King Me!

by Deborah Blake

  He was surprised that she had no husband, even with her bad temper and stubborn ways. After all, no woman was perfect, and she did run a successful business on her own, keep a house with no help from servants and manage that giant of a cat. No easy task, of this he was certain. And not only was she smart and beautiful, but she was loyal to a fault. Arthur had no doubt that she would lay down her life without a second thought for any of her friends.

  He glanced at her, admiring the curve of her cheek as she looked at the road ahead. How strange that when he finally found a woman he thought he might be able to trust, it turned out to be this willful creature in her foreign world. It was a pity she had not been born in his time—she might have made some man a good queen. Not him, of course, but someone.

  As she turned down the road that led to her street, Morgan took her eyes off the road for a moment and glanced at Arthur from under her eyelashes. He had been strangely quiet since they’d left the airport. Not that it had been an uncomfortable silence; quite the contrary. She actually found his presence sort of soothing, at least when they weren’t arguing. She supposed she was getting used to the big lummox. It was a bit like having another ET around: mostly pleasant, when he wasn’t yowling at you or breaking something.

  Her quick glance showed her a pensive look on Arthur’s face. He was probably deep in thought about their plan to send Michael into the heart of their enemy’s territory. Morgan was worried about that too, although she’d tried to stifle it after the fifth time Michael called her a mother hen.

  After all, what was the worst thing Fay could do if she discovered that Michael was double-crossing her? Kick him out of the movie and send him home, probably. Although Morgan suspected that Michael would rather be turned into a frog than lose his chance to take the movie world by storm. Besides, Fay wouldn’t suspect him, right?

  Morgan bit the inside of her lip and tried to distract herself. There was no point in fretting about her friend; it was out of her control, and besides, he was a big boy and could take care of himself.

  Which left her free to take care of the really big boy sitting too silently next to her. When they got back to her house she would have to call the other coven members and get them to come over and cheer him up. Davis had sent her an email earlier saying he thought he might have a new lead on Merlin’s whereabouts, so they could follow that up. Maybe she’d make lasagna for dinner. They’d never heard of it back in Camelot, and it was Arthur’s new favorite meal.

  Not that she was going to wait on the man hand and foot—which seemed to be what he expected—but it wouldn’t hurt to make him a special dinner after a hard day. After all, it couldn’t be easy, getting used to all this modern stuff. She’d thought he was going to faint when he saw his first airplane rise above the clouds.

  Still, he’d adjusted much better than she’d expected. He’d mastered indoor plumbing, thank the gods, and could even make himself microwave popcorn without burning down the house. The other day he’d fixed the back door so it hung straight, something it hadn’t done since ET tried to chase a mouse through the locked cat flap.

  In fact, the man had turned out to be surprisingly handy around the house. Apparently hammers and nails hadn’t changed much since his time, and even kings knew how to fix things. At least this king did. The more Morgan got to know him, the more she realized that Arthur wasn’t much like her idea of a traditional king.

  Not that he wasn’t regal—heck, even the man’s hair was regal, shining like fire in the sun that came through the car window. Even now, dressed in blue jeans and a cotton tee shirt, he had “king” written all over him. When she’d taken him into the shop with her, she’d noticed how her customers all seemed to unconsciously treat him with respect. Old Mr. Clements had even asked his advice about a book, and he’d never asked for hers in all the years he’d been coming in.

  But Arthur was somehow humble at the same time. Not with her, of course. When he talked to her he always seemed to be looking down that great beak of a nose, like an eagle glancing down at a wren while trying to decide whether or not to eat it. But there were times when she thought she detected a certain wistfulness in his voice, and he was always open to the opinions of others when they met for strategy sessions.

  Morgan had reluctantly come to the conclusion that the man had probably been a good king. Maybe even a great king; listening to both his fellow knights and his subjects, always dedicated to justice and fairness. Hell, he wouldn’t even say anything against his wife, although it was obvious that the woman had broken his heart.

