The Argument
“Arthur,” said Guinevere as she walked into the room, “I have had the most trying of days.”
“Sorry to hear that, my love.”
“Yes, I am feeling quite vexed indeed.” She moved to the center of the room. “Come over here, Arthur.”
Arthur moved to his beloved with haste.
“Arthur,” she said with her hands on her hips, looking quite serious, “I want you to take off my boots.”
“As you wish, dear,” he replied attentively and then did as she had asked.
“Now, remove my skirt.” Without a word, Arthur complied with her desire. “And my blouse,” she commanded pointedly.
Arthur was now rather getting into the spirit of things.
Guinevere took a gingerly step backward. “Remove my panties, Arthur.” He was quick to oblige. “And, lastly, my brassiere.”
Though it took a bit of doing, Arthur complied with that request as well.
“And Arthur?”
“Yes, my dearest?”
“Don’t let me catch you wearing my clothes again!”
* * *
Arthur grabbed a robe, one of his own, and took a seat in his high-backed leather chair as his beloved paced before him.
“And I say it again,” Guinevere said tersely, “I do not wish to catch you wearing my clothes!”
“Yes, dear,” Arthur replied with a nod. “I promise that you shall never catch me.”
“Exactly and…no, wait. That’s not what I mean when I say that.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s not the catching you part of my demand that you should be focused on, Arthur. It’s the stop wearing my damn clothes part!”
“Oh, I see.”
“It’s not how a king should act.”
“That’s a tad unfair, is it not?” Arthur said, jutting his chin out in defiance. “Was it not you that I saw wearing my full mail outfit just the other night?”
“You saw that?”
“Ah hah!” Arthur pointed at Guinevere. “No, I did not see that, but I find it odd that my suit of armor always seems out of sorts whenever I come back from a…uh…night out.” He coughed. “At first I thought maybe it was just due to the servants polishing the metal, but seeing as how it is just as scruffy-looking as always, I can only assume there was some other nefarious action going on. And are you not wearing pants even now?”
Guinevere’s face went pale. She looked down at her pantaloons and groaned. Then she opened and closed her mouth multiple times, pointing at Arthur once or twice as if she had something to say. Finally, looking somewhat defeated, she sat down across the room in her pink-cloth chair.
“I wouldn’t classify it as nefarious,” she murmured.
“Nor would I consider my wearing of your clothes as such.”
There was a moment of silence as they both stared purposefully away from each other. Arthur felt a bit embarrassed by the entire ordeal, but he was also tired of hiding who he was.
“What are we to do, Arthur?”
“First,” he said conspiratorially, “we could switch chairs.”
“Truthfully,” Guinevere replied, “I would quite like that.”
They each jumped up and crossed the room, looking instantly more at ease in their newfound seating arrangements.
“Second,” offered Arthur, “we could keep this our little secret. A lover’s mystery that only we two share.”
“This would be wise, I think,” said Guinevere, “except for the fact that you tend to dress as you do under your suit of armor all the time.”
“I’ve never done such a thing!”
“Come now, Arthur,” Guinevere said melodramatically, “be truthful with me.”
“Okay, possibly once or twice—”
“Arthur?”
“—a week,” he finished. “But nobody is the wiser of that.”
“And if you get injured? Then what? They’ll have to remove your outfit to tend to your wounds. They will all learn of your secret at that moment.”
Arthur stood up, adjusted his robe, and looked to be irritated. “So what if they come to find out? I am what I am, am I not? I am their king, no?”
“More like their queen…”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Guinevere said quickly. “Do go on.”
He squinted at her momentarily. “I grow tired of hiding anyway, my dear, even if there is a bit of thrill to that as well. Yes, while I know it’s most sensible to keep this, as I had said before, our little secret, I’m just…tired of hiding.”
“I understand, my love. My worry is that your men will not.”
“The knights are very accepting, my cherished one. Well, except for—”
“Sir Lance-A-Lot.”
“Screweth him!” Arthur slammed his fist on the furry chair’s arm.
“If you insist.”
“What?” Arthur looked at her irritably. “I actually quite forbid it.”
“The fact is that he’s a man’s man,” said Guinevere smoothly. “Much like me.”
“Right, but I’m still his king.”
“Qu…I mean, that’s true, yes.”
Another squint. “I need no man’s approval.”
“Sadly, that’s not true, Arthur, and you know it. The people look up to you. They need to know that you are a man of honor and integrity—and you ring true on both items splendidly—but they also need to know that you are a man who is into wearing clothing that befits societal norms.”
“It is patently unfair!”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” said Guinevere as she adjusted the sock that was stuffed down the front of her pants. “Sadly, it is our current state of affairs.”
“I grumble at the angst that it brings.”
“As do I, Arthur.”
Arthur moved to the window and peeked outside. It was a rather calm evening in Camelot. People were moving about on the streets in small patches, demonstrating far less foot traffic than during the morning hours. Guards stood on the parapets and Arthur was certain that the knights were all preparing for their nightly bender.
“When I was younger,” Guinevere said as Arthur continued his gazing, “there was a story about a magical item that allowed a person to be seen however they wished. A weak man could appear strong and muscular; a heavyset man could seem thin and fit; and a flat-chested woman could look to have an enormous set of jugs.”
“Jugs?”
“Sorry, I tend to speak differently when I wear pants.”
“Ah.”
“I just wonder if this magical item truly exists,” she said with a sigh. “It sure would solve our problems.”
