King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  “Yes, we shan’t cast baseball in a bad light,” I could not resist quipping. The return of my serenity would be a very good thing for all concerned but, alack, this was not scheduled to happen anytime soon.

  Sandy and the lawyers took their leave to begin their quest on my behalf, and I was returned to the sweltering cell, though now I paid no mind to the heat or the other occupants. Now I had hope, and hope has a wonderful way of casting everything in a dawning light, the very light of heaven itself.

  I have no idea how Sandy managed it, but he found a man and a woman who also had been strolling in the park that evening. They had witnessed the fight and upheld my claim that I had been attacked from behind and had acted in self-defense. The Magistrates’ Court decided there was no need to escalate my case to the Crown Court, and there the matter dropped. The international press would have preferred a juicy trial, of course, but I cannot say I was troubled overmuch to disappoint them.

  In my deliriously happy state, I rehired Sandy as the Knights’ GM at triple what the Georgia Dragons had been paying him. His response to my offer later, in the sweet freedom of my home, specifically my bedchamber, made me even happier.

  Sweeter and more satisfying still was my private revelation to Sandy—and its eventual outcome—of the secret Marco might have taken to his grave and which the awful McBain incident and the other team scandals had nearly succeeded in burying. While covering the breaking Sanctuary story, Marco had learned one of the residents was Sandy’s sister Amanda, presumed dead for the past six years. This was what Sandy had been brooding about that day I found him in the unemployment queue, and had I troubled to inquire about his thoughts, perhaps none of my—our—misadventures would have transpired.

  Yet as I tell my team, the past is past; the game goes on. The instant all the legal dust settled, Sandy and I whisked off to DC to find his sister. Our quest ended at three-hundred-year-old Gadsby’s Tavern in Alexandria, Virginia, where Amanda had secured employment following Sanctuary’s demise, serving restaurant patrons while wearing period dress. Six years of struggling for survival had engraved their indelible mark, but could not erase the fine natural comeliness of her face, a gift she shared with Sandy. What familial rift had driven her to faking her death and hiding in Godforsaken Sanctuary rather than seeking help from her brother, I chose not to ask. Nor did it seem important any longer. What mattered was the near-palpable glow emanating from them both as they stood basking in each other’s forgiveness.

  Watching Sandy and Amanda reunite, I craved nothing more than to capture that feeling with my estranged brother Arthur. It grieved me beyond words to realize our reconciliation might never come.

  Chapter XXXIX:

  The Knights’ Fight with the Yankees

  IT TOOK THREE additional years of trades and tirades, but in 2088 my Knights earned the honor once again to battle for the world baseball title. The team arising from the Americas as their opponents: the Connecticut Yankees—now owned by none other than the man who had challenged me into buying the Knights all those years ago, Ira Desmorel. When the Silver Springs had fallen onto bad times that even Desmorel’s considerable resources could not repair, he had sold them in favor of a slice of the Connecticut Yankees’ partnership, which he parlayed into sole ownership. The result was a veritable juggernaut of a team that had won three of the last four World Tournaments.

  By WBF rules, since Connecticut had been the initial host of the 2087 tournament, the first two games of 2088 would be played at New Wembley. In their own words, which blazed across every VRTV screen and wireless advertising device, “The Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming!” And the Yanks, with Desmorel at their helm, were aiming straight at me.

  It was time, as Desmorel had so quaintly described it eight years earlier, to put my money where my mouth was.

  I felt ready. My Knights had compiled an unmatched 116-win regular season (although the America-based blogs were rife with criticism for our weak-sister opponents, the same thing they bleat every year about the European and Asian leagues; go figure) and had swept each of their playoff opponents in four straight games apiece, scoring in the double digits in every game. The Knights’ hits were strong and sure, their feet fleet, their gloves unerring—all without any magical help from me, I swear, though I confess I do keep a spell or two warm in the wings.

