King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  My Knights continued to prosper on the ball-field, I found time to work on this chronicle, Sandy and I cemented our relationship with the exchanging of rings and vows,—and I stopped firing him from the team and even hired his sister Amanda as my personal assistant. For the first time in my strange dual-century existence, I felt truly happy. Just about everyone was happy with the way things turned out except the unemployed politicians, but they had been revealed to be such bloodsucking parasites upon society that nobody cared whether they were happy or not. Nobody except me. I realized the danger this group could pose if they ever decided to marshal their forces against me and try to snatch back the power they had lost, so I tackled the threat head-on: I saddled every ex-politician with a wireless advertising device and charged them to sally forth among the masses with their sundry messages to buy this and that and the other marvel.

  This may seem benign at first glance and an ineffective solution to my problem, for this would afford these disgruntled individuals many chances to interact with their former constituents and foment a grass-roots rebellion. However, I was not worried: after a few weeks of conducting their advertising campaigns, the subtle radiation being leaked by the devices would begin to scramble their brains, a lobotomy performed the barest fraction at a time, eventually rendering them docile.

  That was the plan.

  My chief mistake lay in not forcing Ambrose to wear one, out of deference to his position as Malory’s husband. That decision is the only one I would change had I the opportunity to live these years over again.

  If you, perceptive reader, are by this time wondering why I did not, as sixth-century Queen of Gore, wave my hand and take my brother’s throne, rest assured that I pondered this matter long, hard, and often during this time, too. One conclusion I kept reaching, like it or not, was that I had been born, raised, and trained in the tradition of the divine appointing of rulers, and so deep within my soul I had long ago accepted the right of King Arthur, the brother whom I had despised from the hour of his birth, to the throne of England because he had won that right by freeing the sword and wielding it to unite the kingdom; therefore, my attempts to unseat him failed because I had secretly wished for them to fail. That realization prompted another, no less noteworthy one: hate and love are two edges of the same sword; like darkness and light, there never exists one without the other, and the other cannot be perceived except in the presence of the one. My heretofore acknowledged and long-standing hatred of my brother I began to perceive as a skewed reflection of my even deeper abiding love for him as my brother, as the uncle who had inducted my son Uwaine into the high company of the Round Table in spite of our personal differences, and as my God-ordained liege lord. A lone revelation cannot obliterate centuries of rancor and malice, but it was a start. Watching Sandy strengthen his relationship with his long-lost sister Amanda pushed me even further along this path.

  Once these enlightening thoughts took shape within my brain, they began birthing many more, not the least of which being how I might turn my hand to helping Arthur rather than hindering him, should I ever chance upon the means to return to our mutual century.

  To that end, I performed copious research into ways I might employ available technologies to send myself back in time, since this was the one enchantment that had eluded me, and thus the one enchantment I desired most to succeed. One technology seemed particularly promising: time-folding, the warping of one’s perception of time in response to the age-old plea of, “I want the last hour of my life back!” However, time-folding was yet in its infancy, the only commercially available devices being overpriced curios designed to, for example, prevent a child from breaking its arm. No device of the magnitude I required—to send me backward fifteen centuries, not merely fifteen minutes—existed.

  Or so I believed.

  Chapter XLI:

  The Dictum

  SANDY MY HUSBAND became a far better man than Sandy my GM, Sandy my personal assistant, or even Sandy my lover ever had been. He mellowed considerably, much to his colleagues’ relief. While he still took very seriously his role as my protector, his methods became refined to a sharp reprimand or a withering glare, rather than instigating an all-out brawl. Frankly, I missed the brawls: muscles pumping, limbs flailing, throats growling, sweat spraying, blood spattering, all working in concert toward the inevitable conclusion. But since the rest of the front-office denizens were happier with the new and improved Sandy Carter, I remained silent on the matter.

  It was only fair that I allowed Sandy to transform me into a better woman.

