Knight Life

by Peter David

  “I . . . gather your point, Merlin,” said Arthur sheepishly.

  They were silent for a time, and then Arthur said, “Merlin? How can I trust her loyalty to me now?”

  Merlin snorted. “Good God, Arthur, that woman went through all manner of hell, on the remote chance that she’d win back your favor. Even though her motives were, in a way, honorable, she was still remorseful over what she’d done. She risked life and limb to undo the results of her handiwork.”

  Arthur shook his head. “I can’t believe some of the things you say she was capable of.”

  “Neither can I,” admitted Merlin. “Frankly, I suspect she couldn’t either. I never thought, Wart, that I would be trying to talk you into taking that woman back. But I owe you my honest opinion, and I will tell you this, Arthur—I would stake my immortal soul on the loyalty of Gwen Queen.”

  Arthur sat there, square jawed, and then said, “Can I see her?”

  “Of course. She’s in your bedroom.”

  Arthur got up and went into the bedroom. There, stretched out on the bed, was Gwen. There was an ugly bruise on her forehead, and her clothes had the same smoke discoloration as Merlin’s. But she was there, and she was sound and whole. Arthur went to her side and took her hand. Her chest rose and fell steadily in sleep. “Gwen?” he said gently, shaking her shoulder.

  From the doorway Merlin said, “You’re wasting your time, Arthur. As near as I can tell, she was taking some sort of pills to keep herself going. You can only do that to yourself for so long before your body just says, ‘Enough.’ She’s going to sleep for quite some time, I would say. There’s not a single thing that you could say or do that would bring her around.”

  Arthur glanced at Merlin and then back at Gwen. Then he sat next to her on the bed, squeezed her hand and said, in a voice full of love and affection, “Gwen, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Gwen’s eyes fluttered open. “Yes.”

  Merlin sighed and shook his head. “I give up. The entire gender makes no sense to me at all.”

  CHAPTRE

  THE TWENTY-FOURTH

  THΕ HORSES THUNDERED toward each other, hooves kicking up clods of dirt. Astride the powerful beasts were mounted two armored knights, lances firmly in place, intent on each other’s approach. The sun glinted down on their shields, and the crowd roared as they met. The lance of the knight with the blue plume in his helm shattered against the shield of the other jouster, and a cheer went up. The other knight, in the red plume, was the good guy.

  The horses reached the opposite ends of the field, and the blue plumed knight was handed a new lance. He spun his horse, shook a fist at his opponent, and the crowd booed the unsportsmanlike gesture.

  It was a beautiful day for a joust on the fields of the Cloisters. Standing within a mile of the jousting field was a monestary that housed tapestries and pieces of lovely artwork. Stretched out around the Cloisters was parkland bordered by the Henry Hudson Parkway, and 183rd Street up to 210th Street. It was a little bit of another century staking a claim against the encroachment of the present.

  The knights were members of a performing troupe that produced medieval fairs on a regular basis around the country. But this particular medieval fair was for a very special occasion—a celebration, a party to which all of New York City had been invited. To celebrate the election of Arthur Penn to the high office of mayor of New York City.

  A reviewing stand erected on the edge of the jousting field had been deliberately designed to look like something out of an ancient tournament. There was a box down front in which the royalty was supposed to sit, and Arthur had very cheerfully and willingly taken his place there, Gwen at his side. Gwen was stunning in a long white gown and a small crown with sparkling jewels on her head. Next to her sat Arthur, looking as if he’d stepped from another time. He was dressed in full chain mail. The main garment was called a hauberk, sort of a nightshirt made out of chain mail that hung to his knees, the skirt slit up the middle almost to the waist. Underneath the hauberk was a padded tunic to prevent the mail from digging into his chest. His leggings were mail tights called chaussures, tied just below his knee with a wide strip of cloth. Over the hauberk Arthur wore a white surcoat—a sleeveless white garment that had no collar or sleeves. It was split up the sides and laced up from the waist to the armpit. The long skirts fell free and were split up the middle the same as the hauberk. A roaring dragon was pictured on his chest. Around his waist was Excalibur, visible thanks to Merlin even though Arthur had not drawn it. Nor did he have any intention of drawing it.