  And yet in spite of Desmorel’s challenge, this World Tournament matchup would not be so much a duel between me and him, via our players—though our wagers were hefty—as between me and Ambrose Hinton. For Ambrose had never forgotten that mountain of money I had won from him in Nîmes; the insult represented by that loss had grown and gnawed and pestered and festered within his soul until it had transformed into a canker of biblical proportions. This fact was never made so obvious as the day in October, just prior to the World Tournament’s commencement, when Ambrose—a staunch Springs fan and therefore an equally staunch Yankee hater—publicly announced his support of the Connecticut Yankees, stunning every reporter around the world, and by implication putting me on notice.

  I was not stunned; I had foreseen Ambrose’s decision.

  The Yanks were coming? So what; let them come!

  The morning of Game One, on Wednesday, October 20th, dawned crisp and clear and clean, rare for foggy-doggy London. The entire city was bedecked in WBF-licensed Knights banners and bunting, buttons, hats, jackets, shirts, ties, scarves, trousers, belts, buckles, socks, shoes, and probably even undergarments. Many intrepid Yankee fans had made the trek across the Pond for the first two games, so there existed no shortage of Connecticut paraphernalia, either. If the city looked festive, the Castle was a hundred fold more so. Spirits ran high, fueled by the Knights’ grand regular season, stellar postseason, and their eight-year absence from the championship. In the first game the fans would not be disappointed.

  The Knights went up 3–1 in the bottom of the first off a double and two singles, and did not look back en route to winning 6–4. The Yanks replaced their starting pitcher to close out the first inning and made two additional pitching changes later in the game, but it did not help them. The Knights called in Rick Boniface, our best closer, in the top of the eighth—after the first two Connecticut batters each hit singles. Boniface allowed a no-out single, a one-out two-run homer by the Yankee pitcher’s pinch hitter, followed by yet another single before luring the next batter to ground into a double play to end the game. The only magic involved in this game was that of the Knights’ skills with bat and glove. I collected my first round of winnings from Ira and Ambrose—who, oddly enough, did not seem surprised by this London win.

  The tournament was yet young.

  Game Two, the next day, also started promisingly for the Knights as both teams remained scoreless through the first two innings. The Yanks scored twice in the third and once more in the fourth before the Knights could answer with a run in the bottom of the fourth. With high hopes of climbing back into the game, we replaced our starting pitcher going into the top of the fifth…which ended up being a disastrous decision. Billy Montel, Connecticut’s legendary center fielder, got a two-run homer in the fifth, and the rest of his team followed by recording seven additional runs in the sixth off three different Knights pitchers, and one or more of our batters were left on base in every inning except the seventh. The drubbing ended with a final score of 16–3. It might not have been so lopsided had I not made a vow to eschew magic through at least the first four games. After being obligated to pay back Ira and Ambrose a huge pile for Connecticut having beaten by nearly double the seven-run point spread, I stalked into the locker room for a post-game motivational chat with my players.

  It did not help; two days later in Game Three, they went down 10–0, the only shutout loss they suffered all season. Their bats were so cold, nobody got a hit until the leadoff batter of the fourth inning; too little, too late, for Connecticut was already ahead by six runs. My Knights employed six pitchers that game before reaching its embarrassing end—with each personnel
change, I fancied I could hear Ambrose cackling louder—and although I had sworn off the use of magic during play, afterward I applied it liberally to heal aching muscles and bruised egos. No one’s pride was smarting more than mine for having to relinquish funds to my adversaries following the back-to-back routs.

  For Game Four, my Knights tried the same pitcher-closer duo that had won us Game One, Lawson and Boniface, and they held Connecticut to two runs, while we scored thrice to win it and tie the tournament at two games apiece. To the world it appeared as if the Yanks inexplicably waited until the seventh inning, two innings after the Knights went ahead, before replacing their starting pitcher. In fact, I laid a dumbing spell on their coach that prevented him from calling the bull pen right away. Yes, I broke my vow; and, yes, I would do it again,—and I would have strengthened the enchantment tenfold had I foreseen what a nail-gnawer this game was going to be.

