooden dummy. “You cannot expect me to wear that?”

“Must we do this once more?” Belaire said, annoyed at Arthur’s constant objections. “It is the Queen’s gift to you, milady.”

Arthur stared at the white gown in horror. Tiny little straps and a plunging neckline, and a full, diaphanous skirt that flared out dramatically from the tiny waist. There was a dramatic cloth rose of white affixed to the hip, and diamonds running  along the low cut bust line. “She means to make a fool of me,” he said. “An absolute fool.”

“She means for you to look like a lady,” Belaire said. “Fit to dine with a Queen.”

“I am King,” Arthur said. “A man. Why?” He asked, turning to face them. “Why are you so cruel?”

Seeing the agony on Arthur’s pretty face, Belaire relented. “We do not wish to make you feel a fool,” she said. “We weren’t to speak of this, but Queen Reagenette means all of this as a test.”

“A test?”

“She must find if you have the courage to be a lady, the courage to complete this quest.”

“Courage?” Arthur said. “This is a test of courage?”

“She will explain more after you dine,” Gilandria said. “We have already said too much.”

Arthur thought he understood. Indeed, he was afraid to wear that dress, afraid of what people would think, say, and afraid, he’d admitted it to himself before, afraid he might like it, the same way he’d come to love diamonds, the way he’d almost let Lancelot kiss him.  His ever swelling maidenly feelings terrified him.

Courage. Yes. It would be a test of courage, a test of what sort of man he, Arthur, truly was. “Very well,” he said. “I shall wear the dress. But, can you help me put it on? I’ve never put a dress on before.”

The girls giggled.  “Yes,” Belaire said, “but first you will need your corset.”

“What is a corset?” Arthur asked. Indeed, this latest in fashion from Francia had not yet reached Camelot.

“Oh, let me show you.”

Moments later, he found himself grasping a bedpost with both hands while Belaire pulled tight the stays, crushing his waist. “It is an implement of torture!” Arthur cried.

The girls tittered. “There,” Belaire said, tying off the ribbons at the back of Arthur’s virginal white corset. Arthur turned, gasping for breath, his chest heaving. The corset enhanced his every maidenly curve, and left him feeling like a prisoner in silk.

“Curse the French!” Arthur said, trying to tug the top of the corset up to cover his maiden’s breasts. He felt quite exposed.

“Let’s get you dressed.” Belaire handed him his dress. Arthur stepped into it, and then the two girls pulled it up, yanking and straining to get it over his best, and then slipping the little straps over his shoulders, the skirt swirling about his legs.

“It’s too small,” Arthur said, looking down, appalled to see his maidenly chest almost spilling out of the top of his dress. Once more the girls tittered. “Get used to it.”

“My wife does not wear gowns this tight!” Arthur objected.

“Come,” we must do something with your wretched hair.

Arthur, tugging at the top of his dress, allowed them to sit him down. As short as his hair was, all the girls could think to do was fit him with sparkling diamond hair pieces on either side of his temples. There was just enough hair to make them fit. Then, they laid a delicate web of fine silver threads sparkling with little diamonds over his hair, before adding dangling pearl earrings. Lastly, they slipped a pretty little diamond bracelet over one wrist, and then lay a silver necklace over his shoulders, a bright silver heart nestling in his cleavage.

“It seems a bit extravagant,” Arthur gripped, even as he could not  resist lifting his arm and admiring the way the diamonds on his wrist sparkled!

“You are dining with the Queen,” Galadrian said. “How often must we remind you?”

Arthur, so distracted was he by his pretty diamond bracelet, did not even see it coming until he felt Belaire brush his cheek with a horse hair brush, his nose filling with the powdery scent of roses.. “What is this?” He said, pulling his head away.

Belaire seized his little chin. “Hold still,” she said, as she finished dusting blush on his cheeks. “Done,” she said.

Galadrian and Belaire now stood in front of Arthur, arms folded as they assessed their work. “Ravishing,” Belaire said.

“Stunning,” Galadriel said.

“Ridiculous,” Arthur said, feeling a fool.

“Come,” Belaire said, taking his hand and helping him to his feet. “Look at yourself.”

“I’d rather not,” Arthur said as Belaire led him toward a full-length mirror. He didn’t truly resist. The thought of seeing himself in this dress terrified him, but he was also consumed with curiosity. He needed to see slightly more than he dreaded it, and when he stepped in front of the mirror, he gasped.

He saw nothing of King Arthur. There was only a beautiful maiden. Seeing himself in his dress, his skin so radiant, his dangling earrings sparkling, a rush of femininity came over him. He was pretty, and he liked it. But, his mind revolted, and he started to shake his head, no…no… as he backed away from the mirror, one hand to his cheek, It was his very nightmare! The dress was perfect, he was gorgeous, and he loved it… he did… he ….but I shouldn’t… I am Arthur, I am Arthur… The room spun and went black.

***

“Lady Arthur? Lady Arthur?” He heard voices calling through the darkness. “Milady?”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open. Belaire and Galindria shared down at him, concerned. “Wh– what happened?” He asked.

“You fainted,” Belaire said, patting his hand.

“Of course I did,” Arthur answered, mortified to have done something so utterly – maidenly! “I can’t even breath in this diabolical corset!”

Giggles from the girls.

“Let’s go,” Balaire said. “You have just enough time to make it to dinner, if we hurry.”

She took Arthur’s hand and helped him get up. The crushing grip of his corset left him quite helpless. “Lift your dress. We must hurry.”

Arthur obeyed, plucking at his diaphanous skirts and lifting them, then scrambling along behind Belaire and Gilandria as they led him along winding passages to the Queen’s private dining hall. Once more, he struggled to breath,  and by the time they reached the dining room his chest heaved and he thought he might faint again. The room spun and he thought he would fall, but Belaire caught him, cradling him in her arms. “I have you.”

“I can stand,” he said, feeling a fool being rescued by a woman, depending on her for her strength. I am worse than a story book maiden, he thought, furious. They at least turn to men. I am so helpless now even other women must protect me!

“Are you sure?” Belaire, still cradling Arthur in her arms, said.

Arthur nodded. When she let him go, he leaned against the wall for support.

“Dainty, ladylike breaths, Gilandria said.

Arthur glared at her, but did as she said. It did make a difference, as he no longer strained against the corset, but took what breaths it gave him. The door to the dining room opened. “Ladies and Lords,” Mafine called out in a loud voice. “I present the Lady Arthur!” A string quartet began to play.

Arthur rolled his eyes. He had no desire to make an entrance. But, courage, he reminded himself. Courage. As he stepped toward the door, Mafine offered his hand. “Oh, fine,” Arthur said, giving his hand to Mafine, and allowing the man to lead him into the dining hall.

“Our guest of honor!” Reagenette proclaimed, clapping.  The dozen or so guests joined her. All eyes were on him, everyone looking him over, and Arthur wanted to die. “Lovely,” he heard a woman whisper. “Divine.”

“Her dress is sublime.”

“She is a vision,” a man murmured.

“A goddess!”

Arthur thought he might cry. It was a disgrace to enter this room like some sort of princess, to have men looking at him, women admiring his dress, people all mumbling about how pretty he looked. And then he saw Lancelot sitting near the head of the table, cleaned up and looking quite handsome in an elvin tunic. Lancelot looked directly at Arthur, eyes hazy, and there was a stupid look on his face, as if he were gazing upon…

Arthur looked away, feeling the maddening mix and shame and pride that had haunted him throughout his maidenhood. Lancelot looked like a man in love– and Arthur was the maiden!

Mafine led him by the hand to a seat next to Reagenette. She stood and greeted him with a hug and a sisterly kiss on the side of his head. “I don’t want to muddle your make-up,” she whispered.

Arthur didn’t know how to answer, so he managed a wane smile and– how was he supposed to sit in this infernal corset? Mafine pulled his chair out for him. Arthur awkwardly plumped down, Mafine pushing the chair in to catch him.

“We’ll have to work on that,” Reagenette said.

Polite laughter. Arthur wished he could sink into the ground.

Arthur had so many questions to ask Reagenette. He had hoped for a private diner, something intimate where he could speak his mind, but with all these people? He wilted at the thought of drawing any further attention to himself. The food came. Though Arthur felt ravenous, he managed only a few slices of the exquisite roast before he felt utterly stuffed, though still famished. The corset, he realized, his hatred of the infernal contraption growing. It must have been conceived of by a man!

