Read a Sample Chapter
A Connecticut Fashionista in King Arthur's Court
By Marianne Mancusi
Dorchester Publishing
Copyright © 2005
Marianne MancusiAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-505-52633-6
Chapter One
If Mr. Blahnik could see me now, he'd be royally ticked off.
Not that I'd blame the guy. After all, dragging his kitten
heels through upstate New York mud is not exactly the reverent
treatment four hundred-dollar shoes deserve.
To be fair, it really isn't my fault. It's not like I
volunteered for the assignment. If anyone deserves Manolo's
full wrath, it's my editor. She's the one who decided that
spending my Saturday with a bunch of no-life weirdoes would be
a positive career move.
I originally planned a full day of shopping in The Village,
lunch with Lucy, more shopping, then a relaxing train ride
back home to my Connecticut condo where I would lounge by the
pool for the remainder of the afternoon.
Instead, I am on assignment at King Arthur's Faire. My
mission? To write 500 words on the emerging trend of medieval
garb in today's fashions.
I'm Katherine Jones, by the way. But pretty much everyone
calls me Kat. Why, I don't know-maybe it's my eyes. I've got
big, green catlike eyes that turn up at the corners. As a kid
growing up in Brooklyn, they were my ticket to fame. The guys
couldn't stay away. Even the ones I wished would.
I've moved up in the world since then. Now, as the 29-year-old
associate fashion editor at La Style, it'smy job to claw
through the hype and sniff out the trends. I'm good at it,
too. Remember that Louis Vuitton cherry blossom purse craze? I
broke that story before Vogue laid their Chanel-shaded eyes on
it.
But does my editor recognize my talent? Uh, that would be a
no. In fact, half the time I don't think she even recognizes
me, though I've been working for the fashion rag for nearly
four years.
And so, instead of jetting off to Milan to write cover stories
on the beautiful people, I usually get stuck doing back end
blurbs that lie lost between tampon ads.
This time it's medieval gear, which I'm sorry, but I think is
ridiculous. I can hardly see J. Lo sporting a pointy veiled
headdress and am quite positive Brad Pitt would not be caught
dead in tunic and tights.
My photographer, Chrissie Haywood, seems to have none of these
doubts. She's currently traipsing through the mud in a
Chrissie Haywood original-a royal blue velour gown with
lace-up corset and cap sleeves. She told me earlier that she
made it from a pattern she'd bought off eBay, confirming my
suspicions that the Internet really is an evil empire where
freaks come together to rejoice in their freakiness. In BI
(before Internet) days, if you had an odd quirk, you kept it
to yourself. Now you form email loops with thousands of
others, bonding together through your common idiosyncrasy.
Growing up, my family couldn't afford a computer. But I didn't
care. All I needed were magazines. Glossy, glamorous, advice
filled pages just waiting to transport me to a world of
beauty, majesty, and anorexia-for the bargain price of $3.99.
Why waste a grand or more on a plastic box only good for
downloading porn?
"Here ye, here ye," a barker announces as we walk by his
stand. "Whoso shall lift this sword from the stone, the same
is rightly born King of England." Or, in this case, will
rightly win a plastic Excalibur of his very own. The toy sword
emits a piercing scream when slammed against trees, rocks,
people-whatever the little brats decide to use as their
unwitting target. I know this not because I'd tried my luck at
the sword-in-stone thing (I have no burning desire to become
British royalty) but because every kid here seems to have
already won one and has made it his or her mission to see that
I achieve the headache of a lifetime.
I know the story of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round
Table as well as anyone, I suppose. Dude pulls sword from
stone, becomes king. Marries a total tart named Guenevere who
goes off and shags his best friend Lancelot. What I don't get
is why people think it's so romantic. Having been a victim of
an ex-boyfriend's infidelity, I can tell you for a fact,
there's nothing beautiful about being cheated on and lied to.
We walk past Ye Locale Eatery where for $5.95 you can get a
cup of mead (aka Bud Light) with your King's Royale Chicken
Bites (courtesy of King Ronald McDonald, if I'm not mistaken.)