  We decided not to have children for several reasons, not the least of which being that we both were extremely busy. Yes, we could have shunted the child off to nannies and tutors and, eventually, to that grand invention for the rich and parentally challenged, boarding school; but that is no life for a child. I remain very proud of the fact that I had raised my son of a different lifetime, Uwaine, through the bulk of his formative years with very little help from servants, save when my duties as queen demanded my attention elsewhere. Let the record attest that Uwaine grew to become one of Arthur’s most trusted knights, certainly more trustworthy than his own son Mordred had proved to be.

  The level of parenting I had lavished upon Uwaine, however, is nothing short of exhausting. The constant teaching and correcting, punctuated by illnesses and injuries that call for round-the-clock bedside vigils…I harbored no wish to dive into that turbulent sea once again.

  Then there was the matter of my eventual leaving—that is to say, returning to that place in time wherein the day of Sandy’s birth would be centuries upon centuries in the dawning. It was the one thing about which we never spoke, and yet he knew it as surely as if I walked about with the news emblazoned across my forehead. I did not want to leave him, and he knew that, too. But I never belonged in this time, never intended to stay here—certainly never for as many years as I had already done—and he was man enough to allow me the choice. If for no other reason than that, I shall always love him and shall never forget my once and future love.

  Sandy and I were discussing team matters in my office when Amanda entered to announce:

  “Ambrose Josiah Hinton to see you, madame.”

  I locked gazes with Sandy; my intuition blared its warning. Ambrose’s visit had not been expected—but he was not unexpected, either. In that one long moment, I drank in all Sandy’s beloved features one last time, engraving them in the corridors of my memory, as he was drinking in mine.

  Sandy said in an endearingly hopeful way, “Do you want me to stay?”

  I wish he had not phrased it that way; of course I wanted him to stay! Of a sudden I had never wanted anything more acutely in my life. But sometimes wants have nothing to do with the way things must be. I said as gently as I knew how:

  “If Ambrose has come all this way to speak with me, then I suspect he would prefer a private audience. Do not worry, my love, I shall be fine.” I conveyed my further assurances with a kiss that I hoped was more convincing to Sandy than I felt.

  “I’ll wait on the other side of the door. If there’s a problem, just give a shout, and I’ll be here in an instant.”

  Our second—and final—kiss felt deeper and sweeter than all its numberless predecessors combined. It took my full exertion of will to keep the tears from slipping free. At last we parted. He rose, stooped to brush his lips across the top of my head, and left my office.

  Sandy is—was—will be—such a daisy.

  Ambrose swaggered in, and my unshed tears evaporated as if they had never been. Before the door swung to, I noticed he had not arrived alone. Dan Dowley, Douglas Blacklance, and several other ex-Congressfolk had shoved their way into the antechamber only to be held at bay by Sandy and Amanda. The unemployed politicians were not wearing their advertising devices, and their demeanors and bearings suggested the radiation had not done its work on them, either. A cold rage began smoldering within my breast, even as I feigned cordiality toward my “guest.”

>   As he approached my desk, eschewing my offer of a seat, I noticed he held in his hand a larger version of the time-folding device I had researched. I could not resist taunting him:

  “What are you going to do, Ambrose, send me back in time an entire hour?” Suspecting he would not have made the trek if this was all the power his device contained, I slipped my hand into my open desk drawer, withdrew the bound sheaf that was this chronicle, and surreptitiously transferred it to my lap.

  His chuckle was an ugly sound, merciless and menacing. “A bit farther than that, I think. But first we have some things to discuss, you and I.”

  “Indeed. Whatever could I possibly wish to discuss with you?”

  “Have you never wondered why your time-manipulation spell misfired by two centuries?”

  Constantly, but I refused to grant him that satisfaction. “Pray, do tell.”

  He held the device aloft. “On the day you arrived here, I activated its cousin, intending to bring forward King Arthur to be an adviser for my wife’s re-election campaign. Your magic disrupted the technology, and I retrieved you instead.”

  I trilled a laugh. “Please, my dear Ambrose. Lies do not become you—though they drip ever so easily from your tongue. You never intended for Arthur to advise your wife. You planned to consult with him regarding how you might make yourself king.”

