King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  For at the apex of my invocation, the world turned white with a blinding flash. A thunder-crash deafened me. It felt as if a thousand pins were piercing my flesh, followed by the sensation of all my joints and parts being pulled in every direction at once, to the point of agony.

  I could not hear myself scream.

  Chapter I:

  Crownsville

  I MUST HAVE swooned, though for how long I could not begin to fathom, except to hope that my invocation had cast me upon the shores of The Boss’s far-distant century.

  Simplest plans make for the best plans, and mine was the very image of simplicity itself: find The Boss and kill him before he could journey to my era; and if I could wreak calamity upon his own era in retribution, as he had done unto mine, I would consider justice to be well served.

  Upon regaining my senses, the pain had gone. So had my wounded brother, my dead nephew, and every man and woman in my escort. Gone, too, were the carnage and stench of battle (another mercy, to be sure), the oak, the river, and the plain.

  These familiar sights were replaced by a village of sorts, and yet not like unto any village I had ever seen. The buildings seemed comely enough, and clustered in great numbers, but they were insubstantial, as if the first strong wind might blow them flat.

  The freshening breeze drew my attention to a banner overarching the street. Rather than a device of beast or bend, however, this odd, glistening cloth bore words penned in ornate strokes: “Welcome to the Revel Grove of Crownsville!”

  Said grove proved to be aptly named. I could not turn in any direction without seeing shops selling clothing, footgear, hats, adornments, furniture, armor, weapons, tankards, crockery, tapestries, and many other items whose form and function I knew not; interspersed at convenient intervals stood shops whence wafted the scents of roasted meat, fresh-baked bread, pungent ale, and other enticing aromas; some stages featured players bearing quaint barbaric-sounding names like “Puke & Snot”, spouting endless jests to their enraptured audiences, while upon other stages more serious dramas were being enacted.

  To the smith, glass-blowers, falconers, and archers I paid little heed, having watched their kind at work many times before. I stood amazed, however, by a young man named Johnny Fox IV as he swallowed and then removed a curved sword without eviscerating himself. ’Twas no illusion. His man-apple moved this way and that with the sword’s passage down and then back up through his gullet.

  Everywhere wandered jugglers, tumblers, singers, sorcerers, pipers, lutists, flutists, friars, beggars, tellers of fortunes, and unfortunate fools.

  Yet this village of Revel Grove in the district of Crownsville was surpassed in strangeness by its populace. Some strolled abroad arrayed in raiment similar to my own; but the remainder wore clothing of an altogether unknown fiber, weave, and cut. At first I bethought these folk the peasantry of this realm, but their garments seemed in excellent repair and were far too clean to suggest an occupation of hard toil. Their merry demeanors convinced me I had by mischance stumbled into an entire realm of fools.

  As I made my way down the street named Queen’s Path, marveling at the conspicuous yet welcome lack of horse and dog droppings and otherwise trying to understand my mysterious environs, my conclusions became twofold.

  Firstly, if my spell had cast me into The Boss’s era and realm, then by all appearances it lay not so very far removed from my own. And secondly, whatever the nature of this realm called Crownsville, its denizens had to be celebrating some event of the sort commemorated by much barter of foods and fripperies. I had heard tell of such happenings among the wild Picts of the northern marches, though most of these Crownsville folk sounded quite unlike any Pict ever to visit my realm.

  “Whoa, lady! Ragin’ ’tume!”

  It took me the space of several breaths to realize that the leather- and chain-clad—not chain-mail, but chains draped at odd intervals across his body—creature had dared to speak to me. When my sternest countenance failed to send him scurrying away and did not erase his foolish leer, I said:

  “Begone, thou leprous varlet, else I shall have thy tongue cut out.”

  I meant the threat most sincerely, even if it fell upon me to do the cutting; I am not unversed in these matters. By custom, I carry a dirk concealed upon my person for such occasions.

  He grinned all the wider and displayed his tongue, which had been pierced through with a small silver ball.

  I wanted nothing more than to have disemboweled him where he stood; but lacking my usual complement of retainers had placed me at an uncomfortable disadvantage, so I fixed upon him one final disapproving glare, gathered my cloak about me, and strode away.