Unable to eat, his eyes went to Lancelot, who sat next to a ravishing elven maid. They kept exchanging glances. Lancelot reached under the table and the elf maid pulled away, giggling.

The cad! Arthur thought, burning with jealousy. Already? And as for the girl? What a wench, he thought. She could only have met Lancelot hours ago! She isn’t even that pretty! And that dress! Could it be any lower? The last stopped him short as he looked down at the creamy swelling of his own breasts, threatening to spill out of the top of his dress. Clearly, it could be lower, he had to admit, but then he slit his eyes at the girl once more, wishing he could scratch her face!

He felt a touch on his arm. “Let’s talk,” Reagenette said. “Shall we?”

“I do desire to speak with you,” Arthur said, drawing his gaze away from that hateful woman and– ugh!-- Lancelot!. Stewards rushed to pull out their chairs. This time, Queen Reagenette took Arthur’s small hand and helped him to his feet. Arthur had never been so … dependent on others, had never felt so… vulnerable? He hated the word.

Reagennete slipped an arm around Arthur’s waist, and they walked side by side down the hall. Arthur was much shorter, and he had to quicken his steps to keep up with her long strides. “You look so lovely this evening, Lady,” Reagenette said. “I am so proud of you.”

Arthur would not betray Belaire and Gllindaria by revealing what they had told him about the test. He hoped the Queen would explain on her own time. Instead, he spoke his mind. “I feel like a fool,” he admitted. “This dress, this horrible corset, and then everyone looking at me, staring, entering the dining room like some sort of princess. I do not understand why you would humiliate me so.”

They reached a small library, the walls stacked with books and scrolls and tablets. Reagenette cupped his soft cheeks with both hands. “I will explain all,” she said. “Sit. Please.” She gestured toward a plush settee.

Arthur went to the settee, and then hesitated. With his corset holding his back so straight, and trapped in the dress, he once more found himself befuddled.

Reagenette chuckled. “You see? You do not even know how to sit as a lady.”

“I don’t need to know how to sit as a lady,” Arthur said. “I only came here asking for a dress.”

“Let me help you.” Reagenette showed him how to sit as a lady, almost kneeling to sit, smoothing her dress under her. “You see? Now, you try.”

“I don’t understand why.”

“Consider it a test.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but copied her movements. Knees together, he lowered himself onto the settee, smoothing his skirt under himself before sitting. A feminine movement, it furthered his sense of shame and frustration. It was clear to him Queen Reagenette delighted in making him act like a maiden.

“Very good,” Reagenette said, gracefully sitting in her chair across from Arthur. “We’ll make a lady of you yet.”

“I am not a lady,” Arthur said. “I do not want to be a lady. I only want,” and hearing himself repeat it made him laugh, a strained, angry laugh, “a dress.”

“And I was given to understand you wished my help in taming a unicorn. Is that not your desire?”

“It is,” Arthur said. He sensed she was about to reveal something to him, something important, and so he waited.

“It takes more than a dress and a pretty face to tame a unicorn,” Reagenette explained. “And while you are a virgin, that, too, will not be enough. The unicorn will not be tamed by any other than a lady true.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur said.

“A lady,” Reagenette said. “Well-dressed. Graceful. Pleasing to the eye and ear. Your manners must be pristine, my dear. You must be demure. All of these things, they make a lady, and you must embrace all should you hope to once more walk this green England as a man.”

“I have good manners,” Arthur protested weakly, plucking at his skirt.

“Good manners for a man,” Reagenette said. “For a lady, you have much to learn.”

Arthur felt the world closing in on him, that it sought to crush his spirit into a woman’s shape, even as his corset shaped his body. He thought of the ladies in his court, how they spoke, moved, their every gesture a femine delight to the eyes of a man. “Must I do this?” Arthur said at last. “Is there no other way?”

“The unicorn will not yield to a man in a dress,” Reagenette said. “However lovely his face.”

Arthur blushed and dropped his eyes. “So, this dress, the dinner?”

“And your pretty dressing gown. Yes. All a test. Rare is the man who has the courage to embrace the gentle life of a lady. You have shown me you have such courage. I am impressed, and I will say again, quite proud of the steps you have already taken to become a lady of refinement, grace and mild manners. Yet, you must change, and change a great deal more.”

“How can this be done?” Arthur said. “I do not know how to be a lady? You saw yourself. I cannot even sit in these ridiculous clothes.”

“We will teach you. It will take three days for the dressmaker to tailor that gown and adjust your corset for the journey.”

“This?” Arthur said, plucking at the thin material of his skirt. “You can’t mean it? This dress isn’t practical, and especially not for a journey into the mountains.

“Oh, dear Arthur,” Reagenette said. “Practical clothes are for men. “Besides, to catch a unicorn…”

Arthur nodded, then hoped to reach a compromise. “At least I will never again have to wear a corset,” he said.

“I’m afraid you will, Lady.”

“You jest.”

“I do not. I am sorry, but take heart that it flatters your figure most wondrously!”

Arthur crossed his arms under his breasts and sulked.

“The fit of your dress and corset and not quite perfect,” Reagenette said. “And a lady must always be perfect. During those three days, your handmaids will teach you all they can. We will make the perfect little lady of you. But, first, I must have your vow to see this to the end..”

“You have it,” Arthur said. “I have no choice. If I must be a lady for a time to once more be a man, then that is what I will do.”

“Look me in the eyes,” Reagnette said.

Arthur met her eyes, though once more he struggled to hold her radiant gaze.

“Repeat after me: I want to be a lady.”

“Is this necessary?” The thought of declaring those words out loud unnerved him.

“I want to be a lady,” Reagenette repeated.

“I want to be a lady,” Arthur said softly, and as he said the words, he felt he were sinking into those luminous eyes, falling into them, losing himself in them.

“I want to be graceful.”

“I want to be graceful.”

“I long to be always pleasing to the eye and ear.”

“I long to be always pleasing to the eye and ear.”

“I will do anything to be a lady.”

“I will do anything to be a lady.”

“I am proud to be a woman.”

Arthur hesitated, shaking his head.

“I am proud to be a woman,” Reagenette repeated, her voice hard as steel.

“I am proud to be a woman,” Arthur whispered.

Reagenette snapped her fingers. Arthur found himself alert, back in his body. Reagenette stood, took him by the hands and pulled him into a hug. Then she once more cupped his cheeks and smiled. “A lady needs a name fit for a lady,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes?” Arthur said. “I suppose.”

“I name you The Lady Aisly. That shall be your name as long as you remain a maiden.“

“Aisly?” Arthur said, feeling as if another piece of him were being chipped away by the Queen.  Was he to lose his name now, along with his sex? And such a name! He sighed.

“It’s a lovely name for a lovely girl. Now, tell me your name.”

“I am— I am The Lady Aisly? Arthur said, his voice barely a squeak.

“Good girl,” Reagenette said, patting him on the cheek. “Now, off to bed. After all, a lady needs her beauty sleep. “Belaire!” She called, and Belaire opened the library door. “Escot the Lady Aisly to her chambers and help her ready herself for bed.”

“Lady Aisly,” Belaire said with a small bow.

Arthur followed her, shaken by all he had learned, the trials he would face over the next three says. And all the way back to his room, and then as he lay down to sleep, the words kept running through his mind:

“I want to be graceful.”

“I long to be always pleasing to the eye and ear.”

“I will do anything to be a lady.”

“I am proud to be a woman.”

“My name is Aisly.”

The next three days passed in the gossamer haze of a dream. While Reagenette’s spell helped Arthur learn to move and speak as a lady, they did not make him like it. Measurements taken, Arthur’s training began. “You speak in the flat tones and with the edge of a man, you must place your voice higher, and speak in a sing-song voice like me. Arthur tried to imitate her. No. Higher, lighter, rise and fall. Rise and fall. Again. Once more he tried to imitate her. Better. Again. He hated the way he sounded, his little, female voice now breathy and his speech patterns absurd. But he worked and worked, until when he spoke, he sounded as pretty and sweet as any maid.

Heel to toe. Heel to toe. Your arms. Hold your arms up and out! Graceful! Graceful! You should appear as if you are floating across the floor! Turn. Again. Again. “I don’t know if I will ever get it!” You will, Aisly. You will. He felt a fool. He knew the walk they sought to teach him, had seen the ladies of the court with their arms held just so. The man in him ached with the shame, but hour by hour, he became ever more graceful and feminine in his walk and gestures.

