Knight Life

by Peter David

  “Honestly, Merlin, sometimes you treat me as if I’m a child.”

  Suddenly the young boy was glancing in her direction. “Arthur, we have a guest.”

  “I am perfectly capable of making decisions and watching out for … pardon?”

  “A guest.” The boy was skinny, his hands too large for his arms, his feet too large for his legs. His silken brown hair was longish in the back, and his ears virtually stuck out at right angles to his head. He was nattily attired in dark blue slacks, shirt, striped tie, and a blazer with a little sword emblem on the pocket. Bizarrely, the man’s clothing was identical, but the boy looked better in it. Penn turned, and the moment he saw Gwen, he appeared startled, as if he recognized her from somewhere. She couldn’t imagine from where that might be; he was a total stranger to her. But he quickly covered whatever might be going through his mind and instead gave a broad smile. The kid he’d addressed as Merlin, on the other hand, frowned deeply.

  Gwen found herself staring into Arthur’s eyes. She had never seen such dark eyes, she thought. Dark as a bottomless pit, which she would willingly plunge into …

  She tore her gaze from him, swung it over to the boy he’d called Merlin, and stifled a gasp. It was like looking at two different people in the same body. The lines of the boy’s face were youthful enough, but his eyes were like an old man’s, smoldering with wisdom of ages and resentment when he looked at her. He seemed to have what could only be called an “old soul.” There was a wisdom, a depth in those eyes that was not only beyond what she saw in children, it was beyond what she saw in most adults. He frightened her terribly, and she stared down at her shoes.

  Penn appeared oblivious to her thoughts. “How unforgivably rude of me,” he said. “You’re the young woman who was sent over by the employment office.”

  “That’s right,” she said quietly.

  Penn regarded her for a time and then said, “Is there something particularly intriguing about your feet, my dear?”

  She looked up, her cheeks coloring. “I’m sorry. I just—” She laughed, somewhat uncertain. “Your, uh … your receptionist rattled me slightly.”

  “Ah, Miss Basil. Yes, she’ll do that. What is your name, child?”

  The boy had asked the question, and the phrasing was, at the very least, extraordinary. She gaped openly at him. “My what?”

  “Nom de guerre. Moniker. Name.”

  “Oh, name!”

  Merlin let out a sigh, clearly not one to suffer fools gladly. In the meantime she managed to stammer out, “G-G-Gwendolyn. “

  “I’m sure you won’t mind if we simply call you Gwendolyn and leave the guh-guh-guh that preceded it to more formal occasions,” Penn said, deadpan.

  Then she saw him smile again and managed a nod, saying wryly, “That’d be fine.”

  She realized that Arthur was staring at her, but he did not look away, continuing to gaze at her in a manner that was wonderfully open, and unembarrassed. “Forgive me for staring so,” he said, “but you remind me a great deal of someone I once knew—”

  “Arthur,” said the boy warningly, “what were we just discussing?”

  “Merlin, please,” sighed Arthur in obvious irritation. “My apologies, Gwendolyn. I am Arthur Pendr—Arthur Penn. My associate”—he chuckled slightly on the word— “is Merlin.”

  “Last name?” asked Gwen.

  “Last one I intend to use,” snapped Merlin.

  “As you know,” continued Arthur, “I am in the market to hire a personal assistant. This may not seem necessary now, but I assure you in the months to come this office will become quite busy. I would like to know all about your background, everything you’ve done in the past several years. We have several people to see, so I’ll tell you right now that it may be a week or two before we can let you and your agency know for certain. Stop glowering, Merlin. You’ll get crows’ feet. Remember the last time that happened, you couldn’t walk properly for days.”

  Gwen laughed, but Arthur stared at her with an upraised eyebrow and said, “Was something funny?”

  “No. Not at all. I understand. Find out about me, more people to see, a week or two for response. Got it.”

  “Right. After all, any decisions we make along these lines must be thoughtful and considered,” he said, tossing Merlin a glance. If he was waiting for the boy to nod in approval, he was going to be disappointed. The boy simply sat there like a disapproving statue. Clearing his throat, Arthur said, “Fine then. Let’s begin.”