  “Hey, bitch, what’s your prob?”

  I smelled, rather than saw, that the varlet had not vacated my vicinity.

  I knew not this disgusting creature’s precise meaning, but his epithet rang clearly. Palpable power coursed through my veins, craving release. I had not suffered such an insult to my royal person in my entire recollection. The denizens of Gore know well the extent of my powers and my will to unleash them.

  ’Twas all too apparent this fool did not.

  However, in deference to the as yet unseen monarch of this realm, I chose to curb my magical display to a level that would neither kill nor maim, in spite of my preference to the contrary.

  I affixed my gaze to his, smiled my most enchanting smile, and with the merest twitch of my hand I said: “Thou shalt go forth from this place in a demeanor of abject humility, and never accost me or anyone else with thy rude speech.”

  The varlet opened his mouth as if to defy my command; but before any words could spew forth, he halted, mouth yet open still, and the defiant light in his eyes dimmed to docility. He bowed as low as any proper courtier, his chains emitting a pleasant soft ringing. Gaze averted, he said, “I—I’m sorry, my lady. I’ve gotta go now.” His tone sounded subdued, if mayhap a trifle confused. Flicking my fingers, I gifted him with another magical nudge. “That is, my lady, if I have your leave.”

  “You do,” I replied; he had neither straightened his bow nor lifted his gaze.

  At that he did both and all but tripped on his chains in his haste to absent himself from my presence. I observed his departure with no small sense of satisfaction as he lurched toward the town’s gates and disappeared past the guards into the fields beyond.

  Loud applause burst forth from the nearby onlookers.

  Chapter II:

  King Henry’s Court

  WHILE DEALING WITH the varlet, I had failed to note the crowd’s approach. I scanned the faces, assessing potential threats, but only a fistful were attired as courtiers. The others were garbed in the strange manner of this realm’s lower class, and therefore stood far beneath my consideration.

  A passing fair young woman wearing a sumptuously embroidered, shrimp-colored gown, its like seen but rarely in my kingdom, approached me with deference and dropped a deep curtsey. While thus engaged, she said, “Please forgive your humble servant, your Majesty. I hight the Lady Jane Seymour, and I crave an audience with your august person.”

  At last, a person who knew her rightful place, even as I had begun to suspect no such creature existed in this realm of lunatics. Not a queen or even princess, for her brow bore no circlet of gold or silver, though surely this Jane Seymour must be more than a mere lady to have been entitled to wear such a rich gown. Regardless of her station, I could fault neither her manner nor her speech, nor refuse her request for an audience.

  “Rise, child,” I said gently, “and speak.”

  She dipped her head lower for a moment, then rose as bidden. “On behalf of all present, I wish to express profuse gratitude for thy dealings with the man hight Casey Shelaken. He is a rude varlet who accosts all who cross his path, and we are most grateful for his departure.”

  Her words carried a pleasing lilt, as did much of their meaning, and yet I felt my brow tighten in confusion. “Wherefore, then, hast not thine own king dealt with this villein?�
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  “Casey has taken care not to be caught,” said she. A pretty grin lit her face. “Until this day, that is to say. Doubtless our king also shall be grateful for thy assistance in this matter.”

  “Doubtless,” I said, though it bethought me to wonder what manner of king would hear reports of such an evil varlet and yet do nothing to rid his realm of him. “And pray tell me, Lady Jane Seymour, who is your king?”

  “Henry Tudor, if it pleases your Majesty, the eighth such monarch bearing this celebrated name.”

  I had never heard tell of even one king named Henry Tudor, but I kept my peace. Well I knew that any man could conquer a village and call himself king until a more powerful adversary assayed for to vanquish him; mayhap the same proved true during this era, too, though privily I did concede credit to this eighth Henry Tudor and his forebears for preserving their control over Crownsville for so many generations.

  In the distance, there sprang forth music that, though faint, bore a distinct military cadence. Lady Jane cocked her head daintily, like a bird on a branch. “Lo, his Majesty approaches now,” she said as the music grew louder, “with the queen, for whom I am most privileged and honored to be but a humble handmaiden, the exalted Anne Boleyn.”

  Ah, thought I in response to the reverence with which Lady Jane uttered her queen’s name. This Queen Anne Boleyn must be a woman of great power to evoke such awe within her subjects, perhaps even possessing power to rival my own. ’Tis ever a boon to make the acquaintance of a true peer of the female sort, and I found myself awaiting the royal progress with anticipation.

  The peasants began stepping off the street to line the way, though they did not appear properly humbled. Perhaps during the days of this festival their king had abolished the customary—and necessary—groveling, although why any king should do so, during any season for any reason, lay beyond my comprehension.

  The peasantry must remember who is in charge at all times, lest chaos and disaster result.

  “Your Majesty,” whispered Lady Jane with urgency, while the monarchs were not yet upon us, “I would be honored to announce you to the king and queen, but being that I have never seen your Majesty visit this realm beforetimes; that is, I—” Gaze downcast, she blushed prettily.

  Since this dear child had not ever sought ill of me, I resolved to rescue her from her embarrassment. “I hight Morgan.”

  Lady Jane, eyes wide as shield bosses and just as shiny, gasped. “Queen Morgan le”—I arched an eyebrow—“Queen Morgan the Wise, wife of King Uriens? That Queen Morgan?”

  “Aye.” The pleasure aroused by her reaction slid into concern. “Be there another? An imposter, mayhap?”

  “Oh, no, your Majesty! Please, I crave thy merciful pardon for my slow wits.”

  “Indeed,” said I, “mayhap thy wits are not so slow that thou canst tell me the name of the country unto which I have arrived. Be it”—I searched the chambers of my brain for the word one of my spies had reported The Boss as having uttered once while he slept—“Connect-cut?”

  Confusion clouded Lady Jane’s face; but before she could answer yea or nay, King Henry and Queen Anne descended upon us with pomp and flourish of trumpets, pipes, and drums.

  Lady Jane curtseyed before her sovereigns. I, of course, did not. After the king bade her rise, she announced my presence as finely as any herald. I repeated my query to the king.

  “Ah, Connecticut. Nay, fair Queen Morgan, that land lies many leagues to the north.” After nodding northward, King Henry spread his arms wide. “I bid thee well come to Crownsville, and I further bid thee and thy comely companion”—King Henry smiled at Lady Jane—“to join us at the feast anon.”

  Queen Anne cast her liege husband a disconcerted glance but glided forward, smiling and extending both her hands toward me, which I did grasp warmly; and she said: “Aye, Queen Morgan, thou art ever well come to feast with us on this most glorious of Saturdays, the twenty-third day of September in the year of Our Lord fifteen thirty-four.”

  If I could lay head to heel the bodies of every loser of every tournament in every realm since the birth of Our Lord, even should such a line compass the entire kingdom, ’twould not come nigh unto compassing my anguish upon hearing that my enchantment had missed its mark by more than three full centuries.

  I concealed my dismay as I accepted the royal invitation.

  Chapter III:

  Knights of Crownsville

  I HAD INTENDED the enchantment to carry me to the year of Our Lord eighteen seventy-nine, for to waylay The Boss before he ever attempted the journey to my era, and mayhap prevent his sorcerous atrocities from plunging my realm into wrack and ruin. The land had to be set to rights; what choice had I else? ’Twas an ambitious desire, I confess, and yet I had possessed every confidence that I would achieve success.

  Never had such a calamity of the arts befallen me.

  More calamitous still, the mishap had robbed me of the volition to assay the invocation yet again, for I knew not how to correct my error. Mayhap ’twould send me far back unto the days of the conquest-thirsty Romans, the brutal Celts…or worse.

  Mayhap ’tis my doom to spend my remaining days ever wandering from age unto age as punishment for my presumption.

  “Good my lady queen,” said Lady Jane after her monarchs had moved some distance ahead, “let us hie ourselves to the feast. I mean no disrespect, but meseemeth thou standest in sore need of refreshment.”

