Legendary
By Amelia Kibbie
Edited by Benjamin White
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is coincidental.
Legendary text copyright © Amelia Kibbie
All rights reserved.
Published in North America and Europe by Running Wild Press. Visit Running Wild Press at www.runningwildpress.com Educators, librarians, book clubs (as well as the eternally curious), go to www.runningwildpress.com for teaching tools.
ISBN (pbk) 978-1-947041-32-5
ISBN (ebook) 978-1-947041-44-8
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue — Glastonbury, 1983
About the Author
Past Titles
Upcoming Titles
Chapter 1
“But surely, good Lancelot.” Queen Guinevere’s mellifluous voice floated over the lute she strummed gently in her lap, skirts spread wide upon the carpet of flowers in the castle’s garden. “You say such things in friendship.”
“Have you no esteem for me?” Lancelot grabbed her hand, and the strumming of the lute stopped.
“Of course I do. You are my good husband’s most courageous knight.”
“And his closest friend,” Lancelot reminded her. “And yet... as much as I love him like a brother, I cannot deny my love for you. Please, my queen, give me but a morsel of your affection, a kind word — and I shall leave you in peace.”
James froze and stared at the small wireless that sat on the shelf above the bed. His pencil hovered expectantly over the columns of numbers in his accounting book. “Oh, no, Gwen, don’t fall for that rubbish!” He begged the voice on the radio.
“Oh... I... I... oh, Lancelot,” Queen Guinevere cried just as a dramatic crescendo of music swept her words away. “Stay tuned,” the announcer advised, “for the astonishing final episodes of this ageless love story. Part six of ‘Legends of Camelot’ will air next Tuesday at half past nine in the morning.”
James arched his back away from the sofa and grunted his annoyance. He slapped down the accounting book and stuck his pencil behind his ear. There it rested against his auburn curls that accented his temples where fine hairs formed tiny arcs like the decorative plaster molding that graced the flat he shared with Arthur. The 19th century accents had once been beautiful, but the ceiling was dingy now, stained with London smog and cracked in the bombings. Still, they kept the space cheery and bright with gauzy curtains, potted plants with lush, cascading vines, and a large mirror that hung from a gilded chain over their small fireplace.
“We interrupt our scheduled broadcast to bring you the latest on the coronation. Massive crowds are gathered along the route—”
James sprang up and snapped off the radio with a flick of his thin white wrist. He turned to the window and drew back the curtain to search the wet street for Arthur’s hulking form in the sea of umbrellas. Nothing. He squinted at the cloud-darkened sky and then let the curtain fall back into place. “Well, it wouldn’t be a coronation without a bit of English summer rain.” He shrugged. “Let’s hope they packed the—”
He was startled from his reverie by the tea kettle’s sudden, sharp whistle. James cursed bounced over the bed. He raced across the large open room toward the little turquoise stove nestled in the corner next to the equally tiny sink.
A series of loud bangs erupted from the room below as Mrs. Wylit pounded on her ceiling with a broom handle. James pulled the kettle from the stove and winced as he set it down on the small wooden table with a tea towel beneath it. He leaned down and called through the Victorian-era ventilation grate, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wylit. I know you hate that sound.”
She did not reply, but he could faintly hear her cursing and the smack of the broom as she roughly tossed it back into the corner of her own flat.
James poured the hot water into their white and gold-trimmed teapot and tiptoed back to his accounting figures as the leaves steeped. After a few minutes, the columns of numbers, which represented the profits of Mr. Conner’s tailor shop, swam before his eyes. He tossed the book aside again and went to the window to watch for Arthur.
Just as he pulled back the curtain, he heard the downstairs door swing open and then shut with a bang. Arthur’s usually heavy footsteps echoed up the front staircase to their landing with uncharacteristic spryness. Mrs. Wylit yelled something up the stairwell, but James couldn’t make it out.
The door of the flat banged open, and in came Arthur with his head bowed to avoid conking it on the frame. One of the reasons they put up with Mrs. Wylit was because of their flat’s high ceilings, a necessity for Arthur, who stood nearly six-and-a-half feet tall. Arthur carried a nondescript parcel in his massive hands, carefully wrapped with brown paper and tied with string, its surface spattered with raindrops. He set it down on their little table with the utmost care before he bent to remove his rubber overshoes. By the time he’d unbuttoned his Mackintosh, James was at his side with a cup of tea, fixed with a sizeable pour of milk and a fistful of sugar cubes.
“Oy, mate,” Arthur greeted loudly, directing his performance at the metal grate in the kitchen that fed down into Mrs. Wylit’s sitting room. “Bit o’ rain, but nothing severe.”
“Did you bring a paper? I want to look at the cricket scores,” James played along as he handed Arthur the teacup.
“Look at this blooming flat. Don’t you ever pick up after yourself?” Arthur winked one of his emerald eyes and James winked back. Arthur took a gulp of tea, and then used his free arm to sweep James up to his height, planting a silent but sizeable kiss on his cupid’s bow mouth. Once lowered back to the floor, James took their cups to the sofa, far enough away from the grate that they could talk softly and presumably not be heard. Arthur followed with the box.
“You were gone for ages.” James reached out with a stocking foot to nudge Arthur’s backside. “I was going to make a proper breakfast for you today, but you ran off on me.”
Arthur’s mouth curled up in a half-smile as he put the box carefully on the bed, and set about moving two of James' potted plants from their place on top of the small bookshelf opposite the sofa. The sofa was where the rest of the world thought James slept every night. If anyone knew the truth, they would go to jail, and the weight of it hung around them even in this happy moment. “Careful, those two are temperamental.” James took another sip of his black tea. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.” Arthur started for the box on the bed, and then stopped to put a sausage-shaped finger to his chin in thought. “Better have you blindfolded,” he decided, and rummaged through the small bureau for a few moments. Giving up, he peeled the case from a pillow.
James set his cup to the side. He made a face as Arthur put the pillowcase over his head. “Is this a kidnapping, then?
Arthur, what’s going on?”
“Be patient,” Arthur scolded. James heard him bang around in a drawer, and then came the rustle of the paper. Then came the unmistakable groan of a cardboard box, and a small thud.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Blimey,” Arthur muttered over more rustling. James felt Arthur’s hulk sink down next to him on the sofa. Gently, the pillow case wisped over his nose and uncovered his eyes.
“Good Lord.” James' hands flew up over his mouth to soften his exclamation. He turned to Arthur and found him beaming a radiant smile. His green eyes snapped with excitement.
“Arthur, you didn’t!”
“Do you like it?”
James put his fingers to his chest and laughed. “Arthur, it’s a television.” He admired the small sleek box with the gently curved screen, graced with two shiny silver dials.
“A television? The nutter who sold it to me said it was a box of encyclopedias. Better return it then.” Arthur made as if to stand up.
James laughed and dragged him back onto the couch. Arthur came willingly — there were few people physically formidable enough to force Arthur to do anything, but James had his ways. “Surprise.” Arthur gave James another kiss.
“That’s why you’ve been hauling lumber like a mule for the last month.” James crossed his arms as Arthur stood up to plug in the new set and adjust the receiver. “All of those extra jobs suddenly make sense.”
Both of them had inherited money and heirlooms from Lady Barlow, but everyone struggled after the war. Most of their money and valuables were locked away in the bank, and they withdrew judiciously. Arthur worked construction, his immense stature a boon to his supervisors, and James balanced the tailor’s books and minded the counter a few times a week. They could live comfortably on their small monthly budget, as neither had extravagant tastes. Well, James thought, except for the new telly.
“Didn’t want us to miss history.” Arthur switched on the set. An image flickered to life — a wide, sweeping shot of Whitehall with Big Ben proudly in the background. He adjusted the other knob, and the voice of the commentator broke in. “Queen Salote of Tonga, sitting with Sultan Ibrahim of Kelantan.” As the open-topped carriage rolled past the camera, the stoic Sultan sat still as a statue, but Queen Salote waved cheerfully, a beaming smile wrapped around her face. Though many of the other carriages in the procession had pulled up their hoods to protect their precious cargo from the rain, Queen Salote’s conveyance remained open as she continued to greet the adoring crowd.
“Oh, she’s brilliant. Do you know, Arthur, she’s almost as tall as you are.” James' focus was on the other side of the screen in the crowd as Arthur sat down beside him on the sofa.
Arthur squeezed James' shoulder, and grinned at the way the flickering images transfixed his lover’s attention. He got up and freshened their tea, then rescued two apples from his coat pockets.
“Long live the Queen.” He handed James the fruit.
“Long live the Queen.” They tapped their apples together in a makeshift toast. Arthur set down his tea and put his arm around James, who nestled down against his barrel chest. “Oh, this is perfect,” he said. “So much better than fighting the crowds.”
“Mad out there,” Arthur confirmed, stroking James' ear with his rough knuckle. “I saw—”
The door to the flat flew open, and they both jumped landed on opposite ends of the sofa. There, in the door frame, stood their landlady, Mrs. Viola Wylit, her frame (bony in some places, blobby in others) forever encased in a worn pink chenille robe, gray-streaked dark hair tied up with her usual blue scarf, a smoke hanging from her slack lips. The stench of a thousand cigarettes wafted in and James had to physically restrain himself from holding his nose. She had a foil-covered round object in her hand, which she slapped unceremoniously on their small table. She used the freed hand to draw the cigarette away from her lips. “Did I hear you two cabbages toasting our new Queen up here without me?”
“Mrs. Wylit, please, we’ve spoken about this.” James stood up and moved for the door. “You’re not allowed to unlock the door and come in as you please.”
“My own house,” she muttered, but closed the door after ashing her cigarette on the tiles and Arthur’s drying overshoes. She rapped with her bony knuckles. Her hands were strangely dry and withered for a woman that couldn’t be over 40. “Excuse me, good afternoon, Mr. Wilde, may I please be admitted on this joyous day of celebration?”
James opened the door and made a show of waving her inside. “Why, Mrs. Wylit, so lovely to see you. Do come in.”
