King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  As near as I could tell, Ambrose had to be scrutinizing the Crocodiles’ starting pitcher, who was throwing more wild pitches than a ship trapped on a stormy sea. I do not know what Ambrose was hoping to accomplish—he had no magical powers of which I was aware, and the syllables he was muttering sounded less like enchantments and more like half-formed epithets. I smiled to no one in particular.

  The Crocodiles’ pitcher, the lefty who had demolished my Knights in Game Two, did settle down somewhat as the game got under way and managed to strike out the first two batters in the lineup. But that was all he got; D-Rock Skimmer was patient and drew a walk, and Duke Southmarch, my catcher, batting cleanup, clocked one into the left-field seats for the first two runs. With dozens of cameras floating and whizzing everywhere, the audience throughout the amphitheatre was treated to a gigantic-screen close-up shot as fans pushed and lunged over one another to snag the homer. The man who wrested the ball away from the other fans gave it to a boy sitting beside him. I sent Sandy to find the lad and give him a dugout pass so he could get his treasure autographed afterward. Some intelligent camera operator caught this excited exchange in close-up for the crowd, too, which in turn prompted a close-up of me—not the best image, with the safety glass in the way, but I smiled and waved none the less. A queen always smiles and waves; the masses love it. Ambrose, as a true (if retired) politician, being ever mindful of how he appears on camera, banished his scowl for a toothsome grin until the red light stopped flashing at us.

  On the heels of that two-out rally, the rest of the Knights’ bats heated up nicely, even through three pitching changes. At one point, Sandy shot me a silent question regarding whether I was using magic on the players again; I shook my head, too delighted with the players’ improved hitting performances to take offense. The dry well of their past hitless innings had burst forth.

  Kasef Ali, my starting pitcher, held the Crocodiles scoreless—though not hitless—through six innings when the bull pen took over. The relief men allowed three runs; but by this point it did not matter, for the Knights were already up by nine, six of the runs having been produced in the fourth inning alone. In innings seven, eight, and nine they added six more,—and I could have toppled Ambrose with a feather and sent him home in a wicker basket. To say my Knights had beaten the spread would be a gross understatement.

  By game’s end, I was hard-pressed to choose one player upon whom to bestow my promised reward. So I did what any fair-minded team owner would have done: I selected an offensive MVP (catcher Duke Southmarch at five-for-six and four RBIs, including the first two of the game) and a defensive MVP (second baseman Dennis MacDougal at eight putouts and three assists), and invited them both into my dark-windowed limo for the promised private after-party.

  Sandy understood; he was such a daisy.

  This tremendous blow to Ambrose’s ego and fortune, I later learned, caused him to begin plotting against me in earnest. I suppose I should have expected it of him. At the time, however, I was having far too much fun to care.

  Chapter XXIV:

  A Rival Player

  MY KNIGHTS AND I returned to London in such triumph that one would have thought we already had won the World Tournament, and it was only mid-June. Well-wishers lined the streets in the hope of scoring from their favorite player an autograph or merely a smile, the media published account after colorful account of the Game Four trouncing of the Crocodiles, and excitement—and expectations—ran dizzyingly high. Such as it is with sports fanatics across the globe, in baseball or football or jousting or any other sport of any century you wish to examine: show a few sparks of greatness, feed the flames of hope with a victory or two, and they waft the whole pile into a blaze of epic proportions.

  And yet I was not one to complain; as the Knights’ renown rose in everyone’s eyes, so did my own reputation.

  After a quartet of days to rest, regroup, and retune throwing-arms and bats, the Knights prepared to host three games versus the Asian League Georgia Dragons. Officially, the team is called the Tbilisi Dragons, on account of their home ballpark being located just outside Georgia’s capital city; but since one needs to hail from that corner of the world in order to have inherited all the facial muscles needful for pronouncing “Tbilisi”—along with the rest of their language, which is almost as vowel-deprived as the Welsh tongue—the accommodating Georgians have permitted the “Georgia Dragons” moniker to enter into common baseball usage. Thank God.