“That would indeed be something,” Arthur mused. “I suppose it can’t hurt to check with Merlin on the subject.”
“Yes,” Guinevere said earnestly. “Please do, Arthur. It may be nothing, but it may also be everything.”
“Then I shall do so posthaste.” Arthur threw off his robe and began putting on his kingly garb. “First, though, I must meet with the knights.”
“Oh? Is there something wrong?”
“Lance-A-Lot claims that they are growing bored with all the sitting around. It seems that they are in need of an adventure.”
“I see,” she said. “Maybe when you speak with Merlin regarding that magical charm you can ask him if he has any suggestions for an adventure. He does seem to have a good deal of ideas.”
“No arguing that.”
* * *
MERLIN'S NOTEBOOK: THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE
Little has been told of the Knights of the Round Table because little is known about them.
The first thing of note is that they are the best sword players in the land. Each, except Sir Gareth, was trained by the master of cling-cling himself, Sir Challasby Lichen, who sadly died in a training incident a few years ago.
The second point is that they are quite non-judgmental. They don't care what a man or a woman does with themselves, or others for that matter, as long as it is consensual...which would hopefully always be the case in the event of one doing whatever it was they were doing to themselves.
Finally, all of them are of the same mind, except for their leader, Sir Lance-A-Lot.
Lance-A-Lot, whose real name is Mitch Bowenkawski, felt that the knights should have some sort of code; a standard of measurement (that only he could measure up to, but that's a different story) to live by. He has no issue with some level of debauchery—the name "Lance-A-Lot" was given to him due to the size of his tallywacker and the frequency with which he employs it, after all. But he expected them to set an example when examples needed to be set, and as he got older this became more important to him.
MERLIN'S NOTEBOOK: THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE
Little has been told of the Knights of the Round Table because little is known about them.
The first thing of note is that they are the best sword players in the land. Each, except Sir Gareth, was trained by the master of cling-cling himself, Sir Challasby Lichen, who sadly died in a training incident a few years ago.
The second point is that they are quite non-judgmental. They don't care what a man or a woman does with themselves, or others for that matter, as long as it is consensual...which would hopefully always be the case in the event of one doing whatever it was they were doing to themselves.
Finally, all of them are of the same mind, except for their leader, Sir Lance-A-Lot.
Lance-A-Lot, whose real name is Mitch Bowenkawski, felt that the knights should have some sort of code; a standard of measurement (that only he could measure up to, but that's a different story) to live by. He has no issue with some level of debauchery—the name "Lance-A-Lot" was given to him due to the size of his tallywacker and the frequency with which he employs it, after all. But he expected them to set an example when examples needed to be set, and as he got older this became more important to him.
Bored Knights
Arthur stepped into the main Round Table room and found all the men were fully engaged in merriment.
The fire was roaring under the thick-beamed hearth, ale was sloshing this way and that, haunches of meat lay half-eaten on pewter plates, and wenches danced and laughed as the knights frolicked and cheered. If these men were truly as bored as Sir Lance-A-Lot had claimed, they sure had a funny way of showing it.
Sir Bors de Ganis was standing under one of the archways with one arm held high while he bellowed out lines from what sounded like a play of some sort. Sir Kay looked on, appraisingly. Of all of his knights, Bors and Kay were the only ones that were cultured. They participated in the local theater and sponsored many artistic galas. Whenever high-ranking officials came to Camelot, Bors and Kay, along with their equally snooty wives, were put in charge of the festivities. Though they supported the arts like nobody’s business, they could be a bit uppity at times.
Lance-A-Lot stood against one of the walls, appearing to be deep in thought. That had been the case more and more as of late with him.
“Sir Lance-A-Lot,” Arthur said as he approached his main knight, “are you feeling ill?”
Lance-A-Lot jolted off the wall. “No, sire. I am well. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve not seen you participating in the partying very much as of late, so I assumed that you weren’t your normal self.”
“I guess I’ve just grown tired of the same routine, sire.”
“You mean you’re not conquering the ladies anymore?”
“Oh, no,” Lance-A-Lot said with a start, “nothing like that. I’ve just grown bored with all the sitting around.”
“I see. And the other men?”
“It doesn’t bother me that they sit around, sire.”
“No, I mean do they still feel the same way as you had said before?”
“You mean during our one-on-one meeting?” Lance-A-Lot said. “You wouldn’t know it by looking at them, but when the alcohol wears off they seem less chipper. We need something to resharpen our skills, sire.”
“Indeed,” Arthur said while noting that even his own mid-section was growing a tad soggy of late. “A quest would be just the thing.”
“Or battle, sire.”
“Or both.”
“Both would be ideal,” Lance-A-Lot agreed. “Honestly, I’d settle for just going on a caravan ride somewhere at this point, sire.”
“Fresh ladies to conquer, eh?”
Lance-A-Lot looked despondent. “I do miss the initial shocked looks on their faces, sire. The lasses around Camelot no longer guffaw at the sight of me. They merely ask me to go easy on them.”
“More than I needed to know,” Arthur said with a grimace. “Anyway, I must put serious thought to this, Sir Lance-A-Lot. Actually, as part of that I’m about to visit the wizard this very night.”
“Merlin?”
“Unless you know of another wizard?”
“No, sire. I just—”
“You don’t trust him,” Arthur said, looking back at the men. He ran his fingers through his beard. “You’ve said this many times.”
“He can see things that others cannot. It worries me.”
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