  His steady gray gaze carried a measure of grudging respect. “I see your nickname of ‘The Wise’ is well earned, Morgan le Fay. It took my lab far too many years to engineer this version from its predecessor. Perhaps if even one of my scientists had been just half as clever as you…” Knuckles braced on the desktop like a great gray ape, he leaned toward me, grinning maliciously. “No matter. Now that you have made Malory for all intents and purposes queen, it will be child’s play to make myself king in her stead…once I have rid myself of you.”

  He slapped the time-folding device onto the back of my hand. A little red light that I had not noticed before was blinking madly, and I could feel the device heating and bonding to my skin. Rather than waste precious futile seconds trying to pull it off, cat-quick I grasped Ambrose’s wrist. Wielding a sword during countless knighthood ceremonies has gifted me with a passing strong grip. Never have I seen any man’s eyes widen so far or bulge with so much fear. With my other hand I clutched the chronicle.

  “No! Let me go!”

  It was my turn to grin at him, even though the heat radiating from the device was becoming unbearable. If with my last ounce of strength I could shield Malory Beckham Hinton from her husband’s murderous intentions, I would count the pain well worthwhile.

  In the blinding flash that followed, I fancied I could make out the image of Sandy bursting into the room, ever my protector even unto the last. What he witnessed I shall never know…but if his sorrow is—was—will be—as profound as the sorrow that consumed me in that final instant, then Sandy Carter and I are—were—will be—well matched indeed.

  Chapter XLII:

  War!

  HIGH HOLY MERCIFUL God, how my head throbbed! And, oh, how ever so thoroughly I despise time travel.

  “Ho, there! What treachery be this?”

  I had no idea who had spoken, though he sounded familiar. Not Ambrose; his wrist remained within my grasp, and since he was not struggling, I surmised that he had yet to recover his senses. Mine were slow in returning—notably, my vision—though I wished the pain had taken its time in making its presence felt.

  “Morgan? How didst thou arrive herein?”

  My sight cleared to find Arthur bent over me, his eyebrows knotted into the same question. I was not sure how to answer him. We were inside a large tent furnished with a table strewn with a document and dotted with ink pots, quills, and stubby candles. Bishop Gildas, the quill in his hand dripping ink, sat at the table, staring agape at Ambrose and me. We were lying tangled in a heap on the cold dirt floor. Behind Arthur stood two factions of knights—including Mordred—looking as stunned as the priest.

  The parlay tent! Sweet Jesu, we had arrived too early!

  I extricated myself from Ambrose as carefully as I could, but it woke him, and he clenched my arm with cruel force. With his other hand he grabbed my throat and squeezed. My vision began to blur and dim. As if from a long way off, I heard a ragged gasp burst from my lips. Before the world went altogether black, I kicked Ambrose where it would hurt the most, wrenched free, rolled clear, and scrambled up to stand behind Arthur, whose surprise had transformed into wrath. Gritting his teeth, Ambrose lurched to his feet, reaching for the butt of a laser pistol he had concealed beneath his coat, tucked into his trousers.

  “Bitch! I’ll kill you this time—”

  The rest of Ambrose’s threat died in a gurgle of blood; he did not get the chance to draw. At the word “kill,” Arthur whipped his sword free and skewered him like a pig. A full foot’s length of Excalibur emerged, coated with blood and flesh, through Ambrose’s back. Arthur jerked it out, and Ambrose stumbled backward against the table, causing the bishop to leap clear. Ambrose’s rage muted to shock as he grasped his riven midsection and watched the red stain spread for a few moments, before his eyes rolled back and he fell, lifeless.

  “Be thou well, sister?” Arthur asked in quiet earnest. His kind but shrewd eyes took in my full measure. “Why garbed so strangely?”

  I never had a chance to answer him. The menacing whispers of swords leaving scabbards alerted us to another problem: in unsheathing Excalibur to protect me, Arthur had violated the truce terms. I tried my level best to reason with the knights of both factions, supplying answers close enough to the truth for them to comprehend: Ambrose was a powerful new sorcerer bent on the destruction of Camelot who had kidnapped me and brought me hence by means of his black arts to waylay these proceedings, and so on, and so forth. I even tried—Lord God, how I tried!—casting a spell to calm the knights and influence them into being amenable to my explanation.

