King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  I must admit in retrospect the move was an unequivocal disaster. It did carry the singular advantage of my being invited to the über-posh Royal Box; but the sex was only fair, and Prince Peter’s public entourage, which included a cloud of hopeful young women, and ever so many photographers hoping to film him with anybody in a compromising pose, was an annoyance of imperial proportions.

  They do not make royalty like they used to.

  One cannot offer a title to a royal and then yank it back again, so I allowed the office of Patron of the Knights to be a symbolic one; that was the sad tack to which the British monarchy had for centuries been accustomed, and so Prince Peter experienced no difficulties with the transition. In fact, I believe he rather enjoyed it, to judge by the giggles and other noises emanating from the Royal Box whenever I walked past.

  Engaging a responsibility-free Patron of the Knights left me one personal assistant short, however, so I took a deep breath, banished my anger, and proposed to the board that they do whatever it took to get Sandy back, even if it meant giving him the GM job and shuffling everyone else thither and yon accordingly. They were not best pleased by this development but acceded to my request. I suspect they knew as well as I did that given the on-again-off-again nature of my relationship with Sandy, it would take quite a sweet pot to lure this bee back to the hive…and its queen.

  Chapter XXVI:

  The President in the Newspaper

  WITH THE PRESIDENT’S visit looming on my calendar, and with the rest of the day as clear as it ever gets (aside from the standing breakfast meeting with the GM, and a long luncheon scheduled with the Knights’ brand-new patron), I employed Clarice’s advice and called up a Net search using the keywords “President Hinton” and “Nîmes”. This combination yielded me over a million results in 0.0023 seconds, the most relevant of which being four hundred thirty-two newspaper articles bearing such headlines as:

  American President Unsympathetic to Homeless Plight

  And the even more damning:

  President Hinton Despises Homeless

  Oh, my. Clarice’s declaration of Malory’s “little trouble” had been an utter understatement. I read on:

  Associated Press, Nîmes, France, 10 June 2085. US President Malory Beckham Hinton flew her true colours to-day in commenting upon the violence that broke out between local constables and a dozen homeless people living beside the amphitheatre: “They brought it on themselves in being too lazy to hold proper jobs.”

  It had been a routine operation to clear the streets for the safety of ticket holders prior to the Crocodiles-Knights game. Investigation continues to determine why these dozen men had resisted being moved, resulting in the death of one and injuries to seven others…

  That was merely the beginning of the Times’ newspaper account—the Times of London, that is, in case you number among the America-centric readers who believe I refer to the newspaper published in New York. And please forgive my habit of using the archaic term “newspaper,” since the day’s news is no longer printed on flattened, dried tree pulp for mass production, a form of communication Sir Boss had tried to introduce during my century with middling success. I had seen his newspapers and was not impressed. As curiosities, they were amusing enough and would suffice for villagers, if they could afford to part with the tuppence a sheet The Boss had charged. But for castle folk, newspapers would not do at all. Give me a choice between hearing the tale of a deed told by the dashing knight who performed it, imbued with all the excitement and glory of the original event, or reading a dry, bland accounting of that same deed on dry, bland parchment, and I shall take the knight any day…or night.

  The other million hits uncovered by my search of course were a million fold worse, attacking the President with all manner of rude speech and derisive caricatures and mean-spirited jests, and for what purpose, really? To give vent to their petty jealousies, and to plump their vanities into believing that some other body in the world gives a fig for their silly opinions, when in reality the only opinions anyone ever cares about are one’s own.

  Opinions are like derrieres: everybody has one, and there exists an excellent reason why people must keep theirs covered except during the brief daily interludes when having to flush what comes out. And people’s opinions waft just as much stench.

  If this is the result of the exercise of “free speech,” then you may keep it with my full blessing—for all the good that will do you—because in the end, you always receive exactly that for which you have paid.

  The laughable-to-the-point-of-tears irony was that the President had been correct in her assessment; I had borne witness to the incident, too, and there had not been one infirm man in the lot, at least physically. Since they had chosen to pick a fight with armed authorities, an argument could be made in favor of their possible mental infirmity,—but that argument can be applied to all testosterone-poisoned men. Therefore, the particular men in question could not have possessed any valid reason for their situation other than sheer laziness magnified by their violent refusal to walk a few steps out of the way of the baseball crowd.

  So Malory had been crucified in print for an honest observation—an observation that, because of the high-profile nature of her political position, she should have kept to herself but for some unfathomable reason did not. Said reason did not matter, though I could guess it readily enough: she was at her core a product of her privileged upbringing and could no sooner act in a manner contrary to that upbringing (no matter how much she was advised to hide it) than a turtle could shed its shell.

  Of course, she had tried to undo the damage wrought by that handful of truth by publishing apologies and explanations and clarifications until she must have turned blue. And of course, none of it had helped.