  Although the Dragons belong to the Asian League rather than the European League, Knights-Dragons baseball contests are a treat to watch, especially during the seventh-inning interlude when the mascots have a jaunty go at each other. I always find the London-Tbilisi clash somewhat ironic, the formidable Saint George being the patron of Georgia—and Denmark, and Russia, as well as my beloved Britain. The old boy certainly got around; I would not have been surprised to learn of him warding a tribal nation in Africa and a Polynesian archipelago, in the bargain. By all accounts, he had possessed the prowess to do so. Too bad the ancients had already named the constellations by the time George arrived on the scene, or he would have been honored with a namesake in the heavens, too. A dragon is no easy beast to conquer, and said conquest lives on in folk memory for a long time. Sir Launcelot slew a dragon, too…but everyone knows he was no saint, and why. Those sorts of conquests live even longer in memory than dragon-slayings.

  This year’s Georgia Dragons came prepared for a to-the-death fight,—or as near to it as baseball gets. The Knights had their hands full defending our turf, dubbed decades ago at the ballpark’s inaugural game as the Castle; but, thanks to their newly awakened bats, they were able to chalk a victory in the first game.

  While watching them heap up runs in Game Two, I was pleased to accept a call from someone I had not spoken with in ages.

  “Clarice Centralia, as I live and breathe! So delightful to hear from you! You are looking well; I trust all is fine with you and President Malory?”

  That pretty blush of hers colored her cheeks. “Thank you, Queen Morgan, but”—the blush disappeared, along with her smile, plowed under worried furrows—“I’m afraid to report that the President has gotten herself into a little trouble.”

  “What? Is she ill? Injured?” I could feel my magic gathering force unto itself, ready to lash out at anyone who would dare to harm my friend.

  Clarice waved her hands at the screen. “No—no, nothing like that, your Majesty.” She must have seen my face relax, for hers did the same. She drew a breath and continued, “The President will need your assistance and wisdom on account of something that happened during the recent free-trade symposium in Nîmes. She had meant to speak with you before you left the city, but her schedule didn’t have any openings.”

  As replies went, that one was singularly unhelpful, and I told her as much. “What sort of assistance will President Malory require? Can you not give me any details? Will I need to prepare any special…preparations?” I had been about to say “enchantments” when I recalled the line was not secure.

  Clarice shook her head. “When you have a moment, you can do a Net search on President Hinton’s Nîmes interview. I’m only authorized to say that she’ll be in London in two days and wishes to discuss the matter with you privately at that time.”

  Two days meant…“Then please tell her she is welcome to join me in my box here at New Wembley. I will remove all cameras and people, and ensure that our privacy is maintained. Her bodyguards may establish posts outside the box; there is but one way in and out, and the viewing-glass is shatterproof transparent aluminium, so they should not object to this venue.”

  Clarice nodded once. “I’ll make the arrangements. And…Queen Morgan?”

  “Yes, Clarice?”

  “It’s great to see you too!”

  “Thank you, my dear. Let us hope we may renew our acquaintance face-to-face very soon.”

  “Yes, your Majesty!”

  Her bubbly giggle as she was ringing off was drowned by
a disappointed shout by the crowd. I missed the live play because of Clarice’s call but caught the replay: Southmarch had hit a towering fly off a fastball to right-center that looked as if it was going to drop into the first row for a homer; but the Dragons’ star center fielder raced over, bounded straight up the wall, and snagged the ball before it could reach the fans. His landing was not as amazing as his takeoff, but it mattered naught, for he kept tight hold of the ball even as he rolled to his feet. After the out was called, he tossed it into the stands, for that ended the inning. He waved and tipped his cap to the crowd as he jogged toward the dugout, then replaced the cap with a cocky tilt.

  If I did not know better, I would have sworn the fielder had received magical help.