They also feature what I'm sure was a Medieval
delicacy-Pepperoni Pizza of the Round Table.
"Here, wear this." To my horror, Chrissie plops a tall dunce
cap thing-complete with lavender polyester veil-over my head.
She must have bought it while I wasn't looking. "Now you fit
in," she proclaims, as if that had been my goal-rather than my
nightmare-all along.
"Gee, thanks," I reply, pulling the hat from my head and
examining it with a critical eye. Could Gucci really be
planning this kind of kitsch for the fall runway? Chrissie
looks hurt as I pick at the hat's seams, investigating the
quality or, in this case, lack of it. I could have sewn better
during first year Home Ec at the Brooklyn Community College I
went to-and that was the year I accidentally blew up the
kitchen! Okay, so I'm a better seamstress than cook.
"You know," Chrissie whines, "you could at least try to have a
good time." She twirls around, velour gown flapping in the
breeze, taking it all in. "It's not exactly torture, you know.
Hanging out in a medieval village. Could be much worse."
It could, and suddenly is, as the skies open up and rain
starts gushing down. Super. We duck into the nearest tent for
cover.
"May I read thy palm, milady?"
Oh great. The tent we pick just happens to be inhabited by
King Arthur's very own Miss Cleo. A tiny, wrinkled gypsy type
addresses us from behind her crystal bowling ball. She wears a
bright mauve robe, bordered with intricate gold embroidery.
Gotta give her some props-her costume, at least, looks
authentic enough, even though I'm pretty sure I've seen that
same crystal ball at Spencer Gifts for $19.99.
I motion for Chrissie to take a photo. "Ooh, yes. Kat, get
your fortune read," she replies, misunderstanding my pointing
hand.
"No thanks. I don't believe any of that psychic mumbo jumbo."
Sure, I check my horoscope once in a while-what magazine diva
doesn't? But anything that forces me to fork over good money
for worthless prophecies that could apply to anyone, I steer
clear.
The old crone glares at me with beady eyes, possibly not
appreciating the fact that I used the words "mumbo jumbo" and
"psychic" in the same sentence. But come on! She must be used
to nonbelievers at this point in her career. She looks about
eighty. Still, her rather rude stare gives me the creeps and I
contemplate leaving the tent, rain be damned. After a second
analysis, I decide the cost of dry-cleaning $600 Armani
trousers that I borrowed from the props closet at work,
outweighs being stuck with an annoying old woman who thinks
she knows my future.
"Come on, Kat. I'll pay for it and everything." Did I mention
Chrissie is persistent as well as enthusiastic? I give in.
What else are we going to do while waiting for the rain to
end?
Plopping down on the chair, I stick out my arm. A strange
chill trips down my spine as the ancient crone takes my palm
in her gnarled hands. She traces my lifeline with a long bony
finger as I wonder if I should ask her if she's ever heard of
hand lotion. I mean her hands are pretty far-gone, but it's
never too late for moisturizing.
"Let me guess," I say with a sigh. "Long life. Success in
love. Great career." These fortunetellers always tell you what
you want to hear. After all, spreading doom and gloom isn't
going to get them many customers.
"Thou does not believe." The woman scowls, dropping my hand
immediately. "Why would I bother?"
"Look. Chrissie's going to fork over your five bucks," I
reply, a little angry. Who is this woman to cop an attitude
with me? She's a lame medieval fair fortuneteller. Probably
doesn't even have her own 900-number. "Just tell me about my
illustrious future or whatever it is you do."
The woman sighs (she's really one for drama, let me tell you)
and takes my hand again. A sudden fear washes over her crinkly
face. "Thou shouldst not be here," she says in an urgent
whisper.
"No duh. I should be at Bloomingdale's. Doesn't take a psychic
to figure out that one."
Chrissie swats me from behind and I giggle.
"No." The woman looks suddenly fierce. "That is not what I am
meaning. I mean thou art out of time."