He grew used to being called Aisly.

The girls gave him a potion, and within hours the long, lustrous waves of hair he’d cut off when he’d first become a woman had returned. His handmaids sat him down, and he spent hours learning to braid it, put it up, take it down. It was no work for a man, but he concerned, his slender fingers weaving plaits of silky hair into tight, shiny braids, then pulling them out and doing it again… and again… Each night he brushed it out, 100 strokes, as he sat in his pretty gown on his pretty quilt…

The first two days, Belaire and Galindria had helped him do his hair, but on the morning of the third day he did his own, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at the work he’d done. The girls had helped him choose his “signature” style– braids that wrapped around the top of his head like a crown, and one tied off with a pink bow that ran down his back, the rest of his long, thick hair tumbling over his shoulders.

“Aisly,” Belaire said. “I am so proud of you!”

“You’ve taught me so much,” Arthur said, touching his pretty braids with the tips of his fingers. He was better at making braids than Guinevere now, he felt certain, and once more it made him feel strangely proud to have mastered this feminine art. He picked up the horsehair brush and dusted some blush on his cheeks.

“Remember, you will need to keep your hair perfect all through your journey,” Belaire told him, “or you will lose the unicorn!”

“I must keep my hair perfect,” Arthur agreed. He knew it would be a challenge to keep his hair shiny and neatly arranged as they traveled through the mountains, but he was up to any challenge. Was he not the Lady Aisly, after all? He chuckled at his own dark humor. His dress, too, he’d been told must remain clean, or he would fail in his quest. He resolved that nothing would ruin his dress. Nothing.

For the three days of training, Arthur had been spared the agony of a corset, and had worn an array of different dresses Reagenette had chosen for him. They were all pretty and flowing, and he had grown used to wearing a dress as he walked about the palace, practicing his walk, the way he held his arms, greeting people in the breathy, sing-song manner he’d been taught. “Good morning!” He would sing out when he saw someone he knew. “It’s a lovely day!” He spent all of his time with women, and they taught him to exchange compliments, to flatter, and he chatted with them, studying their mannerisms while weaving or doing needlepoint.

All revolting tasks, and yet his ladies assured him all of this would serve him on his quest. Though he could not imagine how his newly acquired skills with a loom would help him capture a unicorn! Maybe I shall have to make him a quilt, Arthur thought, sour and annoyed at what his life had become, but of course keeping a smile on his face!

Meanwhile, what Lancelot was up to with that elvish whore, he dare not even imagine. I’m stuck in a dress knitting with the girls, Arthur mused, while he’d having the time of his life, not even the least bit concerned with what I’m goin through!

Men!

Well, I will be a man again soon, he told himself as he clicked his needles together, knitting with the other girls. But for now, I must be a lady.

A thought popped up, and Arthur heard himself say. I want to be a lady. Knitting away, finishing a little pair of booties he hoped to finish before leaving– a gift for one of the girlfriends he’d made who was expecting child, Arthur tested the thought out in his mind. I want to be a lady. Do I want to be a lady? He’d worked so hard to become one, wouldn’t it be a shame to just let all that go?

He didn’t know, but he had changed from a man who had no desire at all to be a lady, to one who was at least considering the possibility.

That night, he met once more with Reagenette in her library. Arthur sat, as graceful as any girl in the realm. “I have heard all the best, I believe you are becoming quite the young lady, Aisly. Your quest has a great chance for success.”

“If only I were so confident,” Arthur, his hands fluttering as he’d been taught to let them.

“What troubles you. Dear?”

Arthur sighed, blowing up at his bangs. “It’s… I have learned to walk as a lady, and speak, and I have the manners of a lady now….”

“However?”

“I feel it is all an act! I do not feel like a lady! I feel I am forced to perform in this femine manner, all oh! And if you please! But sometimes I just want a sword in my hand, a stout shield and the sound of battle in my ears!”

“So do many girls. Arthur.”

“Girls? Battle? But, no,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “Women long to marry, have children. That is their nature.”

“Do you long to have a baby?”

“No, but I am different. I was once a man. Oh,” Arthur said, putting a hand to his cheek. “Surely you tease!”

“No, Aisly, I do not. Many women wish they had the freedom of men. Femininity is performance, to be a lady is to be an actor on stage every minute of your life. Many is the maiden who feels trapped in her dresses, who longs for a chance to raise and ax and strike out for glory.  Or, at the least, to make a fist and strike a rude man iin the face! But, it is a lady’s fate to stifle all such impulses, to hide them behind a pretty smile and a gentle voice, and to ever seek men to protect them when she would rather protect herself.”

“You cannot mean this?” Arthur, it must be remembered, could not have been called a man of great sensitivity. Like most men, he knew little of women’s lives, though he thought he knew all– or did before finding himself reshaped into female form.

“You are no different than any other girl now, Aisly. Welcome to life as a woman. You have changed. You are no longer just a man wearing a female shape. You are a woman, Aisly, and as long as you perform your role as the perfect little lady, you shall have your wish. The unicorn will be yours.”

Arthur smiled, as he’d been trained to do, but he was troubled at her words. What did it mean– he was a woman now? Could it be true? Could so many women hate the lives they’d been forced to live? Was he now feeling in his life as a lady, what other women felt? Was he now a woman? Had he become Aisly?

“Remember this always, young miss,” Reagenette said. “If you should come upon any danger along the road, you mustn’t fight!”

“What should I do instead?” Arthur asked, not liking the sound of it all, thinking about how girls acted when danger came.

“Scream and run,” Reagenette said.

“Scream and run?” Arthur repeated. It was as shameful an act as any man could do, but he knew without asking– the unicorn. He had to scream and run if he wanted the unicorn. He sighed, his breasts rising and falling. “Very well,” he said, softly. “I shall scream– and run.”

***

On the third day, Arthur’s dress and corset  were delivered by the dressmaker. His ladies once more bound him into the crushing vise of the corset. He stepped into his dress, and they buttoned up the back. It is the all of a lady’s life, Arthur thought as they worked, that she cannot even get dressed without help. Arthur had grown used to feeling dependent, vulnerable, helpless.., they were a part of his life now. And, really, could a girl complain about having help with her hair and her gowns?

For the quest, Arthur finally had a chance to wear the lovely jewelry he’d taken from the cursed cave. Fully dressed, he now stood proudly looking at himself, hand on hip, bracelets and necklaces, earrings and combs sparkling in his hair. He saw himself now with both regret and pride, attraction and the thrill of knowing he was a most attractive woman. “The unicorn will not resist me now,” he said, satisfied. “I have worked hard, and I am graceful, pleasing to eye and ear. I am a lady.”

“You are a lady,” Belaire said, as she and Gilandria gave him sweet,, sisterly hugs. “I will miss you, Aisly. You have been wonderful.”

“I will miss you, too!” Arthur said, and he felt his eyes starting to fill with tears. He and his handmaids had become such good friends!

“Don’t cry,” Galindria said, though she was now in tears. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

“Oh, goodness!” Arthur said, the fear of ruining his makeup more than sufficient to dry his tears.

Lancelot had not seen Arthur since the night of the dinner, as he had occupied himself entertaining the ladies of the court. It had been– exhausting. He had almost thought he’d seen Arthur at one point, or at least a woman who looked most like him but with the most exquisite long, flowing hair. As he’d approached the girl, meaning to ask her name, another woman had called out, “Aisly!” and run up to her to give her a hug.

I must’ve been mistaken, Lancelot had thought, admiring both girl’s fine shapes. Good fortune, for Aisly was quite fetching, and he wondered if perhaps he could meet her and invite her back to his room.

Lancelot waited with their horses, wondering where Arthur was, when he saw that very same Aisly coming towards him. She moved in the most pleasing, feminine manner, seeming to float across the ground, and dressed as if for a ball, she took his breath away, her tight dress showing her proud, womanly curves, her whole body seeming to sparkle with jewels. She wore a wide brimmed hat with a ribbon bouncing from th brim, and Lancelot did very much find her as fetching a maid as any he’d seen in Snowfall Woods. It is too bad I am leaving, Lancelot thought, looking her over. I would very much like to spend a night with this ravishing…

“Lance,” the girl said, her hands out at her sides, bent at the wrists. “It is good to see you old friend.”