  Arthur leaned over toward Gwen. “Damn, it’s amazing how hot this outfit can be.”

  “I can believe it. But look at them.” She gestured to the excited crowds. “They love the entire concept of you as an ancient king. Occasionally you really have to give the people what they want.”

  He nodded. “True ... no matter how personally uncomfortable I might be. Let’s just be thankful it’s the end of November rather than the middle of July. Though it is warm for this time of year.”

  The two knights thundered toward each other once more, and this time in a beautifully choreographed move, they knocked each other off their respective horses. The knights turned toward Arthur expectantly. An announcer clad in a jerkin who had a considerable set of lungs, shouted, “The combatants request permission from the king to continue the joust on foot.” Arthur smiled and gave a thumbs up gesture. The crowd cheered, as they knew they should, as the two knights drew their swords and began hacking at each other’s heavy wooden shields. Wood chips flew from the shields as they moved back and forth, up and down the field. At one point the red plumed knight went down to one knee and the blue plumed knight came in for the kill. The red plumed knight came in low, swung his sword, and caught the blue plumed knight across the middle. The air rang with the impact of the blow, and the blue plumed knight went down. The red plumed knight was up in a flash and held the blade of his sword over the fallen knight. The crowd went wild as the downed fighter put up a hand in supplication and the announcer shouted, “The blue knight yields!”

  Arthur applauded the outcome along with the rest of the crowd. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned. Percival was there, smiling. Arthur looked at him reproachfully. “Percival, you’re supposed to have dressed for the occasion.”

  “But highness, I did.”

  “I hardly think that a Final Fantasy sweatshirt qualifies as knightly attire.”

  “Best I could do.”

  Suddenly Buddy and Elvis were on either side of Arthur. They were both attired in full jesters’ garb. Somehow Arthur couldn’t have thought of anything more appropriate. “May we serve you somehow, my liege?” asked Buddy with a sweeping bow.

  “Something to drink. Anything liquid, short of motor oil. You, Gwen?” She shook her head, and Arthur said, “Very well. More for me, then.”

  “You heard the man,” Buddy said briskly to Elvis. “I’ll stay here in case he decides he needs anything else.”

  “I am ... so blessed,” Arthur deadpanned. Elvis looked none-too-thrilled, but gamely went off to do as he was supposed to.

  “These two Jews walk into a Juice bar ...” Buddy began.

  Gwen leaned over and said softly to Arthur, “Do I get to say ‘Off with his head’ at some point?”

  “Not this life. Maybe the next,” Arthur assured her.

  COSTUMED ACTORS WANDERED about, mixed in with the crowd. Young maidens shrunk in fear as amused tourists snapped their photographs—the lasses were concerned that pieces of their souls were being taken. Knights in armor looked gallant, assassins stalked, and a good time was being had by all.

  Elvis found a booth where cider was being served, and got a large mug of it for Arthur. He turned and bumped into a knight clothed similarly to Arthur, except that his surcoat was solid black. Not a spot of any other design on it. He held a barrel helmet under his arm.

  “Watch it,” said Elvis, trying to get around the knight. “G
otta bring a drink to the king.”

  “No, excuse me,” said the black-clad knight. “That belt buckle you’re wearing is fascinating. Where is it from?”

  Elvis looked down blankly at the belt buckle, and consequently did not notice the small tablet that the knight dropped into the drink he was holding. “It’s from the middle of my stomach,” he said in bemusement.

  “Of course it is,” said the black knight, then he turned, and walked away.

  GWEN WAS LOOKING oddly at him. “What’s wrong, my dear?” he asked.

  “You just look ... so sad,” she told him. She stroked his cheek lovingly. “I don’t understand. So melancholy.”

  “It’s difficult to explain, really,” he said after a long moment. “For so long . . . from the start of this adventure, really . . . I’ve felt as if I was laboring under a cloud of doom.”

  “Worrying about Morgan will do that to you.”

