“And where have you been ... all that time? You and Merlin?”
“Merlin had been imprisoned in a cave by a temptress, Ninivae. And I ...” He paused. “Are you sure you want to hear this on a full stomach?”
She lay down the drumstick and interlaced her fingers. “I can take it if you can.”
“Very well. I ... after my final battle with my bastard son, Modred, left me with my skull split like an overripe melon ... I was brought to an island called Avalon. It was a place of healing. And when they had done all they could do for me in Avalon, my semiconscious body was also placed in a cave, a different cave from Merlin’s. It was one I think he prepared far in advance, as if knowing I would need it some time. That wouldn’t surprise me in the least; there’s very little that Merlin doesn’t anticipate, I think. It was ensorcelled, temporally sealed so that I would not age while I resided within. Once I recovered, I stayed there, waiting ... until such time that I was needed.”
“I need you,” Gwen said, and then quickly corrected herself, “I mean ... we all do.”
“Of course,” he said. Then he stared at her for a long moment and said, “Gwen ... Jenny ... that’s what I used to call you at ... certain times ... Jenny ... I know this is a good deal for you to comprehend. You’ve borne up extremely well under it, considering the—well, the oddity of the circumstances. Yes, I was your husband ... but I recognize that it was many lifetimes ago, and the lifetime of another woman. Her spirit may live on within you, but you are your own woman with your own concerns and desires. I will not do anything to make you uncomfortable. I have treated your departure from your previous domestic situation, and your stay here, as if you were recovering from a devastating battle. You may stay here as long as you wish, and you may depart this place when you wish. And you may regard me ... in whatever capacity you desire. All matters, all choices are in your hands.”
“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.
ARTHUR 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.
THE 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.”
YE OLDE SOUND BITE
“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.”
CHAPTRE
THE THIRTEENTH
THEY’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 reall
y 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?”
Arthur chuckled softly. “Not that I’d care to share.”
There were befuddled looks among the journalists. “You ... could tell us ... but you won’t? Were you a Don or something?”
“No, no, I’ve always been an Arthur,” he said, which generated a laugh. It was obvious to Merlin that Arthur had no clue why what he’d said was funny, but his polite smile made it look as if he had been going for a joke. But Percival, standing just to his left, very softly murmured something in his ear in such a way that no one save Merlin noticed. Imperceptibly, comprehension dawned on Arthur’s face and he added, “I assure you, my activities have stayed solidly on the side of the law.”
“Then why won’t you say?” asked another reporter.
To Merlin’s surprise, Gwen came forward. She stood to one side of the podium. “Modesty forbids Mr. Penn from doing so. I’m Gwen Queen, Mr. Penn’s press aide.” (Since when? Merlin wondered.) “He could cite you chapter and verse of all his accomplishments, but the problem is that he would be accused of stretching the truth. And we’ve all seen just how destructive such accusations can be. Although, guys, y’know,” she said conversationally, “I have to admit, I never understood why you guys make such a big deal about that. Any political campaign, for mayor, governor, even president ... all it is, really, is one big, long job interview. That’s all it is. Except instead of having one potential boss, a politician has millions. And how many people out there have ‘beefed up’ their resumes, made themselves sound better than they are, in order to make themselves more impressive? Including most of you guys.” There was some appreciative, acknowledging laughter from the reporters. “See? That doesn’t mean that you’re a bad guy, or a nasty guy, or a guy who’s not trustworthy. It just means that you’re human and that you really, really want the job because you know that—once you’ve got it—you can be terrific in it.” Abruptly Gwen seemed to really fully understand that all eyes were upon her and she looked embarrassed to have that much attention. “I’m ... I’m sorry, I’ll shut up now.”
“No, Gwen, that was very well said,” Arthur told her approvingly.
Merlin rolled his eyes. Still he had to admit that Gwen had deftly deflected, and dealt with, a question that could have provided a sticking point. Because Arthur, despite Merlin’s best advice to the contrary, was resolved to be utterly candid and not lie.
Throughout the rest of the press conference, impressively, Arthur stuck to that vow. He answered every question, and if it was about a potentially touchy subject, he deadpanned the absolute truth and usually got an amused reaction from his audience. Remarkable.
One reporter said, “Arthur, I’d just like to toss out a few hot topics, and find out how you stand on them.”
“Let’s find out together,” said Arthur.
“Prayer in school, for example.”
Arthur shrugged. “You mean before a difficult examination?”
“No,” said the reporter, unsure whether Arthur was joking or not—a state most reporters would find themselves in during the months to come. “I mean organized prayer.”
“Oh, of course! Organized prayer in the morning, that sort of thing. Well, I’ve never been one to stand in the way of how someone wishes to worship. However, I recall reading something in the Declara—no, the Constitution, isn’t it? About separation of church and state. It would seem to me that prayer and church are usually equated, aren’t they?” The reporter nodded, and Arthur smiled. “Well, schools aren’t churches. However,” and he smiled that charming, impossibl
e to hate smile, “the ultimate, sacred temple that all of us have is our own body. That place of worship is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Prayer can be held there, in private, in a sincere fashion, without violating any constitution, now, can’t it.”
“But it’s not that simple,” said the reporter.
“Then it should be. What else would you like to know about?”
“Your stand on abortion?”
Arthur shuddered. “Terrible mess. None of my bloody business, though, what a woman does with her body.”
“Are you in favor, then, of state money and government money going to fund abortions?”
“I imagine it’s better than feeding the poor little buggers, isn’t it, once they’re born into unwanted and miserable situations?”
The reporters looked around at each other. One of them whistled silently.
“Are you concerned, sir, that some pro-lifers may find your attitude, well ... callous? That you’re sentencing unborn children to death?”
Arthur regarded him oddly. “I have seen more death, son, than you could possibly imagine. Not to become maudlin, but I value life no less than does anyone else. But life is difficult enough when you come into it wrapped in the arms of a mother who wants you. Coming into it unwanted is more than any helpless infant should have to bear.” His eyes misted over. “I was ... walking a hill once, when I was a young man. And I tripped over something. I got up, dusted myself off, and chided myself for my clumsiness, for I had walked that path a hundred times. Then I saw that I had tripped over the body of an infant. It was still covered in the blood in which it had been birthed, and there were footprints on either side of it. The mother had ...” He took a breath. “The mother had given birth, there in the road, and simply left the child behind. And there it had died, cold, unwanted ... alone. Alone.” He was silent for a moment. No one dared say anything. Then, more softly, he said, “It used to happen routinely, long ago. Unwanted children left exposed upon a hillside. Or women bleeding from their bellies, thanks to the tender mercies of charlatans pretending to be doctors. At a time such as that people prayed for the knowledge to prevent such monstrosities and outrages. Now we have it, it would be equally as monstrous not to use it. Yes, money to help those unfortunate women, when needed. But most of the time, I don’t believe it should be.”