Knight Life (28 page)

    
She got up from the sofa, then, with a little huff of impatience, and walked over to Gwen. She stroked Gwen's cheek gently, and Gwen shivered with horror at the coldness of the woman's touch.

    
“Oh, I kept my hand in, of course. At the time I was very embittered, you see. I had been given a world that was free of Arthur and Merlin, and yet that world had not become the easy pickings I thought it would be. I admit I had considered no further than what would happen once those two blights were gone. Then they were—and I had nothing. So I vented my frustration. I like to think I cut my own swath through history. You could see the hand of Morgan if you knew where to look. A plague here, a disaster there. A normal man who inexplicably began slaughtering helpless innocents. A demon cult arising, performing ritual sacrifices. An honest family man who inexplicably butchers his family, or an occasional genocide when I was feeling ambitious. Overturning society's order when the whim struck me and I could do so. ‘Tell them to eat cake, Marie. French peasants love dessert. They'll thank you for suggesting it.'” She laughed at the recollection. “Fortunes lost, lives destroyed.” She shook her head. “But one can only have random fun for so long before it begins to pall.

    
“And finally, after uncounted years, my anger began to turn to a sense of helplessness. Inflicting misery on others can only bring happiness for a time. And the unspeakable happened—I started to reminisce for the good old days. The days when my goals were clear-cut. Destroy Arthur.
Destroy Merlin. Thwart their horrendously humanitarian intentions, bollix their plans at every turn. Bring about the downfall of everything my accursed half brother held dear. Those were pleasant times, and I wanted them back.

    
“So I waited. Oh, I could have set Merlin or Arthur free, I suppose. But that would have destroyed the spontaneity. Besides, knowing those two, they would have gone back into seclusion, contending that they would come out when they were damned ready.”

    
She circled the apartment like a shadow. “Thus did I become a sentinel. Keeping vigil. Waiting for the time when they would leave or escape their imprisonment, and the battle for supremacy could begin anew. But century after century passed, and I began to despair of their ever returning.”

    
She turned away from Gwen and folded her arms. “A year ago, my sweet, you could not have recognized me. I shudder when I think of what I became. But it's all behind me now.”

    
During Morgan's speech, Gwen had stood quietly and just listened. But as she had done so, something akin to anger had begun to build within her. Here this ... this creature was speaking about disasters and horrors over a period of centuries, and she was doing so with with an air of nostalgia! She took pride in it! She was saddened over the fact that she hadn't done more. And all she wanted to do now was make Arthur's life miserable, and, by extension, Gwen's as well. Emboldened by her anger, and also—admittedly—by the fact that she wasn't dead yet, which led her to believe Morgan wanted something from her, Gwen took a step from the wall, standing on her own two feet, and said brusquely, “What have you done with Lance, you bitch?”

    
If she was expecting Morgan to show some sign of surprise or respect or something other than smugness, she was disappointed. Morgan just laughed. “Well, now look who is calling the kettle black.” She came around and
leaned right in Gwen's face, placing one hand against the wall. Gwen didn't back down, but it wasn't easy. “Who was it,” continued Morgan, “that skulked around behind the back of her husband the king, carrying on an adulterous affair with her husband's best friend? An affair that led to the cracking of the Round Table, the greatest force for good in the history of mankind?”

    
Taking a deep breath, Gwen let it out unsteadily. “I ... wasn't myself,” she said.

    
Morgan seemed amused by that defense. “Indeed. Try being me, why don't you?”

    
“Where is Lance?” Gwen asked again.

    
Morgan faced her, a wolfish smile on her face.
My God, she even looks like Arthur,
thought Gwen. With relaxed, swaying steps, Morgan walked over to the TV and gestured to it. “Come here, my sweet. Come and see.”

    
Slowly, haltingly, Gwen approached the television set and looked on the screen. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a scream.

    
Lance was on the TV. He was naked, chained and spread-eagled against what appeared to be the wall of a dungeon. His head lolled against his chest. The image was there for a moment only before the screen abruptly went blank, but it had seared itself into Gwen's mind. She spun on Morgan, her fists clenched. “Why?”

    
“Because,” said Morgan easily, “I want Excalibur.”

    
Gwen stepped back, aghast.”I ... I don't know what—”

    
Morgan raised a cautioning finger. “Now, now, love—don't try lying to someone who is infinitely your superior when it comes to lying. You know Excalibur. Where does Arthur keep it?”

    
“With him. All the time.”

    
“
All
the time?”

    
Gwen blinked a moment, not understanding, and then she colored. “You mean, like when we're—”

    
“Thaaaat's right.”

    
“Oh, no. No, I couldn't.”

    
Morgan crossed to her quickly and grabbed her by the wrist. Her pleasant demeanor disappeared as she spat out, “Then your precious Lance dies.”

    
Their gazes locked and then Gwen said as levelly as she could, “So kill him.”

    
Morgan released her in surprise. “What?”

