King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  “Mr. Carter, you are fired.”

  “Mr. Carter, you are fired.”

  Chapter XIV:

  Defend the Banner!

  SULKING ALONE IN my customary private booth at the back of the Outfield Inn, I gorged myself on the biggest, sugariest pastries the establishment offered and quaffed pint after pint of bitters as if to-morrow never would come. Aye, pastries and beer: the breakfast of champions. And queens.

  The bill came to thirty pounds. I paid my server three hundred and bade her keep the change. She was only a little surprised, for my habit is to pay such an amount with a hundred; but to-day I felt so miserable over the joint betrayal engineered by Sandy and the not-free agent (and his client the Scottish free agent was not Scot-free, either) that I wanted—needed—to know that at least one person in this insane world, where a breakfast that once had cost a farthing now cost twelve thousand times that amount, could be happy by my hand. ’Tis untrue that misery always loves company, as noted by a gentleman two centuries prior to The Boss’s era.

  Misery often does receive company, however, whether misery wishes it or not. The servant wench asked my leave to join me. I am uncertain why I granted her request; mayhap ’twas the fog of bitters engulfing my brain, not all of it due to alcohol or breakfast economics.

  “Ms. Hanks—”

  “Queen Morgan.” I tapped the slim golden circlet embracing my brow as if she needed a reminder, which she should not have, since I (and Sandy, I thought with a silent sigh, ever mindful of the second rule of queenship) have been a faithful patron of the Outfield Inn, and I never went anywhere in public without my crown. The England of this era has long been accustomed to lunatic Druids in the Salisbury district calling themselves “King Arthur Pendragon”—the present one is the great-grandson of the original: political agitators, every one—so having a “Queen Morgan” comes as no shock to these people. I do take care not to tell them that I am the Queen Morgan; being the local baseball franchise owner provides notoriety aplenty.

  The wench’s smile looked indulgent, if a bit saddened. “Queen Morgan, may I offer an observation?”

  “Pray, proceed, Darla, as I seem to have paid for it.”

  “This is about a man—the dishy one you’re always coming in here with.”

  “Brilliant. Yes, the dishy one. Dishy, and treacherous.” I took a long pull of bitters.

  “Lor’ love ye, madame; but all men are treacherous! If you’re lucky, that’s all he is.”

  I reflected, through another draught, upon this spot of rough wisdom. Of all the men I had ever known, biblically or not, in this century or any other, the only man I could not label as “treacherous” was Sir Galahad, and we all know what happened to him. For the couple of you who might not be privy to the story: in brief, Sir Galahad drank from the Holy Grail and fell down dead, reportedly because his soul was so pure that Our Lord God bustled him straightaway to heaven. The fact that Sir Galahad had always acted so damned self-righteous that his Grail-hunting companions had wearied of his holier-than-thou ways probably had nothing whatever to do with his demise. I said:

  “I have treachery aplenty in my life, Darla.” Free agents, not-free agents, other players, managers, coaches…the list seemed endless. “I do not need more from Sandy Carter.”

  “But you do need his love.”

  I shook my head. “With love like that…”

  She was not listening, but had looked toward the line of tall windows fronting the street, across which arched the words “nnI dleiftuO” and, in a revolving pattern of white, blue, and red tube-lights, “NEPO.” I would have taken umbrage at the offense—the server’s, not the fact that the words in the windows appeared backward to my vantage—but I had imbibed too much beer to care.

  Darla said, “You need his love…and he needs yours. Look.”

  My head turned of its own volition; I had not intended to heed her suggestion. Sandy was lingering outside the restaurant, head down, hands in pockets, shoulders slumped, and looking as forlorn as the last lightning bug of summer. As if sensing my gaze upon him, he snapped his head up and stared through the window, pressing a hand to the glass. It looked like a farewell. He withdrew his hand, turned, and began shuffling off; but when I thought he might reenter the restaurant, he kept walking. I watched until he passed from sight, not toward the stadium as I had expected, but away from it.

  Something stirred within my heart; whether love or pity, or some mixture thereof, I knew not. Oftentimes, when the heart is this deeply involved, the two are not unrelated.

  “Well, madame? Are you going to go after him?”

  I dabbed my sugary lips with a napkin and licked them. “Well, Darla? Are you going to mind your own business?”

  ’Twas a passing fair imitation of her tone and inflection, and she laughed as she rose from the table. “If you don’t go after him, Queen Morgan, then I shall.” She jingled the pouch at her waist, which was full to bursting with the morning’s tips, mostly mine. “I needn’t finish my shift, thanks be to your ladyship.”

  The nerve of the wench! As if the peerless Sandy Carter would have the likes of her! I stood and embraced her in thanks. Sometimes even “The Wise” needs a refresher.

  I stretched out my mind, aided by a magical boost, discerned Sandy’s location and direction, hailed a cab, and caught up with him at the street-level entrance to the Wembley Underground Station. He looked surprised to see me, but reserved and hurt. I asked him where he was going.

  “Anywhere. Nowhere.” He shrugged and turned to resume his journey. “You fired me, remember?” I heard him mumble as he began descending the steps.

