Knight Life (24 page)

    
“I ... haven't felt so in control for a long time ... if ever,” Gwen said softly.

    
“To be honest,” he said with grim amusement, “I don't know that we ever have a right to feel that way. We are creatures of destiny in many regards, you and I. Sometimes we think we are in control of ourselves when, in fact, we are driven in manners we cannot possibly foresee or even comprehend.”

    
“When do we know that our will is our own?”

    
“We don't,” he admitted. “We simply make the choices we make, and hope for the best.”

    
He rose and came around the table to her, then took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles gently.

    
“Good night ... Gwen Queen,” he said softly.

A
RTHUR LAY IN
bed that night, alone, as he had been all the previous nights. He slid his hand slowly across the empty side of the bed and sighed deep in his chest, deep in his soul.

    
He heard a footfall at his door and sat bolt upright, his hand already reaching for Excalibur. The door swung open and Gwen was there. Candlelight from the hallway illuminated her from the back, showing the silhouette of her body through her white shift.

    
His breath caught as she said in a low voice, “I don't think you'll be needing a weapon, Arthur. I'm unarmed.”

    
She glided across the floor to him and sat down slowly in the empty part of the bed. Arthur touched her arm and felt an inner trembling. “Gwen, you don't have to. Not if you're not ready.”

    
She laughed lightly. “According to you, I've been waiting for you for centuries ... lived many past lives, but you were always my Mister Right. When has any girl had to wait as long for her perfect man as me?” She stroked
his beard and asked, “Arthur? Am I ... do I look as pretty to you as when you first knew me? Back in ... in your days?”

    
His voice choking with emotion, he said, “You are as I have always loved you.”

    
He took her to him as Excalibur glowed in the dimness.

T
HE SWORD WASN'T
the only thing giving off a pale light in a darkened room.

    
Some miles away, Merlin sat in his own sanctum, illuminated by the glow of the computer monitor. On the monitor were the images of Arthur and Gwen, doing the kind of thing that disgusted Merlin since it invariably led to trouble.

    
“I know where it's going now,” he muttered. “Straight down the damned privy is where it's going. I wonder ... I wonder if I have a spell that can somehow turn back time so he never meets the girl in the first place.” He ran the query through Spellcheck but couldn't find anything. In the meantime the gasping and moaning on the screen became a distraction, and he punched up solitaire. As he proceeded to win hand after hand, he sighed. “Kings. Can't live with them, can't live without them.”

Y
E
O
LDE
S
OUND
B
ITE

“And over to Louise Simonson on the campaign watch. Louise?
”

    
“Thanks, Walter. Well, it has now been close to two months since Independent candidate Arthur Penn first clung bat like to the statue of Father Duffy and began espousing his views. In that time interest has mounted as word spread throughout the city, and it has become quite a cachet to have been present at one of Penn's ‘guerrilla stump speeches,' as they've come to be known. However, campaigns cannot be won solely through word of mouth, and so it was that the press was cordially invited one day to the cramped, busy offices of Arthur Penn at the Camelot Building, to officially meet the Independent candidate for mayor of New York City. The results were, shall we say, unique
.”

C
HAPTRE

THE
T
HIRTEENTH

T
HEY'D RENTED A
small presentation room in a nearby hotel. Chairs and a podium were set up. Wine and cheese were served, and the reporters milled around, trying to pump the Penn-for-Mayor volunteers for information. The workers merely smiled, having been primed not to say a word until after Arthur had had an opportunity to address the press. Eventually the reporters started interviewing each other. One of them bumped into a small boy nattily dressed in white ducks and a blue blazer with a little anchor on the pocket.

    
“Hey, kid,” he said heartily. “You should be in school.”

    
“You should be in traction,” retorted Merlin, pushing his way past the reporter to the cheese balls. He glanced in Miss Basil's direction and was pleased to see that she was off in her own little world, as it were, scanning the crowd, serving in her customary guardian capacity. Anything of a sinister bent that tried to obtain entrance would find a very hostile reception.

    
Abruptly he bumped directly into Gwen. She was looking
down at him expectantly. “Well? What is it?” he said impatiently.

    
“You could compliment me,” she told him.

    
“Nice shoes. I didn't know they still made that style.”

    
“I mean on this,” she said, indicating the press conference. “I did help arrange it, after all.”

    
“Miss Queen,” he said with obvious annoyance, “if infinite monkeys typing for an eternity could produce the works of Shakespeare, I think even you should be capable of putting together a simple press conference. But if this desperately minor exercise of talent requires a pat on the back, then it shall be as you wish.” He reached up and chucked her on the shoulder, a painfully fake smile on his lips. “Well done, you.”