“Bloody hell! That’s a television!” She wobbled over to the sofa, entranced by the royal procession as they crossed Trafalgar Square. “Oh, look, there’s our lovely Queen Horseface herself.”
“She’s a very nice-looking queen,” Arthur argued around his teacup, and shot James an apologetic glance over the back of the sofa.
“Beautiful even,” James insisted with a wink.
Mrs. Wylit huffed, but did not tear her gaze from the screen. James freed their only ashtray from a drawer and brought it to the coffee table in time to catch her next batch of discarded ash. She caught his arm, but kept her gaze fixed on the television. “Be a dear and fetch me a cuppa, there’s a good lad.”
James sighed and put the kettle on again. Arthur winked at him, then settled back to watch the procession with Mrs. Wylit.
This time, James was careful not to forget about the kettle and let it heat to the point of whistling. He brought the tray and poured Mrs. Wylit a cup of tea and freshened Arthur’s as the Queen’s procession arrived at Westminster Abbey. Mrs. Wylit patted the sofa cushion at her side and James plunked down between her and Arthur as she lit another cigarette.
From the folds of Mrs. Wylit’s robe came a silver flask, one that had decorative initials carved upon it that someone had crudely scratched out with a pen knife. She poured a generous dollop of spirit into her tea, and reached over to do the same to James' cup. “Please, Mrs. Wylit, the day’s rather young.”
“How much have you had already?” Arthur asked in that quiet, impressive way of his, that said more than the literal words he spoke.
She sniffed. “This isn’t a house where we judge people. This isn’t... a judgemental house. Is it?” She raised a curved eyebrow and glared at James a moment.
“Of course not.” James held out his cup.
“Coronation day, after all,” Arthur added, and accepted a dram of her wretched liquor as well. “And, did you hear, Hillary and Norgay reached the summit of Everest.”
“Who’s done what now?” Mrs. Wylit sipped her spiked tea, her gaze glued to the queen as she strode forward down the aisle toward St. Edward’s Chair.
“How exciting.” James took breath to calm his voice. “Proud day for the Commonwealth.” He wanted to ask if Arthur had bought a paper with the headline yet — he’d been clipping articles about Hillary and his progress all along — but that seemed too personal of a thing to know about, well, a flatmate. To Mrs. Wylit, and the rest of the world, they were two lads sharing the rent.
Little-black-and-white Queen Elizabeth moved slowly across the screen, encumbered by her dress, overwear, and enormous train. They watched in reverential silence as she hefted the orb and scepters. Proud tears of happiness gathered in James' eyes and a lump swelled in his throat, but he swallowed it all down. Mrs. Wylit smoked furiously, and angled herself toward the little set, rough elbows pressed into her knees. At last, St. Edward’s Crown touched the royal forehead, and the spectators chanted, “God save the Queen.”
“God save the Queen! God save the Queen!” Mrs. Wylit, James, and Arthur repeated along with them, and then raised their voices in a celebratory whoop. They clinked their tea cups. James couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Mrs. Wylit scrub a tear away from her sallow cheek with the heel of her chapped hand. He coughed discreetly as she lit another cigarette off of the butt of the previous, but the mood was celebratory, and some
how he didn’t mind her intrusion. One glance at Arthur’s benevolent smile said the same.
“What’s in the tinfoil, Mrs. Wylit?”
“Go see for yourself.” She waved her cigarette hand dismissively as Elizabeth shouldered the burden of rule and greeted her husband, the Duke of Gloucester, who stepped forward to swear his oath to her.
Arthur hauled his T-shaped frame from the sofa, which gave them quite a jostle, and opened the foil package. “Mmm,” he said, and brought it to the coffee table. Inside was a lemon tart, the top layer of pastry cut in the shape of a crown.
“Oh, it’s smashing, it really is,” said James. “You must have saved your sugar rations for weeks.”
“Stopped putting it in me tea.” Mrs. Wylit shrugged and blew smoke from her nostrils with a disinterested wave of her hand. “Had to substitute a few ingredients. I’ve arsed it up, I’m sure.”
“Nonsense. Tart fit for a queen,” Arthur said with his sideways smile as he brushed back his thick black hair that insisted on falling over his broad forehead.
“Do you eat with your eyes?” Mrs. Wylit elbowed James with her sharp arm. “Go on, then, for God’s sake.”
James offered to cut a piece for her out of courtesy, but knew she’d refuse it with a curse. Mrs. Wylit was typically too pissed to cook, but when she did, it was heavenly. However, all he’d seen her eat in the past two years was a handful of licorice. She watched them devour their slices with a certain amount of satisfaction, as she swigged from her flask and lit another cigarette. The Queen took communion on the little screen glowing under the window.
“Any predictions, Mrs. Wylit?” James asked, his tone jovial and carefree, but with an undercurrent of true curiosity threaded through it.
James and Arthur, in private, called Mrs. Wylit the Drunken Oracle. When she was particularly bladdered, she had a tendency to make odd predictions. It would have been silly, harmless fun perhaps, if they didn’t come true more often than not. For example, in a drunken rage, she’d once told them that King George would die before St. Valentine’s Day, and he had, at age 56 on February the 6th.
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