Mojitos with Merry Men (23 page)

I wander the streets for a bit, taking in all the sights, wondering who I should approach. Suddenly, a soldier clad in chain mail and a bright red tabard steps into my path.

"Milady," he addresses me, bowing low.

I raise an eyebrow at the interruption. "Yes?" I query. I hope he doesn't recognize me as one of Robin's men. That wouldn't be good. But still, that's impossible, right? After all, if he knew who I really was, he wouldn't be bowing. He also wouldn't be calling me "milady."

"Your presence has been humbly requested by his Majesty, Prince John. You are to come with me."

What?
My
presence has been requested? And requested by His Majesty? His Majesty Prince John? How does Prince John know to request my presence? Jeez, and here I thought I was doing well, keeping a low profile. And what if this so-called presence requesting isn't due to some standard "Welcome to Nottingham" program the tourism board voted in last year but rather that they somehow recognize me from the tournament?

But the guard has a really big sword strapped to his belt, so there's not much I can do about the request except grant it, following him into the keep, praying that my head will not be "requested" from my shoulders.

We enter the castle, pass a few guards standing at the entrance, then march down a long stone hallway. Funnily enough, it's the same passage that Robin and I sprinted through two days ago while running for our lives after the archery tournament. I remember the adrenaline thrumming through my veins as I followed Robin, ready to die by his side if I had to. Sigh. That already seems a lifetime ago.

The ache returns, accompanied by a panicky electric crackling through my arms and fingers. The thought that my relationship with Robin is over forever just kills me inside. It squeezes my heart into a vise and makes it difficult to draw breath. Crushing, suffocating pain. And there's nothing I can do about it. As much as I'd like to curl up into a ball and die, I know my life depends on being able to keep it together.

Boy, it's so much easier to break up in the 21st century, where all you're required to do is lie on the couch with a bunch of tissues, eating Häagen-Dazs out of the carton and watching Lifetime movies.

I force myself to focus on my present situation. After all, I'm inside Nottingham Castle, home base of Prince John himself. Maybe I can do some recon while I'm here, get a better idea of when King Richard might be showing up.

"So, uh, nice place," I say, trying to make conversation with the guard. He grunts in response. Evidently he's the tall, dark, and quiet type.

We make a few turns and end up at double wooden doors, guarded by two sentries. They bow to my escort and open the doors for us. We step over the threshold and into a giant hall.

Hmm. Maybe the Merry Maids are on vacation this week? The floor is filthy. It's caked with dirt and littered with feathers and bones, like someone let loose a fox in a chicken coop and never cleaned up afterward. In the center of the room there's a large fire pit giving off more smoke than fire at the moment, and making the air worse to breathe than village coffeehouses before they banned indoor smoking in NYC. Still, the people here don't seem to mind the smoke, and several are right next to the fire, drinking out of pewter mugs and chatting excitedly with one another.

The walls are made of stone and cloaked with tapestries depicting knights in various stages of derring-do and ladies hanging out with unicorns. Pretty standard medieval fare. At the far end of the room sit two ornate thrones covered in gold and encrusted with jewels. On the right sits a guy I recognize from the archery tournament as Prince John. He's wearing a crown that's a bit too big for his noggin, and he's currently slouched over, chin in hands, an expression of extreme boredom and annoyance on his face. With his orange-colored beard and unkempt hair, he really does look a little like the cowardly lion who plays his character in the Disney version of
Robin Hood
. It'd be funny if he suddenly started sucking his thumb and wanting his mommy. Less funny if he had a real snake for an advisor. Sir Hiss always used to freak me out.

"Milord, this is the lady you asked to see," the knight says, bowing low, then pushing me forward. I find myself standing in front of the prince, not sure what to do. So I give a little curtsy, hoping I'm doing it right. At least this place won't be like the court in
Shogun.
In that book the samurais cut off your head for even the most minor transgression against protocol. I don't think it will be like that in England.

