Knight Life, Page 3

  The knight looked down at the destruction that he had inadvertently caused. Then the metal-shod hands reached up and lifted the visor of the helmet. A gentle, bearded face smiled regretfully at Sidney Krellman.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said in a polished British accent. “I seem to have damaged your establishment.”

  Sidney Krellman found it odd that, despite the fact that this man was fully armored, the thing he found to be far more impressive was his voice. It was low and carefully modulated. It seemed to have an age and wisdom to it that contradicted the relative youthfulness of the face. It was a compelling voice, that of a great orator, or perhaps commander of men. The lines of the face that peered out from the helmet were clean and straight. The forehead sloped slightly, and eyebrows that were a bit thick projected over eyes that were almost black. His lips were thin, and, what Sidney could see of his beard, was very dark, but with a few strands of conspicuous gray.

  Sidney Krellman shook off the daze that had come over him and gave a small bow. “Quite all right,” he replied in a voice pitched two octaves above his usual tone. He quickly corrected his tone and continued, “It could happen to anyone.”

  The front of the armor rose slightly, bouncing as if from a sharp intake and exhale of air. The knight had laughed. “Anyone who was clad in such a foolish getup. Do you mind if I come inside?”

  “Not at all. Not at all.” Sidney backed up slowly, his eyes glancing at the scabbard that hung at the knight’s side. It had not yet registered on him that there was no sword in it. Then again, in all fairness to Sidney, it might have been that he was distracted by the mace that was hanging from the back of the armor on a small hook.

  The knight stepped through the bashed-in door, clanking across the spotless green carpet of the men’s clothing store. Glass crunched under each armored foot. “I suppose you’re wondering,” said the knight, “why I’m wearing this ridiculous armor.”

  Sidney tried to come up with an answer that seemed safe, since he was still convinced that at any moment this armored maniac might swing his mace and bash in Sidney’s skull. Sensing his boss’s hesitation, Quigley brightly stepped in with the first thing that came to mind. “Armor?” he said cheerfully. “What armor?” Sidney moaned softly.

  The knight laughed softly. “Italian from the look of it,” he replied, inspecting one armored hand. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh absolutely,” agreed Quigley. “You can always tell Italian armor. It has, uh … very narrow, pointy shoes.”

  “Really?” said Arthur, apparently with genuine interest. “I’d place this armor at about, oh, fourteenth century.” He tapped the chestplate and smiled at the sound. “I daresay none of your suits would wear for quite so long. Nevertheless I still find it clumsy. In my day we wore leathers. That’s when men fought men, not metal shells fought metal shells, lurching their way across the battlefield like overstuffed turtles. I think that was the beginning, you know. The beginning of isolating yourself from your opponent. Now … now it’s simply the press of a button and,” and he mimed an explosion. “No more opponent. Not a way for real men to fight at all. No style, no grace. Taking the fine art of soldiering and turning it into nothing more than mass butchery. Tragic. Just tragic.” His thoughts seemed to have wandered, and he pulled them back to the questions at hand. “Tell me, young man, what’s your name, please?”

  “Quigley,” said Quigley, and chucking a thumb at his supervisor he said, “And this is—”

  “The manager,” said Sidney quickly.

  “Ah. Well, Quigley—” The knight leaned against the counter, draping one arm against the cash register—“My name is Arthur, and I—”

  “Arthur,” said Quigley brightly. “Just like the name of the store, named after King Arthur.”

  “Just like, yes. So … you seem to be an expert. Tell me, what think you of chain mail?”

  “I tried that once,” said Quigley. “Sent five dollars to five friends. I should have gotten $10,037 back, but I never saw a dime.”

  Arthur cocked an eyebrow, said nothing for a moment, then continued, “As I was saying, this whole armor thing is something of a practical joke, played by someone whom I thought a bit too old for this sort of thing. I really wasn’t anticipating wandering about New York City dressed for the Crusades. I had more imagined, well, something along those lines.” He inclined his head toward a three-piece suit that stood handsomely displayed on a mannequin. “Might I try that on?”

  “Um ... I don’t think,” said Sidney cautiously, “that it will, um, quite fit over your, um, current vestments.”

  “I quite agree.” He raised his arms, looking decidedly unthreatening. “If you would be so kind as to help me off with these ...”

  Sidney Krellman glanced at Quigley and inclined his head. Quigley shrugged, walked over to the knight, and began to pull at the thick leather straps that held the armor on.

  “Do you have experience in this sort of thing?” asked Arthur as he pulled his helmet off.

  “Well, I took shop once,” offered Quigley.

  “Metal shop?”

  “No. But I made a baseball bat with a lathe.”

  “Ah. Well ... I suppose you’ll do.”

  Passersby were glancing in the windows of the store as they went about their business. Some looked at the destroyed door while others focused their interest on the man in armor who stood in the middle of the store, arms extended out to the sides, while the young assistant manager worked busily removing the heavy plating. Quigley’s glasses kept sliding to the end of his nose, and his longish hair was constantly falling into his eