King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  Chapter XXXVI:

  An Encounter in the Dark

  A QUEEN NEED offer accounting of her actions to no soul save her priest; with a team owner, it is different. I had perforce to notify the board and my staff of the outcome of my investigation into the Ogres. The manager I had sacked was a former teammate of the GM, who had on several occasions lobbied for his friend’s promotion within the franchise. This factored large in my insistence upon settling the matter myself; he knew I was trying to get Sandy back as GM—and thus far with no success, alas.

  The GM was not pleased with my report.

  “You sacked him right then and there? Without a trial to prove the charges!”

  “There will be a trial, Ewan, I assure you, and I will press charges to the fullest extent of the law.”

  “An embezzlement conviction will ruin Malcolm in baseball. No team in the world will hire him!”

  “That was his risk to take, and he was caught. No man steals from my players, even the very bread from their children’s mouths, and walks away to spread his evil elsewhere.”

  A noise akin to a cross between a growl and a groan sprang from deep in his throat, followed by, “Bitch!” and he lunged across the table toward me like a foaming lunatic. I could have dealt with him using a spell, but not without revealing my secret, and I was curious how far Ewan would go. He tore the lapel of my blazer before some of the other men pounced, pulled him back, and restrained him.

  Here I missed Sandy most acutely. He would not have been satisfied with the capture, but would have pummeled the man’s face into the semblance of hamburger—which would have necessitated my levying upon Sandy yet another fine and suspension, but I would have appreciated the retaliatory gesture nonetheless. Upon further reflection, I realized none of that would have occurred; Sandy would have attended the meeting as GM, and Ewan in the capacity of Assistant GM would have heard the report second-hand.

  “Ewan McBain, if you touch me ever again, I promise you shall not live to regret it.” I smoothed my lapel as best I could until a private moment when I could repair the tear, also smoothing away my memories of Sandy, though they remained like tide-washed footprints upon a deserted beach; and I turned to depart but tossed a parting shot over my shoulder. “And, by the by, you are fired. You and Malcolm will have plenty of time with each other, as I shall see to it nobody in baseball hires either of you. Gentlemen, ensure he vacates his office and these premises as swiftly as possible.”

  I heard rather than saw Ewan’s futile struggles to break free of the hands gripping his arms and shoulders as I left the chamber.

  Although outwardly I displayed naught but serenity, as befitted my rank and station, inside my emotions and thoughts were churning. I railed against Ewan McBain for losing self-control—the centuries have not cooled that wild Celtic blood by even half a degree—and against Sandy for not being present to prevent the incident from happening altogether. Mostly Sandy; Ewan, I could not have given a brimming pisspot for. Before long, as these things perversely happen, Sandy was consuming my thoughts, even to the point of forgetting my torn lapel. I craved air and exercise to clear my brain.

  Since I had become such a well-known figure throughout London in general and the stadium district in particular—and since my local precinct had stepped up patrols in the wake of the Nîmes debacle—I felt safe enough to adopt the habit of walking the several blocks to my home, rather than taking my team limo. In the London of my native era, I never would have attempted such a foolish feat without an armed escort at least a half dozen strong; the ancient town was dark and dank, its narrow, winding streets squelched with mud and all manner of stinking refuse, beggars huddled together in doorways for warmth, and one could count upon a cutpurse—or worse—lurking around the next corner.

  To-day’s London streets were well-paved, well-swept, well-lit, well-patrolled, and well-traveled by pedestrians and all manner of conveyances, large and small, with the exception of the greensward that sprawled along the route between New Wembley and my abode, which featured sparse lighting, copious vegetation, a sizeable duck pond, and narrow gravel footpaths curving pleasantly throughout. Usually when walking home at night I stay upon the sidewalks paralleling the streets. This night, with my heart full-tilt yearning for Sandy, I angled into the park to rest awhile on one of the benches and indulge in my memories.

  I should have kept to the streets.

  Under the moonlight, I had my favored bench in sight—on the pond’s bank, where Sandy and I had shared many a fine, soft evening staring out over the water and murmuring about nothing in particular—when I passed a shrubbery, and a shadowed figure leaped upon me!