  Morgan shook her head as they pulled into the driveway—spell or no spell, she didn’t believe that Guinevere would have given in to Lancelot if she hadn’t already been inclined in that direction…magic just didn’t work that way. But she’d never say so to Arthur. It was kinder to let him blame Fay, who clearly was at least partially at fault anyway.

  So, yes, she had to admit that he wasn’t quite the Neanderthal that she’d thought him to be when she first met him. Not that she’d go so far as to say she liked him, exactly. But he wasn’t all that bad, once you got to know him. Besides which, she thought as she followed him up the front walk, in those jeans it was obvious that he had a truly excellent butt. And she’d rather have that than a crown, any day of the week.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day, the coven members split up to follow Davis’s new lead. Well, not a lead exactly—more like a brainstorm. Or as Crystal referred to it, a brain squall.

  Their professor friend had gotten the idea from a piece of mail delivered to his house by mistake. The bill had been addressed to a David Connors, who lived across town. Davis, whose last name was also Connors, reasoned that if the Postal Service could make that kind of mistake, then the company that delivered Morgan’s mysterious package might have done the same.

  So they’d divided up all the Fairfaxes in the phone book, with a few Fairfields and Fairchilds thrown in for good measure, and spread out over the city to see if anyone had received an unexpected box and not bothered to report it.

  Personally, Morgan thought it was a long shot, but she didn’t have any better ideas, so she crammed Arthur and his long legs into the front seat of her Honda and set off in search of a wild goose. Charlotte had suggested just calling people, but Davis pointed out that if someone was sitting on the box waiting to see it anyone claimed it, they might not admit to it over the phone.

  So far, she and Arthur had gone to the home of Marigold Fairfax (a sweet little old lady who lived in a tiny apartment and invited them in for cookies—but no box), Martin Fairfax (not home, but no sign of a box) and Ronald Fairfax, who looked at them like they were crazy and slammed the door in their faces. To be honest, Morgan kind of agreed with the man. They probably were crazy.

  They’d just pulled up in front of the last address on her list, a small white house on Homestead Street. According to the crumpled slip of paper on her dashboard, it belonged to one Antoinette Fairfax. Morgan peered hopefully through the windows into the garage, but there was no sign of a large box. Not that she really expected there to be.

  She walked up the neat brick walk to the front door and rang the bell, but there was no answer. After a minute, she shrugged and turned to go back to the car, but stopped short at the sight of a pudgy man in shorts and a grimy tee shirt standing at the end of the lawn next door, garden clippers in hand.

  He waved at her cheerfully with the hand not holding the garden tool. “Hiya! Are you looking for Toni? She’s down the street at the protest.” He gestured vaguely past his house. “She’s the one making all the fuss about them trying to get rid of the park so’s they can put in another Stop n’ Shop gas mart.” He beamed at them as if they’d brightened his day just by showing up. “You’ll have to go there if you want to talk to her, what with her being chained to that tree and all.”

  Morgan gaped at him. “She’s chained to a tree?” Hadn’t she read something about an environmental rally of some kind in the paper this m
orning?

  Arthur burst from the car as if it had an ejector seat, a few long strides bringing him to stand in front of Morgan and the helpful neighbor. He drew himself up to his full height and crossed his massive arms in front of his chest in an aggressively male stance.

  “Did you say a woman was chained to a tree?” he asked. “Who would do such a thing?”

  The neighbor looked puzzled at Arthur’s question. “She did it to herself, mister. She’s trying to keep ‘em from cutting down the big elm tree at the front of the park. Says there’s hardly any elms that size left anymore, ‘cause of some tree disease, and there’s supposed to be some kind of endangered bird that lives in it that won’t have anyplace to go if they cut it down.”