  In my era, no one would have ever thought twice about the statement she had made: life was brutal by cause of wars, famines, plagues, thefts, late frosts, early snows, too much rain, too little rain, and every other trial and tribulation God in His loving mercy chose to dispense; everyone of every rank and station knew this, accepted it as immutable fact, and either worked hard to overcome their sundry obstacles, or died; and if they died, they possessed the grace to die quietly and uncomplainingly, not while bemoaning their entitlement to a better earthly fate by the mere fact of their existence. But since this was not my era, I saw that I had by necessity to come to the aid of my distressed friend and repair her reputation.

  It sounded so simple. I never foresaw how very challenging that process would prove to be.

  Chapter XXVII:

  The President and the Queen Travel Cognito

  TRUE TO HER word, President Malory arrived at New Wembley Ballpark right on schedule. At least, I was fairly certain that the woman emerging from the dark limo on my private landing pad, shrouded in a dark suit, dark hat, and dark glasses, encircled by dark-suited, dark-bespectacled guards, was Malory. She hugged me as if she knew me, and that was identification enough. She said:

  “Morgan, how lovely to see you again. It’s been too long.”

  It had been only a few months, but I agreed with her sentiment. I had missed her, too, and told her so. “Would you like a tour of the ballpark before we settle in for business?”

  She shook her head. “Another time, please. My security detail advises me to keep my head down as much as possible for the present.”

  That response saddened me more than you might suppose. By this time, had I assimilated enough of the American speech patterns to understand that in her mind, the act of “keeping one’s head down” meant to be cautious of potential dangers; wise advice given the maelstrom of controversy swirling around her. However, in my experience, which numbered decades inhabiting the sixth century compared to the handful of years I had spent till now in the twenty-first, to “keep one’s head down” means unconditional submission, such as a peasant must display in the presence of a noble, or else suffer injurious consequences; and my sixth-century mind equates “submission” with “defeat.” An
d defeat for a leader of Malory’s eminence was tragic beyond imagining.

  For the sake of her well-being—emotional as well as physical—I was glad that my limo’s landing pad featured a private route to my box. Inside the corridor, Malory slipped off her hat and glasses and handed them to a guard; but we walked in silence, and her tension did not begin to dissipate until we had entered my box, just the two of us, as I had promised her via Clarice.

  Malory looked old, far older than the passage of half a year should have produced. Her hair, though neatly styled, was drab and dull and streaked with much more gray than I remembered. Worry lines marred her face. If the circles beneath her eyes had been any darker, she would have resembled a masked robber. Her carriage, once so proudly erect, seemed bowed nearly to the breaking point. I wanted to cry for her but refrained; not only was it against the rules of queenship, even privately, but I suspected she would not have appreciated the outburst.

  I debated whether to cast a spell to help her feel better or offer tea. I selected the latter and rang my staff for a pot; enchantments for enhancing one’s personal appearance do not last long unless the enchantee so wishes, and I knew that would not happen for Malory until she had had a chance to talk.

  To bide the time, I chose a different conversational tack:

  “I suppose you heard about my besting Ambrose at wagering on the Knights’ games in Nîmes?”

  Her laugh was short and mirthless. “That was quite a pile you won.”

  My heart lurched. “That will not cause financial hardship for you, will it?”

  “No. That money is all his, from his mining interests and whatnot. Serves him right for being such a fool with his wagering.”

  I felt it prudent to keep my agreement to myself. It is not politic to denounce someone else’s spouse, even among friends, and even when they themselves are doing a fair bit of denouncing.

  The tea arrived, steaming and aromatic, and it seemed to refresh Malory somewhat. She spent several minutes inhaling the vapors curling above her cup before saying:

  “I don’t know why I said what I said in Nîmes. That was so stupid of me.”

  “The remark may have been ill-advised, but it was honest at its core. I have no patience for able-bodied, able-minded people who choose to beggar themselves, either.”

  “But you’re smart enough to keep that opinion to yourself.”

  “Perhaps merely lucky. I did not learn until that trip that New Wembley also has homeless people living in its shadow. If I had known—but enough about me and about what you said. As I tell my team all the time: the past is past; the game goes on. What you said cannot be undone, magically or otherwise, but it can be covered over in peoples’ minds.”

  “How? By magic?”

  Malory looked so hopeful at that suggestion I wanted to laugh but, for her sake, I did not.

  “Possibly, yes. But I was thinking more of something you might do. Actions always prove more meaningful and effective in the long term.”

  “Do—do what, exactly?”

  Lord God, give me patience; I had no clue she would be this dull!

  “Do you despise the homeless as those headlines suggest?”

  “No!”

  “Do you care about their plight?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Good. Then don’t tell them; show them. Walk among them, ladle soup for them, give them your cloak and tunic, lay on hands and heal them, whatever it is you of this century do to demonstrate compassion for the less fortunate.”

  She seemed so taken with this idea that she smiled—perhaps the first smile in days, to judge by the way her face seemed so reluctant to bend into that shape that I could almost hear the muscles groaning in protest. At length they obeyed, and the overall result was a definite improvement.

  “A compassion tour—that’s it! New York, Seattle, LA, Chicago, Dallas, New Orleans, Miami, DC of course, and any others that would be appropriate. Let the people see for themselves that I care about them, really and truly care! I’ll have Clarice clear my schedule and begin making the arrangements at once. And you’ll come with me, Morgan.”