    
Gwen shrugged, her stomach churning as she said, “Kill the bastard if you want. It doesn't matter to me.”

    
Morgan smiled then, that same wolfish smile. “Very good. Oh, that's very good. I wasn't expecting that.” She started to walk toward the door. “Very well, my queen. As you wish. Lance is as good as dead.”

    
She got to the door, opened it, and then Gwen came up behind her and slammed it shut before she could exit. Morgan turned, and the two women faced each other, Gwen glaring, Morgan imperious.

    
“You kill him,” said Gwen slowly, “and Arthur will hunt you down and kill you.”

    
“Are you sure?” said Morgan quietly. “My understanding is that there's no love lost between Arthur and your former beau. Are you willing to gamble Lance's life that that threat will keep me in line—particularly since I believe it to be without substance?”

    
They stood there for a long moment, neither moving, neither willing to bend an inch in will or spirit. Then Morgan said, “Lance has spoken of you recently. I must say he's taking being chained up very well.” Morgan walked back into the room with a jaunty little bounce to her step. “When I told him I'd be seeing you, he asked me to ask you for forgiveness. If you must know, his exact words were, ‘Tell her not to worry about me. Whatever happens, I deserve it. But she won't care anyway, because she doesn't love me.'”

    
“He's right about that,” Gwen said, trying to sound harsh. “I ... I don't love him. Not anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever did.”

    
“Well then,” Morgan shrugged, “it should be simple for you. If you feel absolutely nothing for him, the choice is as good as made.”

    
“You don't have to love someone not to want to see them killed.”

    
“
I
do,” replied Morgan. “And not even then. Perhaps we're more alike than you would think, my little queen. So ... what will it be?”

    
Gwen's features crumbled momentarily, but she managed to quickly compose herself. “Look, Morgan,” she said, trying to sound reasonable, “even if I waited until after Arthur and I had ... you know ... and tried to get away with his sword, it would never work. He's so attuned to it that the moment I'd lay a finger on Excalibur he'd snap awake and want to know what the hell I was doing.”

    
Morgan regarded her, her eyebrows arched, and said, “You may be right, my love. Very well then. I believe we can hit upon a compromise, if you are amenable. Here is what I propose.”

M
ODRED STARED AT
Lance in grim amusement. Lance, hanging from the chains, didn't notice him. Both of them sensed Morgan's nearness at the same time and turned to look at her as she swept in.

    
“Trust me on this,” Moe said sarcastically to his mother, while indicating Lance. “Next time, wallpaper instead.”

    
“Wait outside,” Morgan told him. “Plans are in motion. I'll fill you in shortly.”

    
Modred nodded and exited the dungeon, while Lance fought to keep his head raised and his vision focused on Morgan.

    
Morgan smiled at him. Lance pulled against his chains, then, his hands flexing frantically as he said, “Morgan! Oh, please, no, not again!”

    
She nodded slowly, and reached behind her back as she said, “I just saw a friend of yours.”

    
“Friend?”

    
“Yes. Barely an hour ago.” Her hand made some motion and her black gown dropped to the floor. She stood naked before him. “Your friend was very concerned about you.”

    
“Morgan, please! I'm telling you, I can't ...”

    
She pressed her body against his. The smell of her was intoxicating, and he trembled even as, much to his shock, he felt himself becoming aroused.

    
“Didn't think you could again, eh?” said Morgan, nibbling at the base of his neck. “You might be interested to know, your friend wants me to let you go.”

    
Lance moaned. “No! Please don't! Please don't let me go. Morgan, please ...”

    
“Hush, my love.” She placed a finger against his lips. “No need to worry. Morgan is going to take care of everything.” She ran her fingers along the length of his body, toward his groin. “Everything ...” she said languorously.

Y
E
O
LDE
S
OUND
B
ITE

“Over the months Arthur's prevailing attitude of ‘Don't bother me with countless facts, they only get in the way of making decisions' has become fashionable. Arthur has rapidly become a candidate with broad appeal. His no-nonsense attitude is refreshing, and his self-possession has come across superbly both in person and on camera. Is that how you see it, Amanda?”

    
“Frankly, Jimmy, I couldn't disagree more. I think Arthur Penn's candidacy is a culmination of everything that's wrong with politics, not only in New York, but in general in our country. Simple, facile statements are being presented as if they were intelligent policy, and the voters are eating it up ... not because it would be of any long-term benefit, but because it's simplistic enough for them to wrap themselves around. The little man loves Arthur Penn because Penn uses enough one-syllable words.”

    
“So you're saying he doesn't have a hope of getting your vote, Amanda?”

    
“Oh, hell no, I'm voting for him. He's totally hot.”

    
“I have to agree, Amanda. Frankly, I'm almost tempted to turn gay for him. This has been Punch/Counter-Punch. Back to you, Roger...”

C
HAPTRE

THE
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IXTEENTH