  Arthur pulled around a comfortable chair for Gwen and seated himself across from her. He leaned back, steepled his long fingers, and said, “So, miss … I’m sorry, Gwen, I didn’t catch your last name.”

  “Queen,” she said. “Gwen D. Queen. The D is from my mother’s maiden name, DeVere. So it’s Gwen DeVere. But that’s probably more than you needed to kn—”

  “You start on Monday,” said Arthur.

  Merlin, seated on the desktop, moaned.

  WHEN GWEN DEVERE Queen returned home, the apartment seemed a little less gloomy, and as she marched in the door she called out, “Lance, I got it!” She stood in the doorway, dripping little puddles at her feet, uncaring of the fact that it had been pouring outside. She had a job, she had a feeling of self-worth for the first time in ages, and she had some celebrating to do.

  There was no response. She sighed, the wind slightly taken out of her sails. She should have known. Lance only went out when it was a downpour such as this. He got inspiration from foul weather, he said. He had once filled a cup with rainwater, held it in front of her and informed her that an entire allegory of mankind could be found in that glass of precipitation. When she’d said she only saw rainwater, he’d emptied the contents on her head.

  Friends told her that she should have walked out right then. But they didn’t understand him the way that she did, didn’t understand his temperament. Didn’t understand that she had really brought it on herself, why ... it wasn’t his fault at all. It was hers, purely hers, and she had to be willing to take responsibility for her screwups, just as her parents had always taught her.

  Still … she couldn’t help but think briefly about what the phantom receptionist had said. About standing up for herself, not letting people walk all over her.

  Well, what did the receptionist know? She was a stranger. She was nothing to Gwen. With that certainty tucked in her mind, she went into the bathroom, her feet squishing in her shoes. She slid out of her clothes, relieved as one always is when divesting oneself of sopping garments. A few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she went to the window and looked out at the street. It was covered with garbage, and derelicts were huddling in doorways for shelter. There was a constant tension in the neighborhood; a tension that she supposed was natural in the city. But it wasn’t natural to her, and she wasn’t going to live with it if she could help it. Perhaps, once she’d been working steadily for a while, they could afford to move out to a nicer area. Maybe someplace out in Brooklyn, or maybe even the Island.

  If only Lance would get a job. But his writing always came first.

  She glanced over at his work area, for it could hardly be called a desk, and then her heart leapt with joy. There, piled in the printer, was a stack of paper. He’d been working, writing and producing for the first time in ages. She remembered when, not too long ago, he’d looked at her with full sincerity and said fervently, “You are my muse.” Well, here was proof of his sentiments, of the difference she made in his life. It was a sizable sheaf of paper; he must have been writing like a fireballer. She crossed quickly to the printer, lifted up the paper and began to page through it.

  Page after page after page, the same thing: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

  She cursed the day that she’d suggested they rent The Shining.

  If only Lance would get a job. If only she could leave him. But he was all she had, and vice versa.

  She flopped down onto the bed, reached over and snapped on the small, black-and-w
hite TV, purchased second hand at Goodwill. The picture was fuzzy, but discernible. She recognized the old movie as soon as it came on—Danny Kaye in The Court Jester.

  Knights and knighthood. Those were the days. Chivalry. Women were demigods back then, she thought, and men their protectors. Now it’s everyone for themselves. She reached over to the bureau, opened her purse and dug through it. Eight dollars and change. What the hell. She reached over to phone for a pizza, figuring it would arrive two hours later, cold and soggy. But it wouldn’t really be dinnertime for two hours yet, anyway, and she could heat it up. And maybe the pizza guy would come riding up on a silver charger, balancing the pie on a gleaming shield… .

  CHAPTRE

  THE FIFTH

  LATE INTO THE night the offices in the Camelot Building’s thirteenth floor blazed with light.

  “You’re out of your mind. You know that, don’t you? Ten centuries to contemplate, and you’re no smarter now, Wart, than you were then.”