  No one leaves my presence without my consent, as I archly informed him. “Return and face me like a man.”

  He stopped but moved no closer. “Why? So you can emasculate me in front of all these people?” His wave defined the constant crowd streaming by us to either side; some were casting curious looks our way, but most were busy pursuing their own sundry errands even though they had to know who we were. Our images were not scarce in the local news media. “Do you intend to finish the job you started back at the Inn?”

  “You betrayed my trust! What else was I supposed to do?”

  “You could have asked for an explanation.” He finished his descent and disappeared into the tunnel, swallowed by the crowd.

  I have killed men for less effrontery.

  But that was fifteen centuries ago, when my command was not subject to the law; it was the law.

  I willed him to slow; my heels were not conducive to speedy walking on the level, to say nothing of staircases slick with the detritus cast off by countless careless passersby, the character and content of which I had no wish to contemplate. I could not catch him before he pushed past the turnstile. I gave the device a magical nudge—I never ride these humanity-engorged silver worms and could not be bothered with purchasing a fare card—and followed him to the platform.

  He gazed at me with utter incredulity, for I had never used magic openly in his presence. His jaw worked awhile, trying to nail together a frame for his question. Finally he managed a faint, “What—what the hell?”

  I said, “I shan’t explain here. Come back to the office with me, and I will hear your explanation, too.”

  Sandy looked as if he would rather die than budge. Behind us, a train pulled up, its doors swished open, and the interchange of passengers began, some getting off, others on, jostling each other in the rush, but no one seemed to mind overmuch; all the while a pleasant mechanical female voice reminded everyone to “Mind the gap.”

  In point of fact, I could think of several gaps aside from the chasm between the platform and each worm that arrived and departed with a thunderous whoosh and roar: social, cultural, temporal, moral—each one separating me from Sandy with more distance than the last.

  A queen does not beg. This is so fundamental to the territory of queenship that it need not be enumerated as one of the rules. And yet, as I stood there looking at him and he
stood there looking at me, I felt the oddest sensation in the pit of my bowels, akin to the well-fed man feeling the stab of hunger and not being able to identify the pain for want of comparative experiences.

  I reached my hand toward Sandy, and for the first time in either of my lives I said:

  “Please.”

  The effect was instantaneous. He gripped my hand, hard, and broke into one of his dear, lopsided grins. Still hand in hand, we moved away from the platform and exited the station.

  Note to self: remember to use that magic word more often.

  Later, ensconced in the privacy of my office, I asked Sandy for his explanation of events.

  “You gave me a mandate to acquire MacDougal. Or so I thought.”

  “And you thought you could sneak the salary increase past me?”

  “I did not think you would react that way.”

  “You did not think, Carter, period. We can acquire seven players for that sum!”

  He sighed. “I know. And I am sorry. Truly. It will not happen again, I promise. Am I forgiven?” The lost-puppy look returned in full force.

  I smiled at him. “Forgiven—and rehired.” I sealed the deal with a short kiss that Sandy clearly wished to prolong, but we had Knights business to discuss. “Now, about those seven players—”

  “You really want seven?”

  I laughed. “Might I remind my newly rehired GM that we have the Euro-Asian banner to defend? I will take as many outstanding hitters as you can procure without emptying the team’s treasury.”

  “You’re the Boss; consider it done.” He leaned in to kiss me again, and I allowed it—welcomed it—in spite of his usage of that dreaded title. I had been hearing it whispered reverently among players for quite some time by now and was becoming accustomed to it. With the merest thought, I caused the office lights to dim to a romantic level, even though their usual functions included only on and off. Sandy pulled back and looked at me, surprise and questions painted across his face.

  I said, “I wield far more power than that which is bought with mere money. It is not in idle fancy that I insist people call me ‘Queen Morgan.’” I tapped my ever-present circlet with a fingernail.

  His short laugh sounded nervous. “Not the Queen Morgan, but a descendent, surely!”

  “Dearest Sandy, I am the original, brought forward some fifteen centuries to your time from mine. I am, in fact”—I performed a swift calculation—“sixteen hundred and eight years old.” Sandy said nothing; his silent questions and incredulity remained. I said: “If you believe nothing else about me, believe that if you breathe so much as one word of this to the team, the board, the media, or anyone else, including your bedridden, addlebrained great-aunt Alisande, then being fired shall be the very least of your concerns.”

  He nodded contemplatively. “This—power—do you use it to win games?”

  Of course I did, as often as I believed I could do so and not cause undue attention to fall upon myself or the team. If there is but one thing I have learned in a millennium and a half, it is subtlety, and in baseball subtlety is ever so easy: balls taking odd hops in the infield, staying up a little longer in flight or veering with the wind, umpires’ decisions on close plays, the players’ speed and endurance (skills themselves are exceedingly difficult to enhance, often producing ridiculous results, so I leave those alone); all of it I have influenced at one time or another to achieve the desired result—and not necessarily a victory. The magically challenged would call it “cheating;” I call it “war” (not to be confused with WAR, as it were, Wins Above Replacement). If one wages war and expects to win, does not one bring all of one’s weapons to bear upon the target? Of course one does. I smiled and said:

  “The weather, now and then, at game time.” A sin of omission, perhaps, but not an outright lie. To prove my claim, I summoned a rain cloud and a waft of wind, nothing extravagant, but enough to beat upon the windows of my office for a solid five minutes. Sandy stood agape as the water cascaded down the glass and the people below scurried for cover, umbrellas mushrooming all over the landscape in a multitude of colors like a fairy forest.