“Old…?” Lancelot did a double take. Why did this girl think she knew him. Perhaps the reader finds it difficult to believe that Lancelot would not recognize his King, but framed with his silky locks, painted with what his handmaids had called “makeup” Arthur looked quite different. More, his now ladylike speech and feminine gestures threw Lancelot off, perhaps his mind refusing to believe this divine embodiment of female perfection was Arthur, or that she ever could have been a man.

“Don’t you recognize me?” Arthur said, putting one tiny hand to his chest. He knew how changed he was, but he had expected Lancelot to know him. Yet, Lancelot looked confused, speaking in that breathy, sing song voice, making the little hand gestures he’d been taught.  It was shame, total shame, to act like this in front of a man, advertising his vulnerability.

Reagenette had assured him, though, he must remain firmly in the role of the lady until he was once more a man, or he would lose the unicorn forever, so even though he wanted to kick Lancelot in the shins and shout, “It’s me, you fool!” he only smiled and played with his hair.

”Have we met?” Lancelot said, his eyes scanning those lovely features, the big, bright, eyes.

Arthur, looking up at Lancelot, glancing over Lancelot’s own handsome features, felt quite vexed, but he smiled and giggled, tugging on his earring. “You must remember me?”

“Sir Lancelot,” Reagenette said, stepping in to save the day.. “May I present to you the Lady Aisly. You once knew her as Arthur, before she became a lady true.”

“Lady Aisly?” Lancelot said.

Arthur held out his hand to Lancelot, as he’d been trained to do. “Aisly is my name now,” he said. “Arthur is no name for a girl.”

Lancelot, seeing Arthur holding out his hand, did what he had been trained to do, despite how awkward he felt, and he took Arthur’s hand and kissed it. Arthur had never looked so beautiful and to see him all dressed like this, his dress showing off his smooth, round shoulders, his small, soft arms, his radiant face and immaculate hair…. He was now a vision of feminine refinement, an intoxicating beauty. “You look lovely, Lady Aisly,” he said, mind reeling.

“Merci!” Arthur said with a little knee bend, smiling brightly, hating every second of it. His fears that Lancelot would think him an ass had vanished rapidly. He’d seen that look in Lancelot’s eyes before, and in the eyes of every man he’d passed in the last three days. Lancelot wanted to lay with him, and his ladylike behaviors were only driving the other man mad with desire. But, what was a girl to do?

“Sir Lancelot,” Reagenette said, taking Lancelot’s arm. “If I may drag you away from our lovely friend?”

“Of course,” Lancelot said, drawing his eyes away from Arthur with only the total massing of all his willpower.

“I have made a lady of Aisly,” she said.

“Quite.”

“It is necessary for her to fulfill her quest. You, sir, must help her. You must treat her always as the lady she has become, lest she revert to her old habits. She is not to do any labor, nor certainly fight. You must help her on and off her horse, as she cannot risk her dress getting dirty. She must be resplendent when she meets the unicorn. Refer to her as Lady Aisly, Aisly or milady or such. Do not ever use her old name or address her as a man. Clear?”

“I think I managed to get all that. Is this really necessary?” He asked, glancing at Arthur, who’d stopped to chat with a passing girl. He toyed with his hair and waved one little hand about in a pleasing, feminine manner, as he gaily chattered on about– knitting?

“It is. And, Lancelot?”

“Yes?”

“Control yourself. She is quite the fetching lass, and I know you when it comes to women.”

“I swear on my honor,” Lancelot said. “She is– was?– my King. I owe her my service. Aisly is safe with me.”

“She better be.”

They prepared to leave. “As your depart on your quests, I wish to gift each of the brave heroes. For you, Lancelot, an elvish blade of the hardest steel.”

“I am honored,” he said, accepting the blade.

“And for you, my sweet,” she said, “an elven fragrance, we call Snow Tears.” She handed him a small viat. “Delightful” Arthur gushed, cradling the vial to his breasts, thinking– why can’t I get something cool like a sword?

Reagenette touched his cheek. “Be a good girl.”

“I will,” Arthur said, dropping his head.

“Wait! Wait!” They heard a tiny voice shouting, and then Spring came blasting down onto the scene.

“What a surprise,” Arthur said. “I did not expect to see you before we left. Did you come to say goodbye?”

“Goodbye? No. I’m coming with you.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Lancelot said.

“She shall be Aisly’s handmaid,” Reagenette said, amused. “A lady cannot travel without a handmaid.”

Indeed, Arthur thought, surprised he hadn’t considered it before, she cannot even reach the buttons to take of her own dress! Nor to put it on!

“Isn’t she a bit small for the work?” Lancelot said.

“Lance!” Arthur said, all smiles. “Don’t be rude! Of course, Spring is welcome to join us, and I would be honored to have her as my handmaiden!”

The matter was settled, and they prepared to depart.

Hengeron, Arthur’s horse was too big for him and had been since he’d become a woman but, now more than ever as he found himself corseted and gowned. There was no way he could climb on the great warhorse. He needed something smaller. Reagennette had gifted him a pretty mare named Virtue– white of course– and the lady’s saddle on Virtue’s back did not surprise him– he’d practiced riding side saddle the past three days. He stepped on a stool in order to get into his horse– it had to be done with grace, no throwing a leg over the horse’s back, and Lancelot had held Arthur’s hand, allowing him to steady himself as he slid onto the saddle.

Reagenette was most impressed with how elegantly Arthur moved, saddling and then, arranging his skirts. She was also pleased with how naturally he’d taken Lancelot’s hand, accepting as a matter of course he needed to depend on men now. Oh, little Aisly! It would be such a shame for you to ever change back into a man now that we’ve turned you into such a perfect little lady!

Arthur waved goodbye as the three rode off, rotating his hand, princess style. Reagenette waved back, wondering what awaited little Aisly on her first big adventure as a girl.

Chapter 20

In which the maiden 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!”

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.

Chapter 22

In which the company begins their journey home.

Lancelot, idling outside the walls of Golden Hollow, heard what sounded for a moment like a thousand tiny bells ringing, coming closer. The tinkling noises eventually resolved into the sound of pixies giggling and laughing. He got up. Had Arthur succeeded?

“I am the keeper of the unicorn,” he heard Arthur call out, but when the branches blocking the entrance parted, it was only the Lady Aisly who emerged, escorted by a cloud of fluttering pixies. Aisly seemed, yet again, transformed, her aura now visible around her, a soft glowing white light. More, having succeeded in her quest, having tamed the unicorn, she now projected a majestic air of feminine ease in the fact that she now knew she, alone, stood first among all ladies– though she would, of course, be too modest to ever admit it.

Lancelot felt compelled to bend a knee, and bow his head before her. “Milady.”

“Rise,” Aisly said. “And, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you prepare my unicorn for the journey back to Camelot?”  She smiled apologetically.

“As you wish.”

Aisly knew she now had but 11 days before midsummer.  11 days to make a journey of 10. Surely, she would make it, but she worried, as was her nature. Yet and still, the thought grew stronger in her mind: it wouldn’t be so bad to remain Aisly.

—------

“What do you mean, no?” Morgana hissed at her looking glass. She did not see her reflection in the mirror, but the image of Gerrick Loth, King of the Far Darrig.

“I said no, and I cannot be more clear!” Loth bellowed. He had quite a big voice for such a small creature. “I have a score of my people to bury already, and I will not lose another in the pursuit of your damn fool scheme!”

“What’s a score when I promise you all of Northumbria? I will restore your kingdom of old, all the lands your people ruled before the coming of men!”

“I very much doubt you will be in position to keep that promise,” Loth said.

“I and – my son– will rule all of England!”

“Perhaps, but even if you do, there is a factor you have failed to consider.”

“And that is?”

“The Scots are the most stubborn people in all the world!”

Loth’s image blurred and vanished.

“You impudent ass!” Morgana screamed, but he was gone.

“Curse the Far Darrig!” Morgana shouted and then, realizing she could well be overheard, bit her tongue, instead rushing to her window and looking down over Camelot. Smoke rose and spread throughout the city, a cure conjured by the wizard Merlin. Guinevere, her spies had told her, moved about the city with bundles of magic herbs, burning them and driving out the plague.

She was rising in the esteem of the people, becoming a hero in their eyes!

“Fie! Fie!” Morgana hissed, her rage growing as she saw all falling and failing. But, no. The return of the Celtic goddess, Ceridwen, and her display of power in unmanning Arthur was a sign. This was Morgana’s time, at long last, and she would not fail to take advantage.  She returned to her spellbook, frantically flipping from page to page.