  Magic would have felled him at once, and I could have moderated the spell to disable rather than kill him, but fear fired by the moment’s heat locked those thoughts from my mind. As he tried to wrestle me to the ground, I reached into a concealed pocket, drew the dirk I always carried upon my person for such emergencies, and slid it home. My assailant collapsed, dragging me down with him. His moans and half words sounded familiar…before they ceased altogether.

  My heart hammered like a blacksmith’s tool; my chest, the anvil. I drew a deep breath, shoved the man off me, rolled him over, and gasped.

  It was Ewan McBain; note well the word “was.”

  I fled the scene and hurried for home, urged by the erupting chorus of, “Weee-oo, WEEE-oo, WEEE-OO!”

  Chapter XXXVII:

  An Awful Predicament

  PRADA HEELS MAY turn many a head, but they are sheer hell for running. A constable stopped me before I could exit the park.

  “What happened back there, missus?”

  “A man attacked me. I defended myself and escaped.”

  “He’s dead, you know.”

  “Is he? Oh, my!” Of course I knew he was dead; it seemed best to play dumb.

  “Your name, missus?”

  I felt more than a trifle taken aback that the constable did not recognize me, and so I did not answer right away. The constable was not pleased to repeat the query.

  “Morganna Hanks, owner of the Knights.”

  “Right. Prove it. Show me your ID, please.”

  I could not, I realized with mounting dread. “I—may we go back? I must have dropped my purse in the scuffle.”

  The officer agreed, but even with the aid of her LED torch, my purse remained out of sight. It must have gotten kicked into the pond—or else it was trapped under Ewan, in which case it would not be recovered until the forensic team had had their way with the body and any items recovered with it. Said team was arriving just then, heralded by screeching sirens and accompanied by many other officers and onlookers who, sadly for the latter, had nothing better to do of an evening than to watch a corpse cool.

  I had no choice but to submit to arrest.

  Almighty God, if I ever have the misfortune to travel forward another fifteen centuries to encounter another such brush with police again, it will be far too soon.

  Being that it was by now pushing midnight, the desk sergeant looked bored when we entered the precinct. That changed in an eyeblink. “Good God—Morganna Hanks?”

  “She says she is but can’t prove it. No ID. You really think it’s her?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’d bet a month’s pay on it. What’s she in for?”

  The arresting officer grinned. “Murder.”

  Alleged murder, I thought. Both of them looked at me strangely. Had I said it aloud? I had no idea; my thoughts were whirling faster than a pinwheel in a hurricane.

  “Good God.” The desk sergeant’s tone was not unkind. “Madame, you look—I mean no disrespect, but you look like you could use a spot of tidying up before we in-process you. Would you like to do that?”

  As I nodded, the constable uttered a low whistle. “It must be her. I’d heard tell about Ms. Hanks’s effect on men; never thought I’d see it in action for myself. Fine. Come on, lady, this way.” She tugged me toward the women’s WC. “Before you have every man in the pl
ace stumbling all over themselves.”

  The strange thing was that I had not done anything magical to engender the man’s sympathy—except perhaps to portray the semblance of a damsel in distress. That was no act.

  She and I squeezed into a space intended for one, and she watched me repair my countenance as best I could with water, soap, and my fingers.

  In-processing was conducted in the manner of a dance; I was ushered in a stately fashion from one room to the next for photographing, electronic fingerprinting, examining, documenting, and questioning. At some point, I asked whether I could call someone, and the female constable who had appointed herself my guardian led me to a cracked and faded monitor bolted to a hallway wall.

  “Local calls only,” she stated.

  Right. At this hour, with the GM dead, the trustees abed (and I was not on the best of terms with most of those toads, magical influence or no), and the team’s lawyers all engaged with handling the other scandals, who else in London—or in all of England, for that matter—was I going to call? I enchanted the phone to produce the tones for overseas dialing and called Clarice. The line sounded as if it had opened, but the picture remained blank. My gut twisted. I had wasted my lone allotted request.