  He shrugged, clearly not all that interested in the tree, the bird or his eccentric next-door neighbor. “You can go down and see if you want to, not that there’s much to look at. Just Toni, a few of her hippy friends, those guys from the construction company sitting around waiting for the go-ahead, and the occasional reporter. Oh, and I heard that our stupid Senator Carlton is coming out this afternoon to try and talk her down, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  The man waved his clippers dangerously close to Morgan’s nose and pointed at some depressed looking rose bushes at the edge of his property. “Better get back to it, I guess. See you folks later.” He turned his back and walked away without looking to see it they followed his advice.

  Arthur had storm clouds brewing on his face. Morgan had been around him long enough to recognize the signs. The man was about to do something regal—wait for it.

  “We must go help that poor woman,” he stated. “We cannot just return to our quest, leaving an innocent woman chained to a tree.”

  “What makes you think she’s innocent?” Morgan muttered to herself. Then louder, to Arthur, she said, “Um, I don’t think the woman actually wants to be rescued, Arthur.”

  He looked indignant and started marching down the street in the direction the man had pointed, long legs eating up the ground and leaving Morgan trailing behind him and wishing she’d worn her sneakers instead of high-heeled sandals. (They made her legs look longer. A girl has her priorities, after all.)

  “Of course she wants to be rescued,” Arthur threw over his shoulder as he walked. “That man said she is chained to a tree.”

  Morgan was practically running now. “For Goddess’s sake, Arthur, slow down!” she huffed. “Let me explain.” He slowed slightly, and she grabbed onto one rock-hard arm as soon as she came within reach.

  He looked at her quizzically and continued moving, albeit at a more human pace. “What is there to explain? A woman is chained to a tree.”

  “Yes, but Arthur, she’s there of her own free will,” Morgan tried to tell him. “People sometimes do that kind of thing when they are trying to prevent a building from being torn down, or in this case, a tree.”

  Arthur shook his head, shaggy red hair flopping into his face. “That makes no sense, Morgan.”

  Morgan didn’t want to say so, but she agreed. She’d always thought that chaining yourself to something and then waiting for someone to show up with a wrecking ball showed an unrealistic optimism in the face of opposition, but that wasn’t the point here.

  As she and Arthur approached the small park at the end of the street, they could see a handful of people gathered around a majestic old elm tree. And the gossipy neighbor had apparently been correct about the impending visit of the local senator, since additional news vans were pulling up just then..

  Under the tree, a small woman with graying blonde hair, large horn-rimmed glasses and a shirt that read “Save the Black-spotted Titmouse” stood with her arms wrapped protectively around a layer of thick chains encircling her and the tree, effectively stymieing the burly man standing in front of her with the largest set of metal cutters Morgan had ever seen. The man, who was bright red with a combination of sunburn and frustration, tried to pry the tiny woman’s hand off the metal links. She let out a squeak that was probably due at least as much to indignation as it was to pain, and the burly man found himself suddenly and unexpectedly flying through the air.

  “No true gentleman ever lays a rough hand on a lady!” Arthur roared. “You will cease this instant!”

  The construction worker gazed up at Arthur in amazement. “Who the hell are you?” He hauled himself back to his feet, but wisely left the cutting tool on the ground when Arthur glared at him. “Back off and let me get on with my job, willya? We’ve got a crew all set to cut this sucker down, and I’ve got orders to move this woman, one way or another.” He glanced over his shoulder at the other workers, but none of them seemed inclined to take on Arthur, either singly or together.

  All things considered, Morgan thought, that was probably a sensible decision.

  Arthur looked down his prominent nose at the red-faced man. “What manner of job requires a man to act in such a way? You should find another that does not demand such unchivalrous behavior. Where is your pride, man?”

  “Unchival-what?” the man sputtered indignantly. “What are you, some kind of wise guy?”

  Arthur bowed his head slightly. “Some have called me wise, yes.” He smiled benignly at the fellow. “But it does not take a wise man to know that chivalry is best, it only takes a good man. Are you a good man?”

  The man looked confused and shuffled the toe of one steel-shod boot in the dirt. “Yes. Well, I think so. I try to be.”

  Arthur indicated the woman who leaned against the tree, looking bemused at her sudden rescue, and not a little entertained by the show. “Then apologize to the lady for your ungentlemanly treatment of her.”