  Before a record crowd in Connecticut’s stadium, my Knights chalked our third win of the tournament in Game Five. After both teams went scoreless in the first inning, the first Knights run scored on an error by the third baseman. He stepped in front of the shortstop to field a grounder and proceeded to bobble it in a most spectacularly amusing fashion—the result of a delightful little spell that hampers judgment and coordination. My Knights needed no magical assistance to score two more runs that inning off a double to left field. Connecticut got one back off a double to deep right field in the bottom of the second. Robbie Clemens, our right fielder, answered in the third with a single that drove in Mark Sonoma, our speedy shortstop, from second base. Connecticut’s big home-run threat, Don MacDougal, also a right fielder, hit a one-run homer in the bottom of the third. After allowing no more hits until a third of the way into the seventh, my starting pitcher, Cody Haddock, was replaced by Boniface, the same closer who had saved games One and Four. He threw just one walk and allowed no more hits in the bottom of the ninth to earn the save.

  We had the Yanks—and more importantly I had Ira and Ambrose—on the ropes heading back to London, two days later, for Game Six. Undaunted, they activated Ford Whitman, the same pitcher who had recorded their Game Three shutout, and he pulled out another one that was even more embarrassing than the first for many reasons, top among them being that the Knights were playing at home, and our pitchers allowed even more runs than before. I did not use magic to save face for the team in that game for two reasons. First, the earlier shutout had sparked a two-game comeback for my players. The second reason was far more selfish: a seventh game played in London meant more revenues from broadcasting, ticket sales, concessions, collectibles,—and a higher payoff from my adversaries.

  The weather for Game Seven was just as misty and dismal as Game One’s had been blue and bright. I changed not one cloud. This was Knights weather, and every player and coach and manager and batboy knew it. I gave my players the most seductively suggestive pep talk ever, and I meant every word. If the Knights won the game and therefore the tournament, the MVPs would be treated to the party of a lifetime. The electric sense of anticipation in the locker room was palpable and infectious.

  On that adrenaline surge, my Knights leaped out to a 4–0 lead by scoring two runs in each of the first two innings. Vermont Lawson, our starting pitcher, who had recorded the wins of games One and Four, held Connecticut hitless through three innings and scoreless through four until their first baseman, Bob Gowron, cranked out a homer as the leadoff batter of the fifth inning. In the top of the sixth, Lawson allowed a walk and a single with no outs and was replaced by Boniface, my closer-hero of the other three wins…who promptly gave up a one-run single and a three-run homer to allow Connecticut to go ahead 5–4. Cue the suspenseful organ music and the annoying cackling of Ambrose Hinton scenting victory.

  Inning seven was better for Boniface—three outs on three batters—but the Knights’ bats were still too cold to get any hits, to say nothing of runs. In the top of the eighth, after the first two Connecticut batters recorded outs, Boniface allowed a walk, a single, a one-run single, and a one-run double before ending the inning. Now the Yanks widened the margin to 7–4. Ambrose had the nerve to demand my capitulation on the grounds that all the other Connecticut victories had turned into routs when their leads had become this large. I politely declined his offer, rang off, and levied a confidence-boosting spell upon everyone in the Knights’ dugout, coaches included.

  My efforts bore fruit in the bottom of the eighth…with near-disastrous results. The leadoff batter, Boniface’s pinch-hitter, singled to center; so far, so good. Next up, at the top of the order, was my center fielder. If anyone needed a confidence boost, it was Maurice Marchand, since his World Tournament batting average to that point was a disappointing .214. As he crouched in the batter’s box, I gave him an extra mental boost and in the next breath wished I had not. His screaming grounder ricocheted off a pebble, straight into the throat of the Connecticut shortstop, Yuri Senkevich, felling him like cordwood. My batter reached first, and his predecessor advanced to second; but I felt so badly for Senkevich—who had to be carried off the field coughing blood—that I laid upon him a subtle healing spell to allow him to play the following season and to achieve World-Star status, too. Our next batter singled to left to drive in the runner from second base, narrowing Connecticut’s margin to two. Two outs later came another one-run single, followed by a three-run homer to put my Knights up 9–7. I called Ambrose in the Visiting Owner’s Box for a slice of emotional payback on the heels of his ill-mannered call.