  Arthur had removed his coat and tie and was sitting in shirtsleeves, watching Merlin stalk the room like a cat tracking a mouse. From his reclining position on the couch he called, “Now Merlin, I think you’re exaggerating a bit.”

  The lad turned on him. “You think?” he said in a voice ringing with authority despite its boyishness. “Now you think! I read you the riot act, telling you that you should think, and the first major decision you have to make is done without thinking! It’s a little late to start forcing the old gray cells to snap to attention, now, is it not?”

  Arthur’s voice was sharp as he said, “I caution you, Merlin. You will not address me in that manner. I am still your—”

  Merlin turned, placing his hands defiantly on his narrow hips. “My what? Finish the sentence. My king? Well huzzah, Your Majesty,” and he genuflected mockingly. “You rule a kingdom of one … unless you planned to return and lay claim as king of all the Britons. I can just see it!” He rubbed his hands together, relishing a good laugh, as Arthur shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “I wonder how they would react, those ineffectual, impotent figureheads who do nothing for the populace except provide them with tidbits to gossip about in taverns at tea time. There you’ll be, presenting yourself as the once and future king. What the bloody hell do you think will happen? Do you think the queen is liable to step down and say, ‘Good of you to show, old sod. We’ve spent centuries keeping your place warm. Have the throne.’ Perhaps they’ll revoke Magna Carta for you. That would be a sweet thing. Disband the House of Commons, House of Lords, put you in charge of the entire affair? Eh?” He slammed a small fist on a table, jiggling an ashtray. “What are the imperial thoughts, Arthur? Tell me, oh king of nothing!”

  They glared at each other for a long moment. Then, finally, Arthur’s eyes softened slightly and he said, “All right. They can keep the House of Commons. How does that strike you?”

  Merlin laughed lightly. “Ah, Arthur, you madman. I should let you go in and try it. Either they’d lock you up, or maybe, by God, maybe they would make you king.”

  Arthur sighed and shook his head. “Aging backwards hasn’t improved your disposition, Merlin, although your sense of humor remains as curious as ever. Depositing me in the middle of the city, wearing that … that clanking contraption.”

  “At least I provided you with the modern magic of plastic to obtain new garments. I’m not entirely without pity.”

  Arthur loosened his tie, amused at the curious piece of cloth that hung around his neck. In some ways it seemed like a sword, pointing straight down toward his privates. What sort of message was that supposed to be sending? “If I can’t understand the simplest thing about this world, such as its clothing accessories,” he mused out loud, “how can I possibly contribute in any significant, meaningful way? Damn it all, Merlin, what am I doing here?”

  “Ten centuries in a cave wasn’t sufficient?” replied Merlin.

  Arthur stood, smiling, and started to pace the office. His hands were folded behind his back. “Perhaps the time is not right for us.”

  “What would you wish then? A return to the cave?”

  “It has crossed my mind.”

  “Well uncross it. Not the right time for you? Don’t be absurd. Look around you. Go into a bookstore, what do you see? Dozens of books on you. Fact, fiction, and everything in between. There have been countless movies about you.” Now he was ticking off items on his fingers. “There are TV programs. Broadway shows. Buildings and businesses named after you and Camelot. People dress as knights and stage mock jousts and battles. Home entertainment games with medieval settings, knights battling monsters, that sort of thing.”

  “So knighthood has become a valuable entertainment tool. So what?”

  “Life reflects in its art, Wart. And also remember—the fondest, most mythic times this country remembers, in its political history, is a presidency which has come to be known as Camelot.”

  “Camelot,” echoed Arthur.

  Merlin nodded. “I know it sounds a bit bizarre. But don’t you see, Arthur,” and the king stopped his pacing, “the time is ripe for your return. More than ripe—the seeds are bursting forth from their fruits. They need you, Arthur, to show them the way.”

  Arthur half smiled. “You’re sounding messianic this evening, Merlin.”

  “Hardly. Merely stating the facts.”

  “But, what am I supposed to do? You say they want me. But they don’t want a king ...”

  “They want a leader, and you’re certainly that.”