  “Um, uh,” the man took one uncertain step forward. “Um, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He looked at the ground and turned even redder. “I was just trying to do my job, okay?”

  Arthur patted the man on the shoulder with one large hand, causing the fellow to sway slightly. “Good man. Now leave her be.” He gave the bewildered construction worker a (mostly) gentle shove in the direction of his fellow workers and walked up to the tree.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said with dignity, ignoring the fact that the lady in question happened to be bound to an elm. He gave a deep bow in her direction. “My name is Arthur—“ Morgan cleared her throat warningly, and he added, “King. My name is Arthur King, and I am pleased to place myself at your service.”

  Morgan choked back a laugh at the sight of the faces surrounding the tree. They all bore the same mixture of surprise, amusement and reluctant awe. Yeah, she observed, Arthur had that effect on people.

  Toni Fairfax (no relation, as far as Morgan knew) responded with a small bow of her head and large smile. “Well, thank you, Mr. King. It’s nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

  Arthur looked appalled at the thought. “Never. So long as I live, chivalry will never die.”

  His ringing tones echoed through the park and their small audience responded with spontaneous applause. Even a few of the construction guys were clapping. Looking around, Morgan noticed video cameras pointed in their direction.

  Oh, goddess. That was all she needed—a shot of King Arthur on the six o’clock news.

  But it looked like there was nothing she could do about it, since one of the newsmen was heading in their direction, cameraman in tow. The reporter looked positively thrilled that his boring “update on the woman chained to a tree” story had suddenly come to life. Morgan wished she could share his enthusiasm.

  “Be careful what you say to these guys,” she hissed at Arthur. “They’re like sharks when they scent blood in the water.”

  Bemused, Arthur looked around. “There is blood? Where?”

  “It’s an expression, damn it. It means don’t trust reporters and whatever you do, don’t tell them who you are.” Morgan fought the temptation to try to remove him bodily back to the car, since she knew there was no chance of budging him when he was in full-on regal mode.

/>   Before she could say anything else, the reporter stepped up to Arthur and thrust a microphone in his face. The cameraman angled himself so he could get Arthur, the reporter and Toni in the shot.

  “This is Bob Wilson, at the Homestead Street Park. As we told you yesterday, a woman named Antoinette Fairfax has chained herself to this magnificent old elm tree in an effort to prevent the Anderson Construction Company from cutting it down to make way for a Stop N’ Shop gas mart. We were told that Senator Carlton would be here in an effort to persuade Ms. Fairfax to see reason and allow the demolition to proceed, but there’s been no sign of him as yet.” He turned his perfectly coifed blond head in Arthur’s direction and theatrically gestured at the tall redhead.

  “Instead, we found this giant of a man, who stepped forward in defense of Ms. Fairfax as she was manhandled by an overeager construction worker.” He shoved the microphone under Arthur’s nose and the king looked at it curiously, obviously wondering if it was some kind of weapon he should be worried about. Morgan shook her head and he relaxed his stance. Just a bit.

  Arthur was not accustomed to being accosted by overbearing newsmen. Morgan held her breath, willing him to stay calm. The only thing worse than having King Arthur on the evening news would be having him arrested on the evening news.

  “So, sir,” the reported asked, showing a mouthful of artificially even teeth, “just who are you, and what is your involvement with Toni Fairfax?”

  Arthur shrugged. “I have only this moment met the lady, although I am certain her cause is just.” He glowered mildly in the direction of the worker who had grabbed Toni. “I merely came to the aid of a damsel in distress, as any kni—gentleman would.”

  Morgan bit her lip. Damn, he’d almost said “knight.” They were so screwed.

  The reporter looked a bit stunned. “Did you say damsel in distress?” He gave an uneasy laugh, his expression suggesting he was wondering he was on the air with a lunatic, and if so, whether that going to be good for his ratings or not. “I heard you say something before about chivalry. Are you some kind of reenactment nut?”