Mordred, meanwhile, found himself in a delightfully filthy little tavern on the edge of the city. Built in the basement of a crumbling Roman tower, it had come to be called Cutthroat's Cabaret. Low ceilinged and in a state of perpetual torchlit shadow, the room reeked of the unwashed.

I do love slumming, Mordred thought as he moved among the crowded tables. Eyes turned to him, beseeching. He ignored them, spotting the man he sought slouching in the corner, as usual.

“Scurvy,” Mordred said, approaching the man.

Scurvy moved nothing but his eyes, twisting them up to regard Mordred. “Prince Mordred,” he said in a mock, upper class accent. “You honor me with your August presence.”

“I know,” Mordred said, tossing a bag clinking with the sound of metal onto the table. “As much as I would enjoy having a chat with you about the weather and your estate, I have a job for you.”

Scurvy took the bag, pulled open the drawstring and poured the glittering gold coins onto the raw, oak table. He smiled.

Chapter 23

In which the people do adore the lady true.

Aisly and company had been just about to begin their journey home, meaning to retrace the route to Pittenween, when Spring had suddenly shouted, “Wait! Stop!”

“What is it? Lancelot braced himself for some sort of scatterbrained gushing of nonsense. Instead, the little pixie turned in circles, pointing.

“That way! No. That way! No, I am sure it is that way!”

“The way back to Pittenween is that way,” Lancelot said.

“Yes,” Spring said. “But the way to the short cut,” and she gestured emphatically, “is this way!”

Lancelot sighed. “I really don’t think we should chance a short cut, especially given your uncertainty.”

I am very certainteed!” Spring said. “This way!” With that, she impulsively flew off. “Come along!”

Lancelot looked at Aisly.

She smiled. “I think it would be best if we followed her? Don’t you?” Aisly said, twisting a strand of hair around her fingers, making sure to frame her decision as a request.

“Lady Aisly,” Lancelot said, trying to find the words.

“I can’t manage without her?” Aisly said.

“Then, so be it,” Lancelot said, following the pixie.  Let us hope she is correct, he thought. And yet, wouldn’t it be a shame, after all, to take this newly born Lady Aisly from the lands of England? She was quite something.

Je nai se quoi, Lancelot decided, watching Aisly ride, so graceful, so delicate. The French, alone, had found a way to express that certain– I don’t know what.

Indeed, Spring did not lead them astray. The path they took led them out of the mountains, and by nightfall they camped at the base of Hadrian’s Wall, which separated the lands of the Scots from the rest of England. They had come upon the brick work of a Roman road Lancelot knew well. It would take them to other such roads, and then back to Camelot.

The Romans, say what you will about all their invading and conquering, were mad about building roads.

“I would say,” Lancelot said as he once more struggled to assemble Aisly’s test, “our little friend saved us a day.”

Aisly could see Lancelot was making a mistake, and the tent would soon collapse. “You may wish to place that pole a little more to the left?”

Lancelot glared. “Thank you, milady, but I have assembled your palace more than–

The poles tumbled to the ground.

Aisly turned her head away so Lancelot would not see her smile. Men and their fragile ego!

“You should have listened to her!” Summer, who like most pixies lacked any sort of social graces, said, standing, arms crossed, shaking her head.

“Thank you, Spring,” Lancelot said as he once more began to struggle with the tent.

“You were wrong about the short cut. You were wrong about the tent,” Spring went on. “Wrong… wrong… wrong…”

“Spring,” Aisly said. “Please get my book for me, would you?”

Spring stomped off to get the book, mumbling to herself. “How many times must he be wrong before he listens to us?”

Aisly’s manners are impeccable, Lancelot thought. She handled that with such grace. He could almost forgive her for butting in while he was working.

Almost.

It was not lost on Lancelot that he found himself often quite irritated with Aisly, nor was a young fool who did not understand his annoyance was but a mask for his longing. Once more, he turned his mind to God and prayed for strength.

Ten more days, he reminded himself. Ten more, and this trial will be over, for better or for ill.

The next morning as they set out traveling across hilly, more wide open lands, Lancelot found himself both relieved to be free of the mountains and, yet, missing the protective walls of solid rock that had protected them. Their party could now be seen from great distance, and he still sensed they were followed by the mysterious archer who had twice now saved their quest.

Whoever he was, he moved with great skill, now seeming to use the rounded hills and high grasses to mask his presence. He had so far only aided them, but now, in the clear, he could easily take a shot at any time, and Lancelot would not even sense the arrow’s flight until it pierced his neck.  He took to tugging on the chain mail beneath his plate mail, making sure it stayed as high on his neck as it could. He could not fail his lady. He would not.

The next day passed without incident. But, on the next, as they made their way from the wilds, the road took them through a small village. Lancelot felt little threat, but as they rode along the cobbled streets, first children began to run along beside them, ensnared by Aisly’s beauty and her aura. They raced to gather flowers, and word seemed to spread until the streets filled with all the people of the village, crowding around Aisly, handing her spring flowers, little trinkets, whatever they could find to show her they loved her, then staring up at her in awe, a few even daring to reach out and pet the glorious unicorn on which she rode.

“Oh, you are too kind!” Aisly said, accepting their gifts, handing them to Spring who had to grow larger and larger, her arms overflowing with bright, fragrant blossoms.

“Are you a goddess?” A little girl asked.

“Heavens no,” Aisly said. “I am a good, Christian woman!”

The crowd nodded with approval. She may not be a goddess, they thought, but she is one God in heaven has blessed!

The smitten crowd, without intention, blocked their path. Keeping her sweet demeanor, smiling ever so brightly, Aisly glanced at Lancelot, and her eyes said, “Help!”

She, herself, could of course do nothing, as it would be most rude to show anything but the utmost delight in these fine people and their adoration. So, she smiled and held her hand up, turning it in a princess wave.

Lancelot dismounted and began to lead the unicorn through the crowd. “Pardon,” he said. “We must be on our way.”

The people reluctantly parted ways, and more than a few wept in sorrow as the lady Aisly rode off beyond their village gate. “In all my days,” an elderly man with a beard that almost reached the ground said, tears pouring down his cheeks. “I never thought to see a unicorn, and yet I believe it is the vision of that lady I should hope to take to heaven with me when I pass from this Earth.”

That evening as Lancelot engaged in his nightly struggle with the infernal elvish tent, Aisly sat upon her blanket. Strewn all around her were the gifts the people had given her– flowers, Roman coins, a silver spoon. Of all the delightful presents, though, she most admired a bracelet woven of wild flowers a small, blushing boy had handed her. She slipped it on her wrist now and admired the simple, rustic beauty.

“I think,” Lancelot said, “we should avoid the villages the rest of the way.”

“Oh?” Aisly said. “I suppose you’re right.” Hmpf. She had rather enjoyed herself, though she knew they would never make it back to Camelot if they kept getting stopped while parading through towns. It was a shame, though. It had been fun to give all those sweet people such a special memory.

Guinevere had lit the last of the bundles Merlin had provided, watching the hazy purple smoke rise and spread over the remaining uncleansed region of Camelot.

“Many thanks,” MIlady an older woman, learning out of her second window, called down.  It was as Morgana had heard: the people’s esteem for Guinevere had only grown.

Guinevere, exhausted, took a moment to rest against the side of old woman’s house. She reflected back on how she’d come to be here, and how her city had been saved.

Once Guinevere had talked Nimue into releasing him from her spell, the two of them had immediately thrown their skills together to find a cure for Morgana’s foul spell. Unfortunately, they had soon commenced to argue and Guinevere had left them, Nimue screaming at Merlin for cheating on her while Merlin protested that her vision of him cheating was not the same as him actually cheating.

Guinevere didn’t have time to play peacemaker. Instead, she had gotten right to making certain the bundles were placed and burned to drive the plague from her city.  It was now nearing dusk, but she dare not rest yet,. Instead, she made her way back to the castle grounds, and sat down to write 12 letters. As she finished the last, sealing it with her waxen seal, she rang for the footman and arranged to have them delivered.

She went to the window and gazed off into the distance, beyond Camelot, to the forests and fields beyond. The waxing moon shone brightly, casting even the far fields of Gwenith Pent in an inky light. A chill breeze wafted through the open window, and Guinevere hugged herself. “Oh, Arthur!” She thought, wondering where her husband was and what dangers he might now face. She had sent scouts out to scour the countryside for him, asking all they passed about a young woman likely traveling.