  “Did you see that, Boss?” Forgetting his place, Sandy jostled my arm. I glared at him. “Sorry. But did you see that?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So—he’s amazing! We need to get him for the team!”

  “Do we, now?”

  “Well, yes! We can use an outstanding center fielder like that—he’s way better than Marchand. We’ll have to hurry; the trade deadline is coming up.”

  I did not respond, for it chanced that the player was the first up to bat. After watching a strike that caught the corner of the plate low and inside, and whiffing the second pitch so hard I fancied I could hear the swoosh, he fouled off four more pitches before taking a full swing to send the ball dribbling halfway down the third-base line. It went into the books as a single only because my pitcher couldn’t field it in time to make the play. Impressive…not. While standing on the bag, the batter gave an exaggerated bow to a contingent of Dragons fans sitting along the first-base line. Clearly this man was a legend in his own mind, and yet his followers devoured his attentions as if he were the only feast in town.

  “See, he’s a good hitter, too,” Sandy chirped under the influence of this player’s enchantment. “The Knights need him!”

  “Indeed? And how much would the trade cost us?”

  The fact that Sandy did not hesitate spoke volumes about how much thought he already had invested in the matter. “A hundred thirty thousand pounds, a closer…and Southmarch.”

  “Let me tell you, Sandy Carter, what I have observed of this player for two games now. His batting has been average—with no extra bases and no steals—and his vaunted fielding skills appear to be mere showmanship.” To say nothing of the fact that the man needed a mutton shank tied to his leg so his dog would play with him, but I remained silent on that point, knowing how Sandy felt about such matters. “The Knights do not need a player who is all show and no substance. I will not rip out their heart—which is what we would be doing in trading away our best and most popular player—just to acquire an appendage.” A glass-shatteringly ugly one, at that.

  Sandy’s face crumpled like a soiled tissue. I deduced that he had already spoken to the other side, which he confirmed in response to my query with a mournful nod.

  “So, you don’t want Grigori under any circumstances, Boss?” I again confirmed that I did not. “Then I quit!”

  “You cannot. You are under contract.”

  “Fine. Then fire me. It won’t be the first time.”

  “The Dragons have offered you a job.”

  “Yes—and for a lot more money and a lot less grief than you give me!”

  “Grief? Is that how you view our relationship? Naught but grief?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “Indeed. Then how do you view it?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You know how I feel about you—privately, that is. I just don’t appreciate my judgment being questioned on the job all the time. Believe it or not, Boss, I do want what’s best for the team, and I do know what the team needs; but I can’t deliver it to you under these conditions—it’s like I’m bound and gagged. I can’t operate like that. Either free me to do my job for the Knights or free me to do it elsewhere.” His gaze turned soft and sad. “Please.”

  Oh, God, he used that magic word on me—me, mistress of magic, and I stood helpless to resist its effect. The rage that had built within my breast throughout his speech seeped from me like helium from a balloon, leaving the skin inflated but with no volition to rise from the floor. Quietly I said:

  “Very well, Sandy Carter, if your job means more to you than I do, then you are fired.”

  Again.

  Alas.

  Chapter XXV:

  A Competitive Examination

  IN THE PAUSE between the bottom of the sixth and top of the seventh, while the groundskeepers dragged the base path, and freshened the baselines and batter’s box, and while I tried to shake off the dolor following Sandy’s departure, the Dragons and Knights mascots dashed onto the infield for their little show, which consisted of running in circles around each other, occasionally coming close enough for Sir George (so named at the team’s inception) to poke the dragon with his blunted sword, or the dragon to score a hit with limb or tail. An added attraction was the flame-throwing apparatus concealed within the head of the dragon’s costume, the operation of which drew the requisite oohs from the crowd, though I stood ready with a quenching spell in the event of a mishap. To the mascots’ credit, I did not need to employ it.