  Even though she softened it with a, “Won’t you, please?” I knew a royal command when I heard one, and yet coming from Malory, I did not mind it. While we talked, I had been keeping enough of an eye on the baseball game to know that my Knights were well on their way to another victory and could do without my presence for a while.

  I had grown to understand how much value (too much) these twenty-first century masses place on appearances, and how much value (way too much) politicians place on the opinions of the masses. It should not be so, and yet it is—and it solidified in my mind another reason to help Malory become President for Life; as such, she would not have to care one dried, bug-riddled fig for what the masses thought. Why, the events of this day alone had demonstrated to me how damaging it can be to one’s rule if one remains enslaved by the whims of one’s subjects. I doubted whether Malory had accomplished any important duties for her government during the days since falling afoul of the broadcasters and bloggers in Nîmes.

  The termination of that tyranny of a sudden seemed as worthy a cause as any I had ever known, and I counted it a special honor and sacred duty to help bring it to pass.

  Chapter XXVIII:

  Drilling the President

  WE SPENT FOUR days, Malory and I, whipping her flying dragon from city to city across the length and breadth of the land of the free, stopping at intervals to descend from the clouds and visit the not-so-free, who were shackled invisibly but inevitably by the limitations imposed by their abject poverty. The President made a brave go, offering a kind word here and a sympathetic touch there, but something seemed lacking. In spite of all the careful choreography and orchestration, and Malory’s evident eagerness and sincerity, her actions were doing little to resuscitate her flat-lined approval rating.

  New York, Dallas, LA, Seattle, Chicago, New Orleans, Miami: the place mattered not. President Malory would land, be ushered to the pre-selected shelter, soup kitchen, orphanage, or free clinic, spend an hour or two making beds, slopping soup into bowls, dandling children in her lap, or helping nurses administer vaccines—having copious photos and videos taken all the while at each locale—smile, wave, pronounce God’s blessing upon the throng, climb back into the dragon, and whisk her way skyward; and once airborne, she would wonder why she had not made an impact.

  Her handlers, I observed for these four days, relentlessly drilled Malory regarding her outward appearance: hair, clothing, accessories, and makeup neat but not extravagant; voice soft and soothing; gait not casual but not brisk; gaze tender; demeanor as humble as humanly possible for the Leader of the Free World.

  Therein lay the problem, I realized midway through the fourth day. During a stop scheduled for fueling the dragon on our way back to DC, I took Malory aside and said:

  “You have spent four days trying to be someone else. Strike that—as a politician, you have spent your entire career trying to be someone else. Do you even know how to be yourself?”

  Panic dominated her countenance. “What are you talking about? My PR staff, through countless hours of study and research, has determined the image I need to project to maximize my popularity, and that is what I have been doing all this time.”

  “Have you, now? And how is that working out for you?”

  I knew very well the answer to that question, and I had a feeling so did she; I was testing whether she was willing to admit her failing to another.

  The droop of her chin was my answer. A moment later, her chin rebounded, and defiance flashed from her gaze. “What would you suggest?”

  “Emphasis on appearances is fine as far as it goes, but at its heart, it is not reflective of reality. A given combination of dress and demeanor may fool some—and has, no doubt, for the masses are easily duped by appearances, in my century as well as yours—but you must know that your appearance cannot carry much weight unless it conveys who you truly are.
Every king and queen knows this fact without being told, and you, Malory Beckham Hinton, are as much a queen at heart as I am. And a queen always should be perceived as a queen: nothing more, and absolutely nothing less.”

  Several moments passed before she said:

  “‘This above all, to thine own self be true,’ then.”

  I gave her a quizzical look.

  “Shakespeare,” she replied. “An English playwright and poet, perhaps the most influential of all time. He lived a thousand years after you and five hundred years before me.”

  “He has the right of it. You cannot pretend to be one of the masses if you were not born and trained in their company, any more than a fish can sprout wings and fly. The fish can appear to fly for a span, but before it takes a breath, it must return to its native seas. And when it does, all the true-born birds point their wingtips at it and laugh at its presumption and folly.”

  “And that is what you take my efforts for these past several days, presumption and folly?”

  It was dangerous terrain; I knew I had to tread with extreme care. “Presumption, most certainly not. I perceive your efforts stem from pure”—if self-serving, though I kept that remark to myself, for everyone who wields power is self-serving to some extent, myself included—“intentions, and so, I believe, do most of your other observers. What your efforts lack is a sense of spontaneity.”

  “Why would spontaneity be so important to people?”

  I dredged an example from my experience, one I had not thought about in many a year. “At my castle, in my—other life, Sunday was the usual day for giving alms, which I always did with no complaint and a fair measure of generosity. Once, however, on a Thursday as it transpired, I chanced upon a starving waif with no parents or godparents in sight. I was in a mood that day to take him in, feed him, clothe him, shoe him, and shelter him in my royal household. Which act, do you think, made the deeper impression upon my court: the customary or the unexpected?”