  “Not Morgan. Fate. At a point where everything seems to be going perfectly, that has been—in the past—when the true, final horror is dropped upon me.”

  “That’s in the past,” she said firmly, giving his hand a squeeze.

  “Perhaps. But I suppose that that is why you see ‘melancholy’ in me. There’s a part of me that is almost afraid to be happy.”

  “Arthur,” Gwen said with all seriousness, “believe me when I tell you: If anyone is the expert on being afraid to be happy, it’s me. Having this sense that you’re not entitled to happiness. That failure and misery are all that are due you. And I can tell you as well as anyone can just how destructive that mind-set is. If you don’t believe in true happiness, you’ll never have any.”

  “You’re right. You are so right, my queen.”

  Percival stepped forward, looking concerned. “Is anything amiss, highness? You and the queen seem to be discussing rather intense matters.”

  “Nothing you need concern yourself about, good Percival. By the by, have you seen Merlin anywhere?”

  “He is patrolling the area.”

  “Patrolling?” Gwen looked at him with puzzlement.

  “Yes. He said he is . . . suspicious.”

  “God, now I know where you get it from,” Gwen said in exasperation.

  But Arthur smiled and patted her hand again. “Worry not about Merlin. He sees conspiracies everywhere.”

  A cup was thrust under Arthur’s nose. He looked up and saw Elvis standing there, the little bells from his fool’s motley jingling. “Here you go. A drink for the king.”

  Standing just behind Elvis, Buddy piped in, “It’s good to be the king.”

  “As you say,” said Arthur, and he took the cup in his hands and lifted it to his lips.

  “Arthur,” Gwen said abruptly.

  Arthur lowered the cup without drinking. “Yes?”

  Gwen was looking at a printed list of activities. “Arthur, that joust was the last thing. You think we can go soon? I love the gown, but I’d really like to get out of it.” She smiled mischievously. “Would you care to help me?”

  He laughed. “Ma’am, I’ll have you know I’m betrothed.”

  Gwen rested her head on his shoulder, wrapping her hands around his arm. “It can’t be soon enough for me, Arthur,” she said.

  “Nor for me,” he said. “Very well then, my dear, let us say our good-byes, and we’ll be off. Percival, if you would be so kind as to bring the car around. And tell Merlin we’re departing, so he can relax and enjoy the rest of the afternoon, safe in the knowledge that Arthur Rex lives safely.”

  And then, almost as an afterthought, he downed the contents of the cup. He frowned slightly at the aftertaste. “Needs more sugar. Right, then. Shall we—?”

  And suddenly a voice boomed across the field. “Arthur! Arthur Pendragon the Coward, son of Uther the Murderer! I challenge you!”

  Arthur had half risen out of his seat, and now he sat down slowly, his gaze held by the knight in the black surcoat who stood before him. His loud words had attracted the notice of everyone within earshot. Crowds that had started to disperse began to gather once again. And Gwen, completely befuddled, paged through her program. This wasn’t on the schedule. “Who the hell is that?” she asked.

  Arthur didn’t need to ask. Even though the other knight was helmed, Arthur recognized him. He smiled unpleasantly. “Hello, Modred,” he called back. “Come to wish me success in my new career?”

  “I have come to put an end to you, Pendragon. You, and your damned notions of a New Camelot.”

  There was no doubt in the crowd’s collective mind who the bad guy was in this little scenario. Modred was roundly booed. It made no impression on him as he drew his sword and pointed it at Arthur. “Well, Pendragon? Do you dare fight me? Or will you be revealed to all here as the coward that you are?”

  There were yells and catcalls as someone shouted out, “Teach him a lesson, Arthur! Clean his clock for him!” And the crowd, which thought it was watching another staged event, took up the encouragement.

  Gwen looked at Arthur with rising concern. “Not . . . the Modred ...”

  “Only in the sense that I’m the Arthur. Yes, my dear, it’s him, my own bastard son, come to call. It would be rude to turn him away.”

  Arthur started to rise and Gwen put a hand on his arm. “Arthur, please. Don’t do this.”

  “Gwen, you said it yourself: Sometimes we have to give the people what they want.”