  And yet there can be no reasoning with unreasonable men. Tempers flared, accusations flew, challenges blared—

  I raised both arms and shouted in Gaelic, “Reothadh!”

  Obediently Arthur, Mordred, and their knights froze mid-charge. Bishop Gildas froze while diving under the table, which was tilted on two legs, the document sliding toward the ground, ink and candles toppling. The quills, forming a skewed X, hadn’t quite hit the ground.

  I threaded the maze of armored bodies, stopping first in front of Mordred. Such a waste! Such an evil, bloody, senseless waste. With but a word at any time during the past decade of his life, I could have turned him from his treasonous path. I raised a hand to within an inch of his face and bowed my head, but with objects and men already showing signs of winning free of my time-freezing spell, I had perforce to keep my prayer short.

  Gazing at my brother, I smiled: his pose suggested a batter beginning his swing. Arthur was a cracking good shortstop—in fact, I had watched him turn the first double play in history—and an even better batter. I stepped clear of Excalibur’s path and touched his arm. The spell upon him melted; he checked his swing and lowered the sword.

  “Morgan! What deviltry be this? Release the others at once!”

  “So Mordred may kill you and all England’s hopes with you?”

  As he stammered a confused reply, I swept an arm—careful not to touch anyone else lest I lose this precious opportunity. All the knights, Mordred included, had drawn closer to one another. The table had dropped further toward the ground, as had the bishop, candles, ink, and quills. The treaty parchment lay in danger of being ignited by one of the candles.

  “I must act speedily to save your future and mine. My magic cannot long hold them.”

  A wave of my hand transformed my suit and heels into the same gown, cloak, and shoes I had worn the first time I had arrived upon this accursed battlefield. I conjured my circlet into place and knelt—for the first time in my life, all sixteen-hundred-plus years of it—in front of my brother. We had ancient unfinished business, him and me,
and I would have rather been thrice-damned for all eternity than let our relationship remain in its sorry state. I said:

  “Arthur Pendragon, High King of England: I, Morgan, Queen of Gore, do humbly acknowledge you as my rightful lord, liege, and master. I swear fealty to you and henceforth pledge my life and my lands unto your good will, upon pain of death in the forswearing thereof.”

  He dropped Excalibur, tore off his crown-encircled helmet, threw it aside, knelt by me, and bowed his head.

  “What I did to you, all of it—I never forgave myself.”

  I pulled him into an embrace and kissed his forehead. “Hush, Arthur. The past is past. The game goes on.” He pulled back and looked at me quizzically. I said, “Our time grows short. I pray you finish your portion, so that I may finish mine.”

  “I never forgave myself.”

  He nodded and retrieved his helmet, and I helped him don it. While I remained kneeling, he stood and grasped both my hands.

  “Queen Morgan of Gore, I accept your fealty, freely offered and fairly sworn, and pledge to protect you and your lands from all your enemies. Rise, my good and faithful servant. And my beloved sister.”

  Beloved sister…I cannot speak for how Arthur must have felt in that moment; as for myself, it felt as if the purest, holiest water on earth had sluiced every last black speck from my heart, mind, and soul. If the intensity of his embrace was any indication, he must have felt it, too.

  However, the spell upon the others was teetering upon the breaking point, and I had more yet to accomplish.

  I held up my palms. “As my fealty-gift from you, I crave only to touch Excalibur’s scabbard.” Arthur glanced at the more quickly unfreezing people and objects, unbuckled his sword belt, and laid the scabbard across my outstretched hands. I clenched it, eyes closed, feeling power flow from my fingers to enchant this non-magical copy of the original that I had stolen from him long ago, so that it would guard him as its predecessor had done. I girded it on him, and he stooped to pick up Excalibur. “Look for me, Arthur, after this battle.”