"Already? I just sat down. You haven't even told me my future
yet."
"Not out of time with me. Out of time with life. Thy
destiny-it is lying in another era."
You'd think with everyone paying twenty bucks admission, the
fair organizers could have found a better psychic than this.
"All I want to know," I say, glancing back at Chrissie with a
wink, "is whether I'm going to be rich, successful, and score
a really cute boyfriend. Tell me that and I'll be on my merry
way."
"Pay attention!" the woman shrieks, and I nearly jump out of
my skin.
I try to pull my hand away, but she clutches it tight, digging
her long fingernails into my palm. Her beady eyes are wide
open now, but clouded over, her nose scrunched, and her lips
curl into a snarl. Okay, this is getting a tad bit freaky for
me!
"The lines of tragedy are clearly written on thy hand. If thou
does not take heed, thou will surely die today!"
That's it! I manage to rip my hand from her claws and stand
up. "Yeah, sure, whatever, psychic psycho," I spit out. I'd
much rather be caught in the rain than listen to this bull.
Who does this crackpot think she is, trying to scare me like
this? "Chrissie, I'm so out of here."
Chrissie looks from me to the psychic and back again. "Maybe
you shouldn't piss her off, Kat," she says in a low voice.
"What if she puts a spell on you?"
I can't help but laugh at that one. "Oh, please, Chris," I
whisper back. "She couldn't put a spell on a paper bag."
"That is where thou art wrong, my friend," the gypsy
interjects, eavesdropping on our private conversation.
"Oh, really?" I ask, in my best skeptical voice. "Then go for
it. If you've got so much power, give it your best shot."
"ABU-SOLSTICE-EXCALIBUR!" The woman suddenly recites her best
Harry Potterism at the top of her lungs, following the "magic
words" with a rather disturbing cackle. Thunder cracks as she
waves her hands with a dramatic whoosh.
What a freak!
The moment passes. I don't turn into a toad. I'm not suddenly
sporting donkey ears. In fact, I'm exactly the same Katherine
"just call me Kat" Jones I was before she shouted her crazy
curse. Except now perhaps a little less mad and a little more
amused.
"Good try, sweetie." I pat the gypsy on her embroidered
sleeve. "Maybe a few more years at Hogwarts will do the
trick." I turn to Chrissie, who still looks petrified. "What
now?"
"I-I think the rain has let up," she mumbles. "I want to get
photos of the jousters."
Jousters, huh? As in sexy men dressed in armor and riding
horses? That doesn't sound half bad. A lot better than crazy
fortunetellers uttering curses, anyway. Determined to change
my attitude and show Chrissie a good time, I amicably set the
pointy hat on my head and take my photographer by the arm.
"Bring on the jousting!"
The jousting arena is at the far end of the fairgrounds. The
organizers set up bleachers on either side, kind of like a
high school football field. We're a few minutes early and are
able to snag front row seats.
I steal a glance over at the end of the field where the men
are suiting up. Maybe it's due to my recent guy drought, but
boy do they look good. One in particular sports flowing black
hair and a body to die for. He wears a crimson red crest on
his breastplate in the shape of a dragon. Yum, yum,
double-yum. I squint to get a better look and wish I brought
my glasses.
"The guy in the dragon armor is playing Lancelot," Chrissie
informs me, after glancing at her program.
"I'd be his Guenevere any day," I remark, taking in his broad
shoulders and arrogant swagger. "I'm definitely digging his
whole alpha-male vibe." He looks over, and I flash him a
smile, then nudge Chrissie. "Get his picture."
She complies, snapping a few shots using her telephoto lens.
"Wow, he looks even better up close," she murmurs. "Maybe you
should go talk to him."
I laugh. "No way am I going to lower myself to
knight-in-shining-armor-groupie level. Besides, I bet he's
dumb as a rock. All brawn, no brains."
"You're such a snob. He could be a rocket scientist on his day
off for all you know."
