Camelot Fantasy

And I will lead my Horde into battle.

I sit astride my charger, my Horde on foot behind me, hidden in the shelter of a brightly coloured large marquee. Through the slit in my full-face helmet, I watch Arthur put his Knights through their paces.

He complains that his table is not complete, that he needs another Knight, another Hero. To those familiar with Camelot, it is obvious that there is no Sir Lancelot. He strides around the perimeter, studying the tourists that crowd behind the tape barrier, requesting volunteers to apprentice to his existing Knights.

Slowly, as is usual, volunteers step forward from the crowd, the first being children, then adults follow, nervous and unsure exactly what they are letting themselves in for. When Arthur has his eleven volunteers, he pairs them off with his Knights who begin these hapless recruits' training. He stalks around the small field, encouraging the apprentices, making witty remarks now and then that draw laughs from the ever-growing crowd.

I study these apprentices and try to guess which he will choose for his Lancelot. I discount the children immediately, for Arthur cannot let a child do what Lancelot must. There is a large oaf, who has poor, young Sir Tristan stumbling back with his onslaught, being carried away by his own enthusiasm. But Tristan is wily, and trips the man, the crowd laughing with glee as he falls in the mud.

Two woman wave their short-swords nervously at their Knights, lacking the confidence to do anything other than tap the Knight's shields, but Sir Galahad and Sir Kay are charming young men, and the women enjoy themselves, being the main point of the exercise.

Sir Percival seems to have drawn an amazingly graceful young man, who almost dances as he ripostes and parries with his short sword. I can only think that he must be an accomplished fencer, as a he has a peculiar awkwardness with the heavy, blunt, unrefined weapon he now holds. His silver-green eyes are intense as his dark hair flops over his forehead. Percival is certainly enjoying his training of this man, and I think that Arthur may well choose him.

A small petite oriental girl attacks Sir Bors with an enthusiasm unmatched by any but Sir Tristan's oaf, and Sir Bors laughs as he takes her blows, his six and a half foot chain mail clad frame providing her plenty of opportunity to do so. I know Arthur's sense of humour well enough that he might take it upon himself to choose her.

Sir Gawain hides the last, though by his constant moving, his apprentice is surely giving him some grief. He turns a little and I seeing a laughing broad grin, with flashing blue eyes as the young man surges against Gawain. Maybe Arthur will choose him.

Arthur looks up at the bright blue sky and holds his hand out as if to check for rain, a ridiculous motion given the clarity of the heavens at this time, but the crowd laughs, and more importantly, I pick up my cue. I signal my Horde, and those with short-swords bang them against there shields.

I urge my charge forward at a slow walk; much as we would love to run, the weight of the chain-mail we all where precludes that. My Horde chants its war cry and we emerge into the sunlight. Arthur shouts orders and his Knights herd the apprentices back behind the tape barrier, taking their weapons away, but telling them not to move for their services may be required should the Table Round fall to the Horde of the Black Knight.

And fall it does. My Horde take on the Knights, one on one, the crashing of swords and shields, maces and morning stars, the cries of men echoing around the fields. Arthur shouts encouragement and soon has the crowd shouting along with him. I alone sit above this all, mute in my role and keeping tight rein on my steed, though he knows this to be just a game and waits patiently for it to end.

As the crowds enthusiasm peaks, Arthur shouts his final encouragement and my Hordes' 'slaughter' of his Knights begins. And ends in just a few moments.

Arthur calls a halt and requests that I allow the field to be cleared. I incline my head, and the Knights and my Horde pick themselves up, over-acting as they limp, groaning from the field to mend their non-existent wounds with Merlin's magic potion, otherwise known as Budweiser.

When only Arthur and myself are left, along with my squire, he asks that we resolve this battle by having our champions fight. I indicate my agreement and slide off my horse, landing with the inelegant thump on the ground that several pounds of chain-mail and armour will produce.

Arthur laughs condescendingly as I stand armoured, yet unarmed, and the crowd laughs with him. But I am the villain in this piece. I turn to my horse and withdraw my sword, eliciting a gasp from the crowd. Although I am less than six foot, my armour and helmet take me well over, and the sword I produce is four feet of thick, blunt blade, the hilt not quite another foot.

I plant the tip between my feet and stand aggressively with my gauntleted hands resting on the pommel. My squire takes my horse away as Arthur looks suitably worried and pleads with his wounded men for one to act as his champion.