She prayed he’d succeeded in his quest, and had captured a unicorn, though it was quite unmanly. If so and he now headed home, she could only hope her allies should find him before those working for Morgana and her awful son.

How strange our fates, she mused, that it is I who now must protect my husband, the fair maiden?

She wondered once more where he was, and what dangers he faced.

“Ouch!” Aisly winced as Spring, combing out her hair, caught another tangle.

“Sit still!” Spring said.

“I do not understand how my hair can tangle itself when I barely even move!”

“It was a breezy day,” Spring said, running her hands through a plate of Arthur’s thick, silky hair. “The wind was most unkind, I am afraid, but do not worry. I’ll get them all out.”

It would have surprised Guinevere, no doubt, to learn that her husband’’s greatest concern at that moment was, indeed, his hair. When Spring had finished, she left Aisly reading her book. She was nearing the end, and she was quite certain she had guessed which of the dashing gentlemen would win the lady’s heart, but, oh! Who knew?

The story captivated Aisly, and she found her own feelings rising and falling with each twist and turn. She wished she would know what it was like to be courted, her heart all a tangled web of emotions and first one man and then another seemed to give her hopes for a blissful union, those hopes only to be dashed again and again!

Aisly longed to be that girl, to know what it was to fall in love, to be courted by such fine and handsome gentleman, and to discover to her dismay which of them turned out to be mere rogues. Who could she trust her heart to, and would it be broken?

Outside, Spring had sat down next to Lancelot on a log near the blazing campfire. They’d been exchanging glances all day. Lancelot put his arm around her, and she leaned against him, resting her head upon his shoulder.

Aisly, turning a page, froze, as the sounds of amorous coupling did reach her ears. The scoundrels, she thought. Lancelot! How could he? Seething with jealousy, she thought to get up and put a stop to their romance, but no. It would be quite unladylike. Instead, she covered her head with her pillow and tried to drown out the sounds, which were most unwelcome to her maiden’s ears and sensitive disposition.

Cad! Aisly thought, thinking of Lancelot.  He is just a—- a— knave! She would give him a piece of her mind come morning, she resolved. He would know how much he’d hurt her!

In the morning, though, she pushed all her feelings of jealousy and anger down, down, deep within her. The Lady Aisly emerged from her tent all smiles and sweet ‘good mornings.’

It was a woman’s lot to put up with men and their weakness, Aisly mused. And then, thinking of how Lancelot had once slept with Guinevere,  she noted, it was also sometimes a man’s duty as well. He had betrayed her twice now, and that should have been enough, and yet she could not help her feelings. Somehow, she had grown to love him even more.

The same could not be said for the wonton little pixie. Aisly would be glad to be rid of her!

Lancelot, for his part, had a renewed energy, a relaxed air that put an extra jump in his step. He even found himself humming a French tavern song as he disassembled Aisly’s tent. Not only had he found relief for his desires, but the Lady Aisly, he thought, had remained blissfully unaware. He glanced at her. “I do hope you slept well,” he said, adding a wink.

“Ever so well,” she answered, smiling. “And you seem to be in an especially buoyant mood, good knight.” Cad!

“Yes, I think it must be just the good, country air!”

“Indeed. A touch of Spring does work wonders, does it not?”

“Yes,” Lancelot said, not catching the irony. “Spring is good for a man’s soul.”

And his loins, Aisly thought.

Chapter 24

In which the Lady Aisly does find herself in peril!

The company moved steadily south. As the days remaining in their journey dwindled and they grew ever closer to Cameot, towns and villages became ever more frequent. As planned, they traveled around each and were able to avoid any further incidents. Yet, they could not avoid travelers on the road.  At Lancelot’s behest, they quickened their pace, Aisly cupping her hand and offering the passersby her princess wave and a radiant smile.

The travelers couldn’t help but freeze, staring in wonder at this lovely maiden riding upon a unicorn, led by a knight in shining armor and escorted by a pixie. Word of this wondrous company  began to spread in all directions. Lancelot sensed the growing danger. Any enemies would hear of their approach. There could be an ambush waiting for them around any bend in the road, or they could be waylaid in their sleep.

He took to keeping watch all night long, fighting against the lulling power of sleep with an iron will.

To his relief, the Lady Aisly remained oblivious to the growing threat. He did not want her to fret, and she did not. Her thoughts were ever fixed on her dress and hair, and, increasingly, on her grand entrance to Camelot. Where Arthur had dreaded the thought of his return, especially as he would be forced to play the lady, Aisly shivered with excitement at her debut. Her thoughts, to be sure, veered away from maidenly modesty as she imagined the awestruck faces of all the lords and ladies as she rode in on her unicorn. It would be the talk of the whole of England!

Let us not judge Aisly too harshly. We must remember that she was yet a woman, and she could be faulted for some small indulgences. We can also be sure that she would hide her pride beneath a mask of blushing modesty. Aisly had learned and still understood that however much her thoughts might be flawed, it was most important that she always performed as a lady, so that her outward appearance was all.

Word reached Morgana’s ears of a lovely girl and her unicorn, riding toward Camelot. She was but three days away, but no matter. Morgana had found a spell that would serve her well. She had come to believe she could not rely upon Mordred– she hadn’t spoken to him in days–  nor did she trust any man to do what must be done.

She made her way down to the lower quarter and she found her mark– a huge wedge of a man, drunk, whom she lured down a dark, narrow alley.  Then, she raised her arms and began to chant. The man groaned, and then growled, as his head reshaped into that of a wild dog, all slobbering fangs and rolling eyes.

He grabbed his head, feeling fur and ears. “What have you done to me?”

Morgana didn’t answer. She cast yet another spell, and now she looked upon the world through the eyes of the monster she had made. Pulling her hood over her head, she flexed, feeling the power of her new body, and then she slouched off, in pursuit of her prey.

Mordred, meanwhile, gathered his band of leathered brigands outside the city gates. He, too, had heard of Arthur’s approach. “Remember, we are only after the girl,” he said. “We need merely to harry the knight who rides  with her, separate them and then off.”

Guinevere, too, had heard. Her scouts even now rode to meet Arthur, but she feared it would not be enough. She went to the great hall, clinking with each step. “It is time,” she said to the men gathered there. “Our king needs us.”

Aisly, meanwhile, fretted over her hair. She already done her braids, pulled them out and done them again. Unsatisfied, she’d been about to pull them out and redo them again, when Lancelot had called, “The day passes,” from outside the tent.

“You look lovely,” Spring assured Aisly, who huffed.

“It shall have to do,” she said, knowing that she would likely never be satisfied. She stood, lifted her skirts and headed out.

“You look divine,” Lancelot said, knowing she must be feeling insecure this morning to have taken so long.

“Merci!” Aisly sang.

She sat and waited as Lancelot went about his labors, but her mind was troubled. She glanced about. Something was wrong. Some danger approached! She just knew it! Her woman’s intuition. A gift of her new gender. But, she said nothing. She had to trust Lancelot with her protection!

They rode, all three tense. All three sensing danger. They came to a bend in the rode, a huge mossy stone jutting from the ground, forcing the sharp turn. Lancelot paused.

“What is it?” Aisly said, her heart racing.

“I don’t know. Be ready to flee if there is danger, milady.”

Aisly nodded, her hand to her cheek.

They crept toward the bend in the road. Closer. Closer. They turned the bend and saw– nothing.

“It is safe,” Lancelot said, relaxing, taking his hand from the pommel of his sword.

A growl from upon the boulder. Aisly screamed.  Lancelot had only just turned his head when Morgana pounced, knocking Lancelot from his horse, her jaws snapping at his throat.

“Cynocephali!” Spring screamed.

Lancelot jammed one arm into the creature’s jaw, then sought to punch it in the head with his gauntleted fist. Morgana caught his hand, held it, reveling in the strength and power of her new body. Her teeth had been unable to penetrate Lancelot’s armor, but his head was yet unprotected, and she raised a claw. “I will tear off your face!” She growled in the deep animal voice she now possessed.

“Flee!” Lancelot shouted.

Aisly screamed once more, and she turned and fled, followed by Spring.

Morgana howled with rage as her true target bolted, but when she tried to rise and give chase, Lancelot now seized upon her, holding her tight even as she thrashed, lifted him and slammed him down on the ground.

Aisly raced back around the boulder, and stopped dead, her unicorn reeling.