  “But who would I lead? Shall I start a cult following?”

  Merlin shook his head mournfully. “Arthur, Arthur, you have to learn to think on a larger scale, the way you used to. Realize, then, that if you are to do any good, you must rule again. And you must rule, or lead, in a country that has clout.”

  “And I must go about it in a civilized manner,” said Arthur sternly. “That means no military junta in a banana republic.” He abruptly snapped his fingers. “But now, Merlin, let us say I could master the electoral system of this country and become their … not prime minister— president! That’s it.”

  Merlin gave an approving nod. “Very good, Wart.”

  Arthur sat on the edge of the Chesterfield couch, leaning forward excitedly. “I haven’t been idle all this time, you know. The animals in the cave with me, they brought me information from the outside world. I kept abreast of matters, for I knew that when I returned I would do no one any good as a clanking anachronism. And yet, for all my careful preparations, I was never altogether certain what I was preparing for. But I know now.” He bounced excitedly to his feet and went to a window, looking out over the city. “Merlin, by all the gods that’s it! I shall become president of the Soviet Union of America.”

  Merlin moaned and flopped onto a chair. “Arthur … first rule of acquiring information: Vermin don’t know their arse from their elbow. You’ll need to put in a bit more study time.”

  “Do you really think so?” inquired Arthur.

  “I know so. And you must remember this, too, Arthur: History has a habit of repeating itself. You mustn’t allow yourself to be drawn into the same elements that caused the destruction of Camelot.”

  “Damnit, Merlin,” Arthur said, knowing full well what Merlin was referring to. “It was just a name. She’s nothing like Jenny was ...”

  “Don’t lie to me!” thundered Merlin, or at least that was his intention. Unfortunately for him, due to the sheer boyishness of his voice, it came out sounding far more like a petulant rant. He winced at the sound of it. “I hate this,” he said through gritted teeth. “I hate aging backward.”

  “You never told me how you wound up in that state of being,” said Arthur.

  “Possibly because it was never any of your business. Do you know the old saying, Arthur, which goes, ‘If I knew then what I know now …’? Yes? Well, once upon a time it seemed like a good idea to me that I could know now what I know then, and have the youth and strength to do something with that knowled
ge. Unfortunately I didn’t consider the long-term consequences.”

  “But how did it come about?”

  “Promises were made,” he said impatiently. “Favors called in. Bribes exchanged. It was all very long ago, and of no relevance. Furthermore, Wart, I think you’re trying to change the subject.”

  “Am I succeeding?”

  Merlin was clearly not amused. “I want honesty from you, Arthur. Without it we’ve no chance. None.”

  “Honesty.” He leaned forward, interlacing his fingers between his knees. “All right. When I was first clanking about in the streets of the city ... I saw her. I was staggering around, endeavoring to get my bearings, and suddenly I saw her. When I looked upon her, it was as if I ‘recognized’ her somehow. I saw her sitting there, and she looked up at me, and suddenly ...” He shivered slightly at the recollection. “I saw her. My Gwynyfar, Guinevere, Jenny ... so many names, all of them barely able to encompass the one woman. She was smiling at me from ten centuries ago, dressed in ermine, long candles flickering in our bedchamber. And Camelot was so damned cold, Merlin, you remember. On chill nights the wind would cut like the sharpest of blades, but when she was with me, there was warmth in the room, and a peace and happiness such as I never knew ...”

  “Until she betrayed you for Lancelot.”

  “You’re so quick to remind me of that.”

  “Possibly because you’re so quick to forget.”

  “But it could be fate, Merlin!” Arthur said with growing urgency. “Don’t you see that? For me to stumble across her, so soon after you magically freed me from the cave, and now she shows up here again. Does that not sound like the hand of fate to you?”

  “Possibly. But need I remind you, Arthur, that the Lady Fate has never exactly been an ally of Camelot? You have been well and truly buggered on a number of occasions by fate, and if you think that returning you to your lady love is some sort of positive inducement, then you, highness, are being even more self-delusional than usual. Except it’s not her. It’s not Gwynyfar.”