La Damoiselle Arthur: Conclusion

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