“Uncle,” Mordred said as his brigands began to circle about Aisly. “So good to see you.” He took in Arthur’s dress, his hair, the way his maidenly breasts rose from the top of his dress. Most of all he reveled in the look on Arthur’s pretty face: it was the look of helplessness and fear.

“Lancelot!” Arthur cried as the circle of brigands grew tighter. “Help!”

“I don’t think he can hear you,” Mordred said. He reached out to grab the unicorn’s bridle, but the great steed lowered his head and stabbed Mordred in the chest with his horn, drawing blood and a gasp of pain as Mordred stumbled backward and sank to a knee.

“Kill it!” Mordred yelled, his hand over his gushing wound. “Now.”

The brigands had backed away, uncertain, as the unicorn swung its horn about. Aisly, terrified, looked around for an escape, a way to run, but she was surrounded.

Scurvy pulled out a sling. “Stay back. Let’s stone it to death!”

“No!” Aisly screamed. The thought of any harm coming to this perfect creature horrified her. “Please!”

“Hold,” Mordred said, smiling. “Surrender, and no harm shall come to the unicorn.”

Morgana had begun to tear at Lancelot’s armor with her fangs, ripping it away link by link until his throat was exposed. Morgana raised her head and howled, but just as she was about to plunge her head down and rip out Lancelot’s throat, an arrow whizzed through the air, piercing her neck.

She screamed in pain and let her grip on Lancelot fail. He rolled free and popped to his feet, sword flashing. The Huntsman stood upon the boulder, knocking another arrow.

“Arthur!” Lancelot yelled, now circling Morgana. “Protect her!”

The Huntsman turned, only to be caught in the temple with a speeding stone that knocked him from his feet and left him staring at the sky, stunned.

“You see?” Mordred said, wanting to capture his prize and flee. “No one can save you. You are mine.”

Aisly, heart racing, began to hyperventilate, her breasts heaving. She didn’t know what to do, looking back toward where she could hear the sound of Lancelot battling the creature. She circled and circled, hoping to find some way of escaping, wishing there were someone other than Mordred who could at least tell her what to do.

“I will even pledge to help your knight.”

Aisly nodded. She saw little choice. The unicorn, who could sense her very thoughts, whinnied in annoyance, but began to lower himself to the ground so Aisly could dismount.

“You’ll make a lovely serving girl in my castle,” Mordred said. “I can’t wait to see you in a bonnet.”

Aisly shook her head. No. It couldn’t come this, could it? She, a mere serving girl?

Spring flew straight up in the air, and then screamed, “Help!”

“Kill the pixie,” Mordred said. “Before she brings all of England down upon us.”

The brigands began to swing their slings.

The sound of a battle horn and the stamping of hooves.

Mordred had mistaken Spring’s cry. She was not calling for help. She had seen it coming!

The brigands, men of little honor and less courage, panicked and fled in all directions. They had no stomach for any kind of fight.

Aisly then saw her rescuers: The Knight of the Roundtable, banners snapping in the wind as they crested a hill and charged toward her, several lowering their lances and skewering fleeing brigands.

“To Lancelot!” Their leader shouted, directing two of the knights to veer off and aid the great knight in his battle against the Man Dog. Who is he? Aisly wondered, for she did not recognize this knight alone from among the great knights that rode to her aid.

Mordred seized Aisly, pinning her arms behind her back and turning her toward the crescent of knights that now surrounded him. Aisly screamed and struggled helplessly in his arms.

“Stay back,” Mordred shouted. “Or I will kill the King.”

“Hold,” the leader said, and the knights raised their lances.

“Now, I am going to talk out of here,” Mordred said, dragging Arthur along with him. “And unless you want to see your pretty little king…”

The leader of the knights flicked a dagger that spun through the air and struck Mordred in the neck. He let Arthur go as he grabbed at the dagger twitching in his throat.

Arthur stumbled and began to fall, shouting, “My dress!””

But before he could hit the ground and ruin his gown, the lead knight leapt from his horse and caught Arthur, cradling the frightened little king in his arms.

Arthur sighed with relief and put a hand to the knight’s chestplate. “You saved me!”

The knight lifted the face shield on his helmet, and Arthur gasped to see he  was none other than Guinevere. “Of course, my husband,” Guinevere said as Arthur, starved for air by his corset and overcome with emotion, fainted into her arms.

Chapter 25

In which Lady Aisly makes her grand entrance at Camelot

Guinevere waited by Arthur’s side. They’d carried her to a nearby cottage. She’d sent for Merlin, and for now she could do little more than wait. Arthur looked far more lovely than she remembered, sleeping so peacefully, eyes closed. She couldn’t help but admire his long lashes, his perfect skin, and he’d painted his face, enhancing his lovely features. And look at those pretty braids.

It was more than physical, though. He glowed now, with a soft aura.

Guinevere took his soft little hand in her own. Can this truly be my husband, The KIng? She wondered. Not even the rain had such small hands.

She squeezed. Arthur stirred, his eyes fluttering open and he turned to look upon Guinevere, still wearing her armor, her hair pulled back. “You look so handsome,” he whispered, for truly she did.

Guinevere felt self-conscious at the odd compliment, but also pleased. She had taken on the role of a man out of necessity and concern for Arthur, and she had found she enjoyed it.

“Oh!” Arthur said, pushing the blanket that covered him off. It was coarse, and he couldn’t help but note not suitable for a lady. “My dress?”

“Your dress?”

“Was it ruined?” He did his best to inspect his gown. “Oh, please, no.”

He’s worried about his dress? And why was he talking like that? Arthur had spoken with a woman’s voice from the time of the change, but he now spoke with the soft, musical cadences of a woman as well. “Your dress is fine,” Guinevere said, confused by Arthur’s– everything.

Arthur gasped with relief. But then, “What about my hair?”

Who is this girl? Guinevere asked herself. And what has she done with my husband? “Arthur? Are you feeling well?”

“Arthur?” The girl looked confused, then smiled. “My name is Aisly now,” she said. “I am The Lady Aisly.”

They rode now together, Guinevere at Aisly’s side, and all 12 Knights of the Round Table in their shining armor, as well as a dozen more men at arms. Crowds gathered at the gates of Camelot, cheering and waving, eager to catch a glimpse of what people were calling the Lady King and her unicorn.

The knights now formed a V behind Aisly, and Gwain sounded a trumpet as Aisly rode through the throng, smiling and waving. A blast of trumpets answered from the walls of Camelot, and the gates swung open. Inside, all the lords and ladies of the realm crowded along the road to the castle, and all along they cheered and marveled at Aisly’s beauty.

Soldiers with pikes held the crowd back, though they all struggled to reach the Lady, eager to share their gifts and desperate to just touch the hem of her dress, for all felt that to even brush their fingers against her flowing gown would be a blessing that would last them a lifetime.

Aisly’s aura seemed to grow ever brighter as she feasted upon the attention. Lancelot watched it all, shaking his head, bemused. King Arthur was now first among all women, he thought. She is a marvel. His longing to hold that body in his arms grew stronger, and this time he did not turn to prayer.

Guinevere, for her part, suffered the pangs of jealousy. How was it that her husband was now the pretty one? That he was getting all the attention? Her whole life, Guinevere had been known for her beauty, had commanded every room. It was she who had always been the center of attention. Now, Arthur? Or, Aisly, as she called herself? Well, Guinevere thought, annoyed at herself. It is his moment. I must let her have it. Guinevere struggled to even remember whether Aisly was a he or a she now, whether Arthur or Aisly.

At last, the retinue passed through the gates to the castle, and Lady Aisly, taking Guinevere’s hand, gracefully slipped from the castle. In the courtyard, the servants had all gathered, and Aisly graced them with a smile.

“Let us retire to our chambers,” Guinevere said. “You must rest from your long journey.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Aisly replied, as Guinevere led her by the hand into the glorious halls of Camelot.

The King had at last returned to her castle.

Guinevere led Aisly to their rooms, the two parting ways.  Aisly, looking about the space where she had lived not so long ago as a man, had only one word for her chambers: “horrid!” They were the dark, muscular chambers of a man.

Back in her old room, in the place she had lived her life as a man, caused Aisly to reflect back on that life– the great battles, the feasts. The hunt! It had been a good life, full of joyful moments. Yet, she remembered the stresses, too, the daily trial of being King. Did she really wish to return to that life?

Could she?