  “Hello? Centralia.”

  How sweet, how utterly marvelous it was to hear her voice!

  “Clarice! It’s me, Morganna Hanks!” I knew she would recognize my voice; I used my false name to clue her in to the fact that I stood among people who did not know me by my ancient identity.

  “Ms. Hanks? I can hear you just fine, but I can’t see you.”

  “This phone does not work properly. I am in a London police station—in a spot of trouble—and I need help. Do you think Malory might have a lawyer or two she could spare me? It is a long story.”

  “O-h-h-h…Ms. Hanks, I am so sorry!” If she happened to be watching the same SNN newscast that was blaring on all the police station’s monitors at that precise moment, showing the crime scene in the park and my alleged involvement therein—complete with my awful police picture, damn them all with the fleas of a thousand hermits—then I could well understand all her hyphens and ellipses. “Don’t worry, Ms. Hanks! Sit tight, try to relax, and I’ll send help right away, I promise!”

  I thanked her and rang off. The constable conducted me to a stark holding cell, motioned me in, and locked the door. The tumblers snapped into position with an echoing click. For the first time in my life, I knew the terror of my dungeon’s denizens. Panic clawed at my gut. I willed myself not to be queasy. Worry escalated when it seemed my will might not prevail.

  “I knew the terror of my dungeon's denizens.”

  I did not doubt Clarice for a moment. What I did doubt was whether help could arrive soon enough. Because of my celebrity, the investigation proceeded at a blinding pace, proven by the fact that not an hour later I was escorted back to the interrogation chamber and informed that they had found my ID underneath the body, and that witnesses had come forward in regard to that evening’s team meeting. The police inferred from the report of my final statement to McBain that I had entered the park intending to kill him. No amount of denial could convince them otherwise. And why should it have? A guilty person also would have employed the exact same tactic. “Stretching the truth” does not carry the same meaning as it did in days of old.

  Back in the holding cell, my spirits shed the mantle of shock and plummeted. Sleep was impossible. In truth I could not even try—especially when the door opened to admit other prisoners, a trio of scantily clad, heavily made-up women who traded sex for coin. They eyed me lasciviously. I shut my eyes and did my best to ignore them.

  “What’cha in for, ducky? Drunk and disorderly?”

  I opened my eyes to mere slits and glared at the women. Unable to discern which had addressed me, I directed my reply toward them all. Mindful that we were being monitored, I phrased it carefully:

  “They believe I killed a man.”

  Their blood-red lips drew up like little bows, but no sounds emerged for several heartbeats. Finally one sucked in a deep breath and on the exhale said, “Right, then.” They fell to murmuring among themselves and did not look at me after that, except to cast an occasional furtive glance in my direction, no doubt trying to puzzle out how I had done it and why,—and whether I was mad enough to turn on them.

  The sheer hell of it was that I had killed before by my own hand, and for far less reason; but never had my rights, my motives, my very honor been called into question.

  Never had any queen sunk so low.

  Chapter XXXVIII:

  Sandy and the Lawyers to the Rescue

  IT HAD TO be nearing the hottest hour of the afternoon, four of the clock or so, to judge by the mounting heat in the cell. We were all sweating copiously by this time—even me, who had never sweated a drop in her life. What of my magic? One needs focus to summon even the shortest perspiration-suppressing spell, and I was in such a state of jumbled nerves and emotions that focus was quite impossible, and not for want of trying, either. Visualization being the most reliable means, I meditated on all the ways I could enchant the guards into unlocking my cell and letting me walk free, attributing events to a misunderstanding—to no avail. I could no sooner enchant the guards than I could fly to the moon.

  When I thought I might suffocate from the heat and equally stifling company, the door opened and a guard poked his head in. He said, “Morganna Hanks, come with me. They need you in interrogation again.”

  Neither his tone nor his demeanor carried any clue regarding why I was being summoned, and my direct question produced no more than a bored shrug from him. I could not decide which concerned me more: my predicament, or the fact that I had lost my influence over men.