They laugh mockingly and point at the apprentices. Arthur walks wearily over to them and examines them. He mutters and complains, expertly drawing the crowds tension as he compares each apprentice with humorous comments.

Finally, he chooses and pulls Sir Gawain's apprentice into the field. He calls to Sir Gawain, who staggers outrageously into the field, clutching a bottle of Bud. He listens intently to Arthur who instructs him to prepare his apprentice, then looks sorrowfully at his bottle and throws it over his shoulder. My squire is there to catch it and runs giggling off the field.

For a few moments I stand motionless while the apprentice is kitted out with gauntlets, helmet and a short chain mail vest over his tight t-shirt. My eyes are drawn to that shirt, the muscles clearly defined beneath tickling my fancy. But I push that aside, for over the next few moments I have to ensure that neither of us is hurt.

Arthur dubs the apprentice as Sir Lancelot, Champion of the Table Round and faces us off against each other. Suddenly 'sober' Sir Gawain acts as 'referee', his goal in fact, to guide Sir Lancelot with whispered instructions as he fights me.

Mutely, I invite Lancelot to try his hand first. There is uncertainty in the blue orbs shadowed by the helmet, and his first strike is solid, but lacking any real force as it bounces from the blade of my long-sword.

I swing my sword round at neck height and, perfectly timed, Gawain pulls Lancelot out of the way, and proceeds to give him a lecture about using his feet to move. It seems to me that Lancelot is laughing hard, but accepts the joke in good grace.

We begin again, and this time, the uncertainty in his eyes is gone, to be replaced by glowing anticipation that colours them an electric blue. He swings at me, finding his rhythm as I constantly parry, using my sword as a shield of sorts, though I do not give ground. I begin to take ground, moving forwards as I block his thrusts, marvelling at the hard muscles in his arms, bunching and gleaming in the sun as he swings the heavy metal.

Eventually, as I must, I retreat, making lunges of my own that he ducks, and though they are nowhere near contact, the illusion for the crowd is full of close calls for their hero. I am reduced to merely parrying again, and make a last 'desperate' lunge. He does not need Gawain's whispered instruction to duck and follow through, and the flat of his blade thwacks my side.

I fall to the ground, thankful that the padding I wear beneath the chain will prevent most of the bruising. He stands over me, his sword at my throat and I go limp, indicating surrender. The crowd cheers and he laughs softly, only just heard beneath the applause, his eyes gleaming. Gawain whispers and he pulls off his helmet. For the first time, I allow myself to truly look at him, and find myself mentally thanking Arthur for choosing this one. His short hair is damp with sweat, standing on end and tiny rivulets run down his tanned face, slightly red from his exertions. He's breathing hard, much as I am, and the muscles on his chest and abdomen ripple and strain against the tight, dark shirt.

Before I can explore any further with my eyes, Percival and Tristan are at either side of me, helping me up under the pretence of forcing me to my knees.

Arthur congratulates Lancelot, then gives him the honour of unmasking the black Knight. I compose my face in the expected expression of defiance as hands pull my helmet from my head, freeing my long hair. I try hard not to laugh at the shock on the volunteer's face, the gasp of the crowd. Arthur screeches indignantly from a few paces away.

"Guinevere?! You're supposed to be at your needlepoint class!"

The crowd erupts into laughter and Gawain issues his final instruction. The blue-eyed man blinks, then breaks into broad grin, dimples and all, then pulls me to my feet and cups my chin.

I gaze straight into his eyes, marvelling at their expressiveness as his mouth finds mine, and wonder, for a brief second if this Guinevere has finally found her Lancelot...

...The kiss is fleeting, his lips far too quickly gone for my liking, but he continues to hold my gaze as he pulls away to acknowledge the bawdy reception his gallantry gets from the crowd. His eyes sparkle with laughter but there is something else in them too, a hint of restraint and speculation which I don't understand. But before I can look deeper Arthur is there, handing the victor his prize - in this case a bottle of the 'magic potion', which he accepts with seeming pleasure and uses to quench his thirst. Arthur then calls the troupe out into the arena to take our final bow, pulling me to my position next to him with my Lancelot on his other side, raising our hands aloft as we accept the applause of the audience for as long as they are prepared to clap and cheer.

It dies away soon enough, and the crowd starts to disperse back to their cars and the other sideshows on offer in this country park and, congratulating each other on a job well done, the knights and squires and members of the Horde move back towards the tents and caravans which are our homes for the duration of the summer season.