  Turning to me, he said, “You shouldn’t do it at all, you know. That ranks up there with the players in my grandfather’s day who juiced on steroids.”

  “Look who is lecturing me on morality!”

  He gave a rueful grin. “Point taken.” He was such a daisy. “Since I’ve promised not to pull any more stunts on you like I did this morning, will you promise not to use your powers on game days from now on?”

  I did, and I sealed that deal with a kiss, too,—fingers crossed behind my back.

  Chapter XV:

  Sandy’s Statistics

  “AND SO I shall become the proprietor of seven more Knights. Who are they, Sandy? Where do they play—league as well as position? What are their stats?” His gaze, still directed out the window, which was still curtained with rivulets of magical rainwater, looked very far away. I felt my impatience swell. “Will you tell me eftsoons?”

  He gave me a startled look. “Eftsoons? Eh, what, eftsoons?”

  I suppressed a sigh. “Yes, eftsoons. As in, sometime before I turn sixteen hundred and nine.”

  “Ah, yes! Of course, Boss. I have to consult with the scouts, the DPD, and the other managers, but you’ll have my full report by week’s end, or the Monday after at the very latest.”

  I knew that would have to do; meetings being a royal pain in the derriere to arrange and conduct, to say nothing of the inevitable differences of opinion regarding prospects’ skills, projected as well as current. It would take at least that much time for him and his subordinates to hash out something approaching what I needed. I dismissed him with a nod, and he left the office, chuckling softly and repeating “eftsoons” as if it were the most endearing word he had ever heard. His manner of saying it made it the most endearing word I had ever heard.

  As for Sandy’s reports, I had seen them many times before and knew what to expect.

  Since I had commanded him to acquire hitters, this of course would be the focus; no Mendoza Line mendacity permitted. Heading the list—not acquisitions, per se—would be all rehabilitating players due to come off Disabled status in the immediate future, perhaps two or three. Then would come writeups of farm-team players, another handful at best, whom Stan Ebnetter, the director of player development, believed worthy to be called up to the majors, my philosophy being that it is always more cost-effective to promote from within, and it fans the hopes of the other farmboys to believe their turn will come one day, too, if they work hard enough, which helps to better their performances and the revenues at their respective ballparks. It being the postseason, free agents would round out the field of candidates, and there always seem to be more than enough of them floating about at any given point till the trade deadline. I wanted seven; I knew Sandy would give me at least fifteen from which to make my final selections, for there are more issues than mere batting average to consider—among my Knights, a lot more. One of the first changes I instituted as owner was to banish the baggy old rejects from a pajama factory for a form-hugging uniform design, which has proven immensely popular, especially within the female age 18–80 demographic. My players must not only play well, they must look good while doing it, which boosts product endorsements, of which the franchise receives a healthy cut. Everybody wins.

  It is indeed good to be queen.

  A typical player writeup began with his name, age, whether a right- or left-handed batter and thrower, school where he played, minor league accomplishments if a farmboy and, for free-agent prospects, world-class affiliations and accomplishments, followed in each case by the acquisition cost, either in monetary or trade-value terms of future draft choices or the outright swapping of personnel. The prospective players’ accomplishments, whether at the minor or major level, were presented in a dizzying jumble of letters and numbers, year by year, pages and pages worth, fielding as well as batting. At first I tried to understand it all: ba
tting average, adjusted batting average, slugging percentage, on-base percentage, slugging times on-base, on-base plus slugging, adjusted OPS, singles, doubles, triples, slams, grand slams, stolen bases, times caught stealing, walks drawn (intentional or otherwise), at-bats per strikeout, speed score, runs scored, runs batted in, runs created, base-out runs added, adjusted batting runs, adjusted batting wins…Holy God, it threatened to drive me batty. And that was just the offensive side of the chart. On the defensive side, not counting pitchers, whose stats stand in a league of their own, sprawled fielding percentage, baserunner holds, baserunner kills (not what I had expected, of course), range factors, runs saved, putouts, assists, errors, total zone data; plus many of these values were adjusted for league-specific issues, standardized schedules, sets of nine innings, and whatever else happened to tickle the researcher’s fancy at any given moment.

  It amounted to a prodigious lot of fancy to tickle.

  This was why I resorted to scrutinizing but two items in each prospective player’s portfolio: his player ranking and his highlight video. All the statistics in heaven, hell, or on earth boiled down to the ranking, offensive and defensive; and the video, which by my mandate had to include well-lit full-frontal and profile facial close-ups, told me volumes about how much extra value he could add to the team. Not all Knights were Adonis rivals, to be sure; but a player not worthy to adorn the portal of Playgirl who wanted to play for my team had to excel at getting to home base, whether with bat or ball, or both.