Prince John gives a toothy grin and rises from his throne to greet me. "It's lovely to meet you, my dear," he says, in a voice that sounds too high-pitched to be coming from The Royal Leader of England. If you're going to be king, you'd better hope for a deep, booming voice. I bet King Richard has one. He certainly did when he was played by Sean Connery in
Prince of Thieves.
Mmm, sexy.

"It's, uh, lovely to meet you too," I stammer, still not entirely sure what to say. "Was there…something I could help you with?" The second the words leave my mouth, however, I realize the question could seem rude. But I'm dying to know why he's called me here. If it's because he recognizes me and wants to behead me or hang me or whatever, I'd like to get all the cards on the table now.

But he only smiles again, circling me like a prowling cat, then reaches up a hand to run stubby fingers down my cheek. Um, ew? What's with the touching? Hasn't he heard of the three-foot-bubble rule? Then again, this is a guy who thinks nothing of starving children to death in his own kingdom. It's not surprising he lacks rudimentary social skills as well.

"You are very pretty," he says in a voice that almost sounds like he's purring. "Very pretty indeed." Too bad he's a scrawny evil wimp, because I am so in need of these types of compliments at the moment.

"Thanks," I say with an embarrassed shrug. "I try."

"Two of my knights spotted you at the inn last night and returned with tales of your beauty. Now I see they did not lie," he says, his face inches from mine. Ew. He has so not brushed his teeth this decade. Maybe while I'm here I could invent toothbrushes or something. "But who are you, and where do you come from?"

"Actually, I'm new," I say, struggling to come up with an on-the-spot lie. "My name's Princess Christine, and I come from the far off kingdom of…Hoboken."

He seems to buy it. Phew. "And what brings you to our simple little court?" Prince John asks, grinning smarmily. I say—is that a droplet of spittle hanging from the corner of his lip? I mean, I'm happy he thinks I'm attractive, but I'll stop before the drool-worthy point, thank you very much.

"Um, my father thought I could get a job here. Maybe as…" I was going to say a barmaid but then decide to go for better. It's not like I have to show a résumé or provide references. "A lady-in-waiting."

The prince grabs my hand and gleefully shakes it up and down. "Of course!" he cries, more excited than a Super Bowl winner on his way to Disney World. "I'd be delighted for you to become part of my court."

Weird. According to the legends, this guy is supposed to be evil incarnate, the devious ruler who stole the throne from his crusading brother and taxed the villages to near starvation. So, how come he's acting like a silly little kid? Methinks someone else has got to be the brains of this operation.

"My Lord, I must speak with you." I hear a booming voice echo from across the hall. I glance in its direction and see none other than the Sheriff of Nottingham step through the door. I look back at Prince John and see the guy's become a bit pale. Ah-ha. Now it becomes clear.

"Yes, yes, very well, Sheriff," Prince John mumbles. He reminds me a little of Woody Allen. "I would be most pleased to speak with you on any matter you wish. I was just inviting my new friend here to—"

The sheriff takes a brief look at me, then waves a dismissing hand. Phew! He doesn't recognize me from
the other day.

"This is more important than a woman," he declares
,
marching up to the second throne—the more ornate
one, of course—and sitting down. "Send her away,
and let us talk business."

"Yes, yes, whatever you say, Sheriff." Prince John throws me an apologetic look. "I'll speak with you later, my dear," he says. "Sir Gerard, take Princess Christine up to the ladies' chambers!"

*   *   *

We're at the top of a flight of wooden stairs. In front of us is a massive wooden door with an iron knocker. I guess this is the ladies' chamber. My new home.

The guard knocks twice.

"Ladies?" he calls.

I hear a titter of laughter from the other side of the door, then the squeaky turn of a key. The door swings open, and three young women spill out from behind. When they see the guard, who I guess, now that I look at him, is pretty handsome, they giggle some more and twist strands of their hair while batting their eyelashes at him. It's the oldest flirting trick in the book. Though, actually, maybe it's not old in this century.

"Hi, Sir Gerard," a blonde chirps. She gives him a come-hither smile. "It's so nice of you to visit our chambers."

"Indeed, Sir Gerard," adds a chocolate-haired maiden beside her. "We are most honored by your presence."