  Home-field advantage dictated that Sir George win—reversed whenever the Knights played at Tbilisi—which he did after he and the dragon collided, locked arms, tumbled to the ground, and tussled about in mock mortal combat for a good three minutes, accompanied by the ballpark’s organ and the crowd chanting, “George, George, George!”—the rhythm and pitch escalating as the contest peaked to its inevitable conclusion.

  None of it lifted my spirits a fingernail’s thickness.

  As the game was getting back under way, I received another call, this time from a member of President Malory’s bodyguard detail confirming her visit to New Wembley and pumping me for security details. Annoyed and wanting to get back to watching my Knights, I told him to send a contingent in advance of the President’s arrival to meet with my chief of ballpark security. That I did not even contemplate zapping him for the annoyance bears proof of how low I felt.

  After ringing off with him, I phoned the chief to give him the heads-up. I also texted the board members to inform them of a mandatory emergency meeting immediately after the game regarding the replacement of Sandy Carter. When one member had the audacity to text me back stating that replacing my personal assistant did not constitute a team emergency, I fired him, too, in a text that went to the entire board. No one else replied, and everyone—sans the fired one—arrived at my box for the meeting.

  The Knights, by the by, won 11–5. Grigori, the player over whom Sandy and I had experienced our most recent falling-out, ended the night at one-for-four batting and no RBIs, and he recorded four putouts. With as much emphasis as I had put on hitting of late, I felt justified in my stance not to acquire the overpriced, overblown center fielder.

  The board, while not pleased about another of Sandy’s departures, saw my point. Either that or they did not wish to risk their necks on the block, since I already had proven I was in a mood to chop.

  “Madame, did you have someone in mind as Mr. Carter’s replacement?”

  Indeed I did. It is a fine thing in this business called baseball to be surrounded by experts,—but only up to a point. Their knowledge balloons them to the bursting point, and they begin to adopt airs and assumptions to which they are not entitled, the end result being exactly what had happened between me and Sandy: conflict and chaos. What I needed was someone to assist me, not someone to run the team for me. As Queen of Gore I had my pick of princesses and princes, scions of client kings, with whom to populate my court. These young women and men were, if not precisely my peers, close enough to me in rank that I could trust their behavior and decisions. Dash it all, I missed having royalty round me. I said:

  “I want Prince Peter.”

  You would have thought by their beet-faced, purse-lipped, goggle-eyed reactions that
I had ensorcelled them. Much more of that display, and I would earnestly begin to consider it.

  “I am most serious, ladies and gentlemen. Prince Peter is a staunch Knights fan: he never misses a home game and attends a fair number of our away games. He has already completed his compulsory military service, and his other royal duties—Children’s Hospital Patron and that sort of thing—are flexible enough to make it feasible.” Plus, he was a bachelor, with the face of a god and the body to match, and languishing between romances, if the tabloid-zines could be believed; being third in line for the throne tends to reduce the urgency for a more stable lifestyle.

  One woman had the balls to say, “He’d never go for being your assistant. And even if he did, his father wouldn’t. Prince Peter is royalty, for God’s sake!”

  Dear Lord, the crosses I must bear with these dimwitted people. I said: “So he’s royalty. So, with royalty, titles are everything. Call him ‘Patron of the Knights Baseball Club’ and be done with it. As patron he would be required to work very closely with the owner of the Knights, would he not?”

  That prompted a round of affirmative murmurs and nods, before a board member chimed in with, “What about the Devonshire Devils manager? He has done very well there for several years and is quite worthy of a promotion to the front office.”

  Other “worthies” in the opinion of the board, once their tongues and brains shook themselves loose to rattle about in their heads, included six other managers, a batting coach, and three pitching coaches working for farm clubs across the landscape,—and not a single drop of blue blood among the lot.

  Being queen means always getting one’s way, and in the end, the board had to bow to my wish to invite Prince Peter to become Patron of the Knights, which he accepted with the grace and speed of a leopard on the hunt.