  I should have been more concerned with my pitching staff than Ambrose. Boniface’s shoulder seized, forcing his replacement in the top of the ninth. Two relief pitchers and two outs later, Connecticut had fought back to tie the game! Fortunately the next batter grounded out to end the inning, or else I would have been treated to another of Ambrose’s taunting calls. The bottom of the ninth saw my Knights near the bottom of the lineup, leading off with the eighth batter, Dennis “Mackie D” MacDougal, our rookie second baseman. On the one-and-none pitch, Mackie D crushed a homer into the cheap seats to end the game—and the tournament—with no outs. I shall let you, thoughtful reader, ponder whether I had anything to do with the gust that helped the ball over the wall. I neither confirm nor deny my involvement therein.

  To state that Ambrose was furious would be like stating the Knights liked their victory. I have not heard such colorful language since watching Sir Kay be bested in combat by Camelot’s kitchen boy—later revealed to be my nephew Gareth in disguise, but that is beside the point. My point regarding Ambrose was that for all these years he had behaved like such a base-born varlet toward me—in fact, Dowley and all the other Congressfolk were unscrupulous varlets, too—that I had had quite enough. I stood at the pinnacle of my powers, financial and otherwise, and could no longer bear their asinine ways. The very next day, I had Malory proclaimed President for Life and abolished Congress, all in the same stroke.

  The people were either too stoned, too apathetic, or otherwise too stupefied to protest.

  Chapter XL:

  Three Years Later

  MY FLAG WAS flying so high—so to speak—that I no longer felt obligated to work in secret; I revealed to an astonished world the full extent of my magical prowess. That is to say, I enchanted all those Congressional blowhards into slinking off into the night. Nobody missed them, except perhaps the vacationing pilgrims who thought it a nifty thing for the children to see first-hand their government at work—I mean, endlessly talking and essentially accomplishing nothing, year upon year upon year, unless one happened to visit on the day Congress was voting itself a raise, the only thing they ever agreed upon as a unified body that did not carry death-or-taxes consequences for some segment of the populace.

  Although getting Congress to shut up and go away was a neat enough trick, I soon found myself being called upon to perform all sorts of services. To some people it was continued verification of my claims, but the rest had decided that once magic had been introduced into their
lives, they could not live without it, somewhat akin to the dawn of the wireless telephone era of a hundred years earlier, I imagine. My energy became so tapped-out that I found it necessary to anoint legions of apprentices to perform weather spells and handle school bullies and teach errant boyfriends unforgettable lessons, and that sort of day-to-day thing, holding the apprentices to strict standards of conduct lest they fall to the temptation of using their magical arts for ill rather than good. With Clarice overseeing them as Apprentice Number One, supported by a hierarchy of magical managers, the system worked pleasingly well.

  There arose protests from the ranks of the various religious organizations, as I expected; but as in my native era, no one proved strong enough to make good upon the Lord’s injunction not to suffer a witch to live. Since the pope wielded no more influence than did the constitutionally bound and gagged King of England, the resistance did not last long. The general masses were too enchanted with all the conveniences well-applied magic could offer them.

  It was a busy three years, and they sped like wildfire across arid grass.

  Malory took to her Congress-free, one-woman government as a young eagle takes to the air: she soared. Two hundred years of political gridlock melted before the onslaught of her new policies and procedures. The farm system for homeless people, after proving its success with the DC contingent and across America, became adopted by most major cities worldwide. Real solutions to perennial problems became implemented. She balanced the budget, kept it balanced, and made inroads upon the public debt. She restructured the educational system, separating the true scholars from those whose aptitudes leaned toward trades and military service; the remainder, whose test scores sieved them out the bottom, were put to use in the construction and maintenance of infrastructure and other gainful if mindless tasks. Productivity and wages rose, the cost of goods and services remained solid and fair, and the people prospered.