I am desperate to get changed, to free myself from the heat and weight of my costume and its bulky padding, but my curiosity has been piqued by this most recent incarnation of the knight who will always best me. I excuse myself from Galahad's friendly chatter and turn back to where Gawain is relieving him of the chain mail vest and other accessories while Arthur chatters away in his normal voluble way. Lancelot - for even without the armour, he still has knightly qualities - looks up at my approach, smiling as he compliments me on my fighting abilities in a soft American accent and I feel myself flushing under the impact of his dancing eyes and dimples, and the warmth of his voice washing over me. I just hope if anyone notices they will put it down to the heat of the day, but I'm strangely sure he knows exactly the effect he is having on me.

His attention is distracted again by Arthur, and I watch him surreptitiously as I listen distantly to his interested questions about the troupe, the Round Table theme, our costumes and weapons, questions which Arthur is only too delighted to answer. Once started on his favourite subject I know he could talk for Britain and I feel a small surge of pity for poor Lancelot. But I catch that hidden look in his eyes again, and I'm suddenly certain that this knight does not need my pity.

I hear Arthur inviting him to stay a while, have another beer, and I see him smile as he looks casually around, gaze alighting briefly on two of the other 'apprentices' - the dark-haired graceful man with the silver-green eyes and the small but enthusiastic oriental-looking girl - who are lounging close together against a picnic table beyond the arena, chatting. The man looks our way, and I am sure that some kind of unspoken conversation passes between him and Lancelot before he turns back to accept the invitation.

Arthur claps him on the back, leading him towards Merlin's tent and the promised refreshment, and I laugh at the helpless glance he throws over his shoulder at me, his smile slipping just a little but eyes warm with shared humour.

I look back to see the mystery couple heading off across the park, and turn to walk slowly under my burden of chain mail and armour to the small tent at the back of the makeshift encampment which serves as my dressing room. It is empty, a fact that drives a curse of irritation from me, realising that the lure of the beer has again been too much for Paul, my 'squire', which leaves me to struggle my way out of my protective covering unaided.

I briefly consider going over there to drag him out by his ear but the thought of walking all the way back is too much, so with a deep sigh I strip off my gauntlets and start the long process of unbuckling and detaching the many and varied pieces which make up this particular suit.

Before long I am almost screaming with frustration, sweat breaking out as I strain to reach the buckles which will release me from the metal tunic encasing most of my body. I swear loudly as the thin leather slips from my grasp again, and lash out at the canvas of the tent to give vent to my anger. As I stand, breathing heavily, a quiet yet familiar voice asks if I need any help and I turn to see Lancelot in the partly opened tent flap, beer bottle in hand and a lop-sided grin on his face. I bite back petulant comments about gentlemen knocking before they come in and chivalry being dead, and grudgingly admit that I could do with a hand right about now.

He puts his beer down and moves towards me, coming to stand behind me as he investigates the catches and fastenings of the tunic. I feel his hands brush over my shoulders, fingers trailing across the back of my neck as he sweeps my hair aside to reach the topmost buckle, and I can barely conceal the tremor that passes through me. His breath is soft on my suddenly over-sensitive skin as his hands move down to undo each fastening in turn, and all too soon he is peeling the chain mail away, followed by the unbecoming but necessary padding which both bulks out my form and protects me from the more over-zealous of my adversaries.

Despite the warmth of the early evening I can feel myself shivering as I am reduced to the thin cotton shift and leggings I wear underneath, desperately aware of his close proximity and unwilling to do anything that might make him leave. His hands come to rest on my shoulders again, strong thumbs probing gently at my tense muscles and for long moments we remain like that, but the unmistakable sound of Arthur's voice echoing through the stillness breaks the spell and I step away and turn to thank him for his assistance. His face is serious as he scans my features in the dimming light, asking me if I'll be alright, and I'm puzzled by the question. But before I can say anything he reaches out to cup my chin, leaning in to brush his lips against mine as he'd done in the arena, leaving me breathless and dizzy as he disappears out into the gathering gloom.

Blinking at the suddeness of his departure, I drag in a gulp of air and make myself concentrate on readying my costume for tomorrow's performance. Checking the tent flap is closed against prying eyes I pull a long flowing dress from my bag, feeling the need to re-assert my femininity after my afternoon in the testosterone zone. I change quickly and drag my fingers through my unruly hair to coax it into some semblance of order, before setting out on my regular evening visit to check that my charger has been well taken care of. Behind me I can hear the clear evidence that the rest of the troupe are well into the evening's entertainment already, and I sigh at the thought of another evening fending off Galahad's advances.