  “But they think it’s an act, like the joust! Modred really wants to kill you!”

  “Do you see this?” He pushed back his hair on the nape of his neck. There was a long, ugly scar angling up toward the back of his head, partly obscured by his hair. “He gave me this scar when he almost sliced my head in twain. Centuries ago.”

  “That doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

  “Highness,” said Percival grimly, “let me take him. Let me champion you. You don’t have to do this.”

  His answer was simple but elegant. “Yes. I do.”

  He reached down and picked up his helmet—similar to Modred’s, but with a more rounded top. As he began to put it on, the crowd roared its approval.

  MERLIN, ON THE other side of the field, froze in horror as he saw Arthur descend from the royal box, Excalibur already drawn from its sheath. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “The great fool. We can put all of that nonsense behind us, and he still insists on playing the warrior king.” He started to make his way through the crowd, urgently.

  ARTHUR CARRIED A shield on his left arm, as did Modred. It was wood covered with leather, and it was formidable. Under the helmet his face was set in grim lines of determination. In his right hand he held Excalibur with such ease that you’d never expect it would take an exceptionally strong man to wield it at all with two hands, much less one.

  They faced each other. The sun was overhead. Arthur circled slowly while speaking in a conversational tone of voice. “What do you say to a son who has tried to kill you?”

  “How about, ‘Nice try,’ “ Modred replied.

  “Nice try.”

  “My next try will be nicer!” snarled Modred, and he charged. He took three steps forward and immediately staggered back, blinded by the glare of the sun. Arthur, who hadn’t moved, grinned and said, “I could have killed you just then, son. First rule of battle—make certain that your opponent’s eyes are in the sun, not yours.”

  Modred attacked again, barreling forward and swinging his sword. Arthur sidestepped the charge completely, and as Modred went past, swatted him on the rump with the flat of Excalibur’s blade. The crowd roared. “Come now, Modred. Let’s end this nonsense,” said Arthur reasonably. “You don’t have a prayer.”

  “No, Arthur. It’s you who have no prayer. But you’re too stupid to know it yet.”

  Modred came forward, sword swinging like a windmill. It bit deep into Arthur’s shield. Arthur cut across with Excalibur, fully expecting to slice Modred’s shield completely in half. Instead Excalibur glanced off the shield without even so much as
making an impression.

  Arthur was clearly taken aback by it. Modred enjoyed the small victory. “Found something your precious blade can’t cut through? Here’s something else.” Modred’s sword flashed and Arthur parried the blow directly, rather than taking the force of it on his shield. The two blades clanged together. Excalibur should have cut the other sword off at the hilt. It did not.

  They separated and stepped back from each other. Arthur was now a bit more wary. His superiority to Modred in fighting skills was not at issue in his mind. But these weapons were on a par with his own, and that bore further investigation.

  “You like my toys?” crowed Modred. “They’re presents, Arthur. A legacy if you will. A gift . . . from your beloved sister.”

  His own armor was beginning to feel heavy on him. He grated, “Come on. Are you planning on talking me to death, or are you going to fight?” Fiercely, summoning all the power at his command, Arthur attacked.

  * * *

  MERLIN CLIMBED INTO the reviewing stand, next to Gwen, who was biting her lip. Percival was standing there, watching the proceedings as well. “Gwen,” demanded Merlin, “what in hell is going on? How could you let Arthur get himself mixed up in some stupid fight?”

  “How was I supposed to stop him?” asked Gwen reasonably. “You think I want him out there? He wouldn’t listen to me or Percival,” and Percival nodded in confirmation. She continued, “When Arthur gets an idea in his head, nothing can dissuade him.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Merlin mournfully. “Still, I don’t like this one bit.” His voice trailed off, and Gwen turned to him in alarm.

  “Merlin, what’s wrong?”

  “I smell poison.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  He grabbed up the cup, smelled it. “Who drank from this?”

  It was Buddy who spoke up. “His highness did. Elvis brought it to him.”

  “It was just regular brew,” Elvis protested.

  “Well, it’s not anymore,” said Merlin.