  She had the right of it. I allowed her to guide me to the open-air feast, surrounded by the folk of this realm, whom it suited me to ignore, such was the depth of my distress. I had no course but to ride the events to their conclusion and pray that I might be offered some other opportunity for redemption and revenge.

  Meantime my body needed sustenance, and the feast offered it in plenty: seafood of which I was fondly familiar, such as shrimps, mussels, and oysters; well-spiced crabmeat cakes that were new to my taste and touted as a specialty of the realm; enormous legs of a smoked fowl called turkey; steak on a stake; and flavorful sausages that made me yearn for my beloved Sir Accolon’s…companionship.

  Alas, Accolon, the comeliest of men and manliest of lovers! Now dead and lost to me forever, his dust has long since enriched the land wherein he lies; and no force on earth, magical or otherwise, could change this dolorous fact.

  I pushed aside my trencher piled with the delicious fare and took a long pull of the pale beer which flowed in abundance at every table, high and low. Dark brown ale remains my lifelong preference, though Crownsville’s bitter brew seemed a fitting salute to my present estate.

  I took another pull.

  “Queen Morgan, is aught amiss with thy victuals?” asked Queen Anne from her place betwixt me and her husband the king.

  I struggled to summon a courteous smile for this kind but unfortunate woman. Throughout the meal, King Henry had devoted his attention to Lady Jane, whom he had commanded to be seated at his right hand. It took no great feat of mind to imagine what the king must be doing with that dexterous hand when he was not using it to gesture toward some knight or noble he was addressing. Even through my flagging spirits I could see the queen making a valiant effort to overlook her husband’s behavior and cheerfully converse with the courtiers seated near her.

  My heart lurched. ’Twas a picture, in reverse, of what others must perceive when observing my husband King Uriens and me together at table. My lord Uriens is—was—far older than I; and soon after our son’s birth, he ceased craving the pleasures I can and do offer men, as Sir Accolon can—could—attest.

  This thrice-cursed shift in time was making my head throb.

  In answer to the queen’s inquiry and in an attempt to dispel my mood, I shook my head, slightly, lest I worsen the throbbing. I pressed a hand to my temple. “My recent…travels have fatigued me, fair Queen Anne,” I said. I raised my tankard, and an attentive servant filled it. “This brew doth succor me.”

  “Of a sooth,” said she, also lifting her vessel for refil
ling, and we drank deeply together, leaving each to her own private remembrances. I could almost see Queen Anne’s for a moment, reflected in the distant green pools of her gaze. Verily I could have seen them magically, had I wished to pry.

  Lady Jane and the king shared some private jest.

  “’Tis but a passing infatuation,” I whispered to Anne.

  “And well I know it.” The queen nodded decisively, recalling upon whose brow sat the feminine crown.

  “Have you given your lord husband an heir?” I asked.

  Her smile turned bittersweet. “Aye, of a sort. We celebrated the first anniversary of the birth of Princess Elizabeth a fortnight and two days ago. The princess has no sisters or brothers—from my body—yet.” Queen Anne’s soft sigh could only mean there had to be at least one royal bastard boy to threaten her daughter’s claim to the crown. “I, and the king, of course remain hopeful that Our Lord shall see fit to bless us with a boy-child in the future.”

  “Of course.” I turned my gaze toward the reportedly hopeful king, but read him to be hopeful of other sport.

  In truth he appeared hopeful of the same sport, but with a different sparring partner.

  Men of every era and every station of every realm are the same: they think with their lances, and what passes for brains in their skulls would make entire gardens bloom. At times I should like to round up the entire lot and rack them.

  Feeling my disapproving glare upon him, King Henry gazed back at me, reached a decision, and crashed fist to table with a platter-rattling thud, drawing every gaze upon himself. In a voice modulated to carry over the deafening din of full-flowering battle, he said—

  “Let the entertainment begin!”

  His command was greeted by loud applause and shouts from those seated at the lower tables. Up till this moment, we had been entertained by musicians and dancers and singers and jugglers and acrobats, most of whom I had noted during my earlier sojourn through the village. Absent were hounds such as those that had frequented the feast hall of my castle, and whose growling, snapping scuffles over the occasional spent bone had provided an amusing ambience for each meal.