    
“Do you think you could at least try to like me?” she asked.

    
He pondered the question a moment. “Yes. I could try,” he decided, and then moved around her for the cheeseballs. She rolled her eyes.

    
There was a rapping at the podium. Percival was standing up front, and in a strong, proud voice, he said, “Gentlemen and ladies of the press, I would appreciate it if you could take your seats. I thank you all for coming, and I assure you that it will be well worth your while.”

    
Chairs were shuffled while the TV camera crews stood to the sides of the podium, checking the lighting and their range. Percival paused a moment and then said, “As you know, Mr. Arthur Penn has been creating quite a stir throughout the city over the past months. His style has been referred to in the press as guerrilla politics. The truth of the matter, gentlemen, is that Mr. Penn has been so busy meeting the people, it rather slipped his mind that he should really be getting to work on the business of being elected mayor of this great city.” There was a small ripple of laughter, and Percival continued, “And make no mistake, my friends, I guarantee that you will be looking
at the next mayor of New York when I say that I would like to introduce Mr. Arthur Penn.”

    
Percival stepped away from the podium as the once and future king made his way from the back of the room.

    
As if reading their minds, Arthur called out, “You gentlemen and ladies are the veterans. The ones who have been in the trenches. The ones who have been doing this for far longer than I have.” As he worked his way through the crowd, it seemed as if he was genuinely looking at, shaking hands with, and greeting every single member of the press corp. “I'm sure you've met many a politician in your collective lives. You've seen all the types—the charismatic ones, the old-boy ones, the intellectual ones, the forthright, the sneaky, the slick, the snake-oil salesmen, and every permutation of human being in between.” Heads nodded all around, silent acknowledgments of what he was saying. He continued, “And I would wager that they all had one thing in common: They all regarded the press as a necessary evil. Something that had to be lived with, tolerated, used, and maneuvered. But I want you to know that I appreciate your role as chroniclers ... as molders and shapers of recorded history. You have a sacred duty to be as truthful and accurate as possible ... and I, certainly, will do no less during our association.”

    
Merlin noticed the almost patronizing looks the reporters were giving Arthur and each other. They weren't swallowing a word of it. Gods, what a cynical bunch.

    
Suddenly, Merlin heard a clip-clopping noise. It sounded vaguely like the beat of horses's hooves. Arthur heard it, too, stopped walking, and turned around. Buddy was standing directly behind him, holding two half coconut shells, which he'd been banging together to simulate a horse's canter.

    
“What are you doing?” Arthur asked patiently.

    
“I saw it in an old movie,” Buddy said. “On the Comedy Channel.”

    
“Well, stop it. It's annoying.”

    
Buddy shoved the coconut shells into his jacket pockets, and without any further interruptions, Arthur made it up to the podium, slapped Percival affectionately on the shoulder, and faced the press. He blinked repeatedly as flashbulbs went off, looked around at the crowd facing him, and then saw Gwen standing in the back. He smiled to her, and she smiled back, almost school girlishly, as he said, “As you will be able to tell from the press kits you should all have, I am Arthur Penn. We've paid outrageous sums for the production of my biography and to have a photographer take a black-and-white photo of me that makes me look as attractive to female voters as possible. So I would greatly appreciate any attention you might pay them.” There were appreciative laughs, and he continued, “I've taken this opportunity to meet with you because I value your function very highly. I am hoping that you will be able to pass my message on to the wide voting public, since I have researched the matter very carefully. For me to speak personally with all of my potential voters would take at least five years, and I'm afraid that I have not been allotted that much time.”

    
He paused a moment and smiled. “My friends, quite simply, I wish to be the next mayor of New York City. I will now take questions.”

    
There was a moment of surprise, and then hands were raised. Arthur picked one at random. It was a slim, waspish man from one of the New York tabloids. “Mr. Penn—”

    
“Call me Arthur, please.”

    
The reporter blinked. “All right ... will we still call you Arthur if you're elected mayor?”

    
“I should think ‘your highness' would suffice.”

    
In the back Gwen stifled a giggle and turned away.

    
The reporter smiled and said, “Arthur ... that was a very short opening statement.”

    
“I was always taught to regard brevity as a virtue.”

    
“Mister ... Arthur, I'd be very interested in your background.”

    
“So would I. Feel free to read through the papers before you to see what sort of records my staff has fabricated.” He pointed to another reporter. “Yes?”

    
“Sir,” said the reporter, “according to this, your primary career has been investing. Investing in stocks, in dotcoms ... in all manner of things. You have no experience in politics at all.”

    
“You say that as if it's a bad thing,” Arthur smiled.

    
“Yes, sir, it's just that ... do you have any track record in leadership at all?”