The night is clear, stars making an early appearance in the rapidly darkening sky, and I inhale deeply of the warm night air, enjoying the pine-laden aroma from the surrounding woods. Ahead I can make out the darker shape of the horseboxes and I am soon clambering into my box, calling softly to my four-legged friend and hearing him whicker in response.

I am taken aback as out of the gloom a beam of light hits me, followed by a dark shape launching itself at me. I cry out in surprise, reacting automatically to the arms grabbing me by twisting sideways and driving an elbow into the body attached to them. I take pleasure in the grunt of pain that produces even as I'm wincing at the jarring effect on my arm, and squirm to escape the tightening grip, lashing out with hands and feet. I manage to get away, but the fabric flapping around my legs hampers my movements despite my attempts to hoist it aside and my unseen enemy catches my ankle, pulling me inexorably towards him as I scrabble for purchase on the straw covered floor.

My scream of rage at my seeming inability to free myself is cut short as the confined space becomes suddenly full of movement and noise, voices yelling 'freeze!' and the sounds of blows being delivered, and the hand on my ankle falls away. Needing no prompting, I scramble to the farthest corner of the box where I huddle into the smallest ball I can be, deciding I am best off being invisible until I understand better what is going on.

Soft light from the overhead lamp floods the area and I blink owlishly up, freezing in shock at the sight of Lancelot standing over a prostrate figure, gun pointing down at his head. The dark-haired man, Percival's apprentice, has another stranger pinned against the wooden side of the box and as I gaze at the scene in stunned silence the petite girl appears around the partition to report that there's no sign of anyone else.

Lancelot glances quickly in my direction, and whatever he sees in my face causes him to turn and speak quietly to the others. With nods and, it seems to me, understanding grins they gather up their captives and herd them out of the box into the night again. Lancelot approaches, the gun having disappeared as if by magic, and I stare speechlessly at him as he reaches a hand to help me up, asking if I'm OK, eyes full of concern and compassion. I try to regain my composure, to tell him I'm fine, but I can feel the tremors in my legs starting to spread through the rest of me and before I know what's happening I am swaying towards him. His arms close instinctively around me, supporting me and at the same time pulling me against the muscled firmness I had observed earlier lurking under the tight black T-shirt.

I raise my hands to grip his shoulders, leaning into him, head resting against his neck, feeling the warmth of him radiating through the thin cotton separating us, taking deep breaths to try and get past this reaction to my recent perilous situation. But all that does is flood my senses with his clean, masculine scent, and I realise that for me the danger has probably not passed. His hands move across my back, rubbing gently, soothingly as he murmurs that it's all over, that everything is alright now, the enemy defeated, his touch producing sensations in me I've never felt before, setting my pulse racing wildly. I turn my head on his shoulder to find my lips so close to the skin of his neck that there is no way I can resist pressing them against it, tasting the faint saltiness of his sweat before I realise what I'm doing and pull away.

He stiffens, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to let me go, to step back. But after a few heartbeats his hands resume their exploration, moving down my body to caress the soft flesh at my waist, and I slide my arms up to capture his head, arching myself into him. Recklessly, I re-apply my mouth to his neck, planting tiny kisses all the way up to the strong line of his jaw and along until I reach the corner of his mouth. I raise my eyes to gaze into his, questioning, seeking answers and finding them in the emotions whirling in their deep blue depths.

He slips his fingers down over my buttocks, kneading, digging in to pull my hips fiercely to him as his mouth glides over to encompass mine, full lips soft yet demanding, tongue flicking out, raising fiery flashes of delight which shoot through me unrestrained as I melt against him. His hands bunch at the fabric of my skirt, gathering it up around me, and I pull my head and shoulders back slightly to look up into his face, seeing the passion building there as I can feel it building in the compelling hardness of his body, as I know it has built in me. With a low moan he leans over me, his lips at my throat, and I go limp to indicate my surrender, allowing him to lower me to the straw bedding, drawing him down with me, onto me, into me.

Meleagant stamps and snuffles in his stall, turning away as Sir Lancelot, having demonstrated his chivalry and gallantry by rescuing his Guinevere from the evil of the black night, gets his just reward.....

FINIS