"Won't you come in for a moment?" suggests a third girl. "You must be very tired from your important duties as a knight."

Gerard blushes but stands his ground. Strong man. These chicks may be silly and giggly, but they're all stunning. Each would be a knight-in-shining-armor's dream.

"I'd like to introduce you to Princess Christine," he says, gesturing to me. "She will be joining you for a time."

The women glance at me, then giggle some more. They seem friendly. Phew. At least they're not going to act like snobby wenches.

"Thank you, Sir Gerard," they say in unison. "Now, won't you come in?"

"Sorry, ladies, I cannot," the guard says. "I must return to my post. Some other time, for certain."

They let out cries of disappointment, but the guard waves them off and says his good-byes, retreating down the hallway like one of Odysseus's crew who has just been saved from the sirens.

But I'm stuck with them.

Worse, the second the guard leaves, the women's attitudes change. They look me up and down, disdainful expressions clear on each face. Oh great. It's a medieval sorority, and they're ready to haze me.

"God's teeth! What in the devil's name is she wearing?" one of them asks, picking at the sleeve of my dress. "This style has not been in fashion for near five summers."

"And her hair! Does she not know how to run a comb through it, mayhap?"

"Not to mention her smell," adds the third, pinching her nose with delicate white fingers. "Surely she has not had a bath in several moons."

Oh great. Just my freaking luck. It's the medieval version of the staff at
La Style
magazine.

"Yes, yes, I'm not a fashionista. I get it. Never claimed to be," I interrupt. "But I'm here, and you're stuck with me, so why don't you just show me to my room?"

All three women stare at me.

"You dare order us about?" asks the blonde.

I square my shoulders. I've been intimidated by tall, skinny blondes my entire life. I'm done with that now. "I just did, didn't I?"

"And what, pray tell, makes you believe we should oblige you or your orders?" asks the brunette.

Ugh. This is not going well. I attempt to lower my hackles. After all, I need to make friends with these women. As obnoxious as they are, they're going to be my roommates until King Richard returns, and the last thing I need is to have
Real Housewives
-style drama in my living quarters right now. I've got enough to deal with.

I think fast. How can I impress these women? What's the one thing at
La Style
that the shallow, narcissistic editors respected me for?

Suddenly, inspiration hits, and I throw the girls a dazzling smile. This had better work. I know
I'm
impressed by how far photography has come, and I'm guessing these girls are pretty vain.

"Because I can show you magic beyond your wildest dreams."

Hm. I'm getting skeptical looks from the peanut gallery here. What, they don't believe in magic? Or, um, more worrisome, what if they do believe and believe only witches can practice it? The last thing I need today is to be burned at the stake. Maybe I should have thought of that before I opened my big mouth.

"Magic? What magic?" queries the blonde, thankfully sounding more intrigued than outraged.

"Show us," commands the brunette,

I roll my eyes. "Uh, hello? You think I'm going to go perform magic right out here in the hallway where anyone can see? Puh-leeze. Show me to my room, and once I'm all washed up and good and ready, I'll put on a little show."

The three women turn to one another to confer over my proposition.

"She could be lying," says the blonde.

"Yes, how can we trust her?" says the brunette, looking at me indignantly. "Look at what she considers acceptable dress!"

God, these women are even
more
vapid than my
La Style
coworkers. And that's saying something.

"Look, my fashion sense has nothing to do with my magical prowess," I interrupt. "You'll just have to trust me on that."

They whisper to one another, and then all three turn to me.

"Very well," the blonde says. "We will allow you entrance. However, if you do not prove your magic, you will be cast out on your arse."

"Deal." I put out my hand to shake on it, then wonder if that's a gesture yet to be invented. I drop my arm. "So, uh, lead the way."

I follow them over the threshold and into a large suite of rooms. The middle chamber is sort of a sitting room, with a large fireplace and several stools. Delicate, colorful embroidery in varying stages of production lies everywhere. Guess that's what they do for fun around here. Ugh. I hope they don't expect me to join in. I never was one of those crafty girls with their own Etsy shops.