  My spirits sagged lower as I trudged down the hall beside my guard. Surely the investigators wanted to ask a few final questions of me before levying formal charges. Yes, that had to be it, I convinced myself. I would be questioned, charged, and transferred to a more permanent facility pending trial. If a reprieve had been in the offing, the guard would have told me.

  These dismal thoughts did not prepare me for the sight awaiting me inside the interrogation chamber: six of Malory’s lawyers…and Sandy!

  The guard let me go, and I all but flew into Sandy’s arms, kissing him and hugging him and fondling his face as if I had not seen him in a hundred years. What of the queenship rules for decorum? The night of terrors had stripped off that façade layer by layer, leaving me a frightened woman so pitifully grateful to see a beloved face. Finally I comported myself enough to say:

  “My God, Sandy, what are you doing here? I thought you were still with the Georgia Dragons!”

  “You can thank Clarice for tracking me down—in Krakow, of all places. The Dragons versus the Red Dragons, there’s a series for you—”

  “But why?”

  “Why did I come? When Clarice told me you were in trouble, I had to help. I couldn’t leave you to the tender mercies of the police and the media, no matter how angry I might be with you.”

  “And…are you?”

  “Still angry?” He cupped my cheek and gazed deeply into my eyes, sending a thrill down my spine. “That is a conversation for later. Now, we”—his arm gesture encompassed the legal team—“must get your version of events and see what we can do with it.”

  So I was questioned at length and by everyone in the room, but nobody was unkind or unsympathetic. At the team meeting, did McBain try to assault me? Try to, no; succeeded, yes, and in corroboration I pointed to my blazer’s torn lapel. Did I say what everyone claimed I had said after that? Regrettably, yes. Did I mean it? Only in the context that I had intended to fire McBain if he crossed the line like that again. Why did I choose to walk home? Because he had made me upset. Why did I choose to enter the park? Again, because I was upset. That I said gazing at Sandy, and by his nod I knew he understood my implication: that I had been brooding over his absence and had wanted to sit on our favorite bench to remini
sce. Did I know McBain was in the park when I decided to enter it? Absolutely not. Was it dark? Oh, yes. Did I recognize McBain? Not while he was grappling with me. Was I in fear of my life? Absolutely so.

  Then came the kicker. Did I intend to kill my attacker?

  The Lord Jesu Christ advised that one should always let one’s yes be yes and one’s no be no. So I let my yes be:

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It is how I was taught. If one fears for one’s life, it is always prudent to eliminate one’s adversary, lest he rise up to attack again. I made sure my adversary would not rise up again, but I did not know the man was Ewan McBain until after he was dead. If I had known when he first accosted me, none of this ever would have happened, I assure you.”

  “Did he pull a weapon on you?”

  Had he? I tried to envision the scene but could not be certain. I said:

  “Gentlemen, in my experience, when a man makes violent contact with a woman, the outcome is never pleasant for the woman. My assailant made violent contact with me, and I could not take the chance that he was armed. When I saw an opening, I used it to my advantage.” I threw Sandy an imploring look. “You know I am not in the habit of murdering my employees!” If I sounded shrill, I could not help myself; my queenly composure had yet to return.

  Sandy smiled. “We know. And I believe you. They”—he nodded at the lawyers—“don’t have to. It’s only their job to defend you.”

  I returned his smile, though my lips felt reluctant to bend in that direction, reeling yet from the night’s traumas. “It is enough for me that you believe.”

  “Good.” As if in response to some unseen signal, he and the lawyers rose, and they began packing up their notes.

  I drew a breath and clawed for calm, despite the renewed hammering of my heart at the thought of being left alone again. “So…what is to happen now?”

  Sandy replied, “We must talk to the other witnesses. You’ll have to stay here awhile yet, but you’ll be safe from reporters. Soon after the initial SNN broadcast, the WBF Commissioner clamped a lid on this story until all the details can get sorted,—but that injunction won’t stop a scoop-hungry reporter who sees you on the street.”