"Okay fine." I rip the camera from her grasp and look into the
lens. Unfortunately Lancey Boy simultaneously picks that
moment to place his helmet over his head so I don't get much
of a view. "Oh well," I say, passing the camera back to
Chrissie. "Guess it wasn't meant to be." I sigh dramatically.
"Though I'll tell you what. Something's gotta be 'meant to be'
pretty soon. I'm like literally a born-again virgin at this
point."
Chrissie giggles at my declaration. Easy for her to laugh.
She's married to some Jersey-born beatnik and living a happy,
hippie vegetarian existence in The Village. She met the poet
in high school and has absolutely no idea what the rest of us
go through trying to find a decent man in the Tri-State Area.
It's not that guys don't hit on me from time to time. It's
only that lately there hasn't been anything worth hitting
back. One would think in Manhattan there'd be cute guys up the
yin-yang but no, only on Sex and the City reruns. In real
life, the scene is a lot more depressing.
Trumpets sound, presumably to mark the start of the
tournament. Men and women dressed in silly costumes like
Chrissie's scramble to find last minute seats.
"Hear ye, hear ye!" A young man wearing a very fake gray
beard, wizard cap, and star-covered gown walks into the center
of the field. "Welcome, one and all to King Arthur's Faire. I
am Merlin, wizard of Camelot."
Oh, he's supposed to be Merlin, is he? I snicker, wondering
who on earth did the casting for this place. First, there was
the scary old bag who takes herself way too seriously, and now
this teenager posing as an ancient magician.
"Today, you will witness feats of wonder that will amaze and
entertain. Valiant knights, brave and bold, fiercely fighting
to win the favor of their Lady, Queen Guenevere."
"Yeah, yeah, we get it. In the name of chivalry and all that
jazz," I mumble to Chrissie. "Enough intro. Bring on the
jousters."
As Merlin keeps talking, I find myself drifting off, unable to
concentrate on his long-winded ramblings, his voice lulling me
into a strange trance-like state. My eyes blur, and I start to
go dizzy. I waver a bit, almost feeling as if I'm going faint.
Odd.
I shake my head to try to wake up, get orientated.
"Are you okay?" Chrissie studies me with concerned eyes. "You
look pale."
"I'm fine." The dizziness fades as quickly as it began. "Maybe
I'm dehydrated or something. Too many buy-one-get-one-free
margaritas last night."
"Let me get you some water." Chrissie rises from her seat and
walks toward the refreshment stand. After a moment's
contemplation of her extreme niceness, I turn back to the
ring.
Merlin's endless speech has somehow miraculously ended, and
knights on the sidelines mount their trusty steeds. As they
gallop into the ring, the front row seems like it might have
been a bad idea. I'm not a big fan of horses and find myself
far too close to crashing hooves for comfort.
Two knights line up on either side of the field, grasping
long, wooden lances capped with steel tips. Each knight is
covered in heavy plates of armor from head to toe, offering
protection, though not much maneuverability. Even the horses
wear armor over their heads, making them look like metal
monsters.
A bell rings, and the horses charge, their thundering hooves
echoing through my already pounding head. The knights lower
their lances, each preparing to bash his weapon into the
other, in an attempt to knock him off his horse.
Slam! The lances whack against the shields, splinters flying
everywhere. The green crested knight falls from his horse. He
runs to the sidelines and grabs a stick with a chained spiked
metal ball on the end. He swings it, guarding his space, while
the blue knight, still on horseback but now wielding a sword,
circles him. Gotta admit, the whole thing is rather exciting.
The green knight manages to hook his chain around the blue
knight's sword and wrenches the weapon from his grasp, sending
it flying. The blue knight jumps off the horse and somersaults
to his blade, grabbing it mid-roll and stands ready to face
his opponent. I lean forward in my seat. I know it's all fake,
but it really is a pretty good show.
Where's Chrissie? I look around. Must be a long line at the
concession stand. Too bad, 'cause she's missing everything.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Connecticut Fashionista in King Arthur's Court
by Marianne Mancusi
Copyright © 2005 by Marianne Mancusi.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Loading...