She couldn’t think on it now, as she had to attend to a pressing need, one of such great importance it consumed her full attention. “Spring, I simply must bathe!” She said. “It has been days.” She sent for dressing dummies for her gown and corset, and while they waited, Spring put Aisly’s hair up, so it wouldn’t get wet, and she soon found herself luxuriating in the warm waters, closing her eyes in a state of bliss. Truly, she missed the fragrant oils and healing salts of the elves, but nevertheless, a bath was just what she needed, and for a sweet moment, she relaxed, her anxiety washed away along with dust of her long journey.

Guinevere, herself renewed, and once more dressed in a woman’s gown, came to Aisly’s room that evening. She found her husband at a mirror in a lovely evening dress, sitting with his hands in his lap while his pixie brushed out his long, luscious hair.

“You shall have to share with me,” Guinevere said, sitting on Aisly’s bed, “the story of your quest. I am especially curious how you came to befriend a pixie.”

Aisly met Guinevere’s eyes in the mirror. She smiled. “It was such a horror!” She said. “The quest, I mean. Not Spring. I met her in Golden Hollow, when I first sought my unicorn. I shall tell you all about it.”

She chattered then, telling the story in the manner of a girl, all out of order and with constant digressions and comments. “Oh, and should you only be so lucky as to meet Reagnette, Queen of the Snow Elves! She is ever so regal and refined!”

“I do not recognize any of my husband in you,” Guinevere said. It made her angry to see her husband act this way, sitting prettily while his hair was brushed out, talking like some girl. It made her angry that she, this Aisly, was more lovely, and more feminine than Guinevere, herself.

“I am changed,” Aisly said, smiling, smiling, not wishing to upset. “It was the quest. I had to become a lady true. It was the only way!”

“Curse Ceridwen.” Guinevere stood. “That she would bring this upon he who was once the best of men in all England.” She looked at Aisly’s dress, her corset. Guinevere believed she called it. “That she should so reduce a man to this. Well, it is only until the morrow.”

“What if it weren’t?” Aisly said, pushing Spring away and standing, her long, loose hair swirling about her head. “What if I were to remain Aisly?”

“What do you mean?” Guinevere said, shocked. “You have your unicorn.”

“I mean, what if I were to choose to remain a maiden? Would it be so bad?”

“You are my husband!” Guinevere shouted, losing her temper. “You are not this girl.”

“I don’t know if I can act the man again,” Aisly said, tears bubbling up in her eyes. “I don’t know if i want to.”

“You are under a spell,” Guinevere said. “You are not in your right mind!”

“But–”

“I won’t hear another word of this madness!” Guinevere said, storming off to her own chambers. “You are my husband, and you will not shame me further!”

Aisly collapsed onto her bed in a fit of tears. Spring took her in her arms and comforted her. “Hush, hush…” she said. “You mustn’t allow the servants to hear you crying.”

Chapter 26

In which Arthur makes her choice.

The day of the midsummer feast arrived. Once more, the Knights of The Round Table gathered in the Great Hall, but this time Guinevere sat by her husband’s side. Mordred, bound and gagged, sat in a corner, glaring, his wound all bound and rusty with blood. The great unicorn was there as well, lingering close to Aisly’s side.

It was no feast day, but all waited for the visitor they knew would come, and at last they once more heard the pounding of hoofs, the doors to the hall slammed open and Ceridwen, once more dressed as a knight, charged into the room. She leapt from her horse, knelt at Aisly’s side and took her hand, kissing it.

“King Arthur,” she said. “You are much changed, and I would say for the better. Such a lovely dress! And your hair is resplendent.”

Aisly blushed and dropped her eyes to the side. “You are too generous in your praise!” She protested.

Ceridwen now took Aisly’s hand and helped her stand, leading her over to her unicorn. “Behold the Lady Aisly,” Ceridwen shouted, her voice echoing around the chamber, “who as a man did proclaim that a girl could not be a knight! What say you now, young miss?”

With that, Arthur found himself once more. He was no longer Aisly, but neither  the man he’d been. Even a man such as Arthur could not fac the trials of womanhood without being changed. He was now both Arthur and Aisly. He felt self-conscious now in his gown, the way his breasts swelled from the top of his dress. But he also felt beautiful, and proud of his beauty.

He pulled his hand from Ceridwen, and he dropped his arms, assuming the stance of a man.

All eyes locked on him.

“I say I was wrong,” Arthur said. “A girl can be whatever she has the mettle to become, just like a — man.”

“I will hold you to that,” Ceridwen said. “You have completed your quest. A virgin maiden, you have captured the heart of a unicorn. I give you a choice, Lady Arthur. To return to the shape of a man, or to remain for all the rest of your days as a woman.”

“A choice?” Arthur had not expected a choice, nor that such a choice would be a difficult one. Was he not Arthur, King? And yet, he had lived that life, accomplished all he had ever sought out to do. Would it not be quite the adventure to live life again, now as a girl?

“Arthur, be a man once more. You owe it to your people,” Guinevere said, seeing the uncertainty in her husband’s big, pretty eyes.

“Remain Aisly,” Lancelot said, unable to control himself. “You must not deny her to this world!”

“I choose… I choose…”

The room seemed to spin. Arthur felt he might faint. “I choose Arthur!”

Lancelot’s head dropped to his chest, even as Arthur rose in the air and spun, just as before, only this time to be reshaped into the man he’d once been, once more dressed in his King’s finery.

He looked down at himself, the flat chest, the big, gnarled hands, and his heart swelled with regret. “No!” He cried out. “I would be Aisly!”

“It is too late,” Ceridwen said, but then she whispered in Arthur’s ear before leaping upon her horse and charging, “wait.”

She turned. “One more thing. Mordred. I do know you had a certain wish for Arthur. Let that fate now be yours!”

Mordred shook his head in terror, but even as he did a bonnet appeared on his head, and his body reshaped itself into that of a slender young woman.

“It is you who now be serving girl in this castle!” And then Ceridwen did take her leave.

Silence. No one knew what to say or do. Finally, Arthur clapped and said, “Let’s eat!”

Epilogue

“You shall repay Lord Whitting for the wheat you stole, plus 10 bushels as recompense,” Arthur, sitting on his throne, decreed.

“But–”

“I have made my decision, Lord Faulkner. Dismissed.”

At last. A day of judgements. The height of tedium. But, it was his responsibility as king. Arthur made his way wearily back to the rooms he shared with his wife, stepping into her chambers to wish her good night. Guinevere wore the night dress the eleves had given Arthur, and he had no problem admitting he was jealous. He wish he would wear it. Mordred was there, brushing out her hair.

“Some privacy,” Arthur said.

“Of course, milord,” Mordred said, with a curtsy and a smile.

“I never much cared for her before, but she is as sweet a girl as she was sour a boy.” Arthur picked up the brush Mordred had left on the table and began running it through Guinevere’s hair.

“You don’t have to.”

“Please allow me,” Arthur said. “I miss it.”

“It somewhat makes up for you bringing the corset to Camelot.”

It was true. Word of the Lady Aisly’s shaping garment had spread all among the noble ladies of the realm, and it had become all the rage. More than a few women, however, couldn’t help but roll their eyes at the irony that this latest in feminine torture had been made fashionable when worn by the King.

Guinevere relaxed as Arthur brushed her hair.  She had grown used to Arthur’s new habits, and besides she found it romantic to have her husband running his strong hands through her hair. “Any news of Morgana?”

“She has reappeared at her castle, no doubt plotting now schemes.” Arthur, on impulse, pulled Guinevere’s hair back and began to weave it into a French braid. The hours he’d spent learning to braid hair.

“She will never learn.”

“I still remain impressed with how you managed the crisis,” Arthur said. “In my absence.”

“Well, my husband was busy having his hair done by pixies,” Guinevere said. They both laughed, as it had become custom to joke about Arthur’s very pretty little adventure. “I only did what needed done.”

“You are too modest, my dear. I am proud to have you as my wife.”

“And you, my husband.”

He kissed her on the shoulder. “It is not always easy being a woman, though you make it look so.”

“Indeed.”

Arthur went to his chambers and prepared to rest. He was, as always, terribly excited. Soon, he would sleep, and he knew in his dreams he would once more find himself Aisly, living her life. In his dreams, he was about to be wed, and he was so excited about his big day and what was to come after.

It was that which Ceridwen had whispered in his ear– a promise and a gift, that though he had chosen the life of Arthur in the day, he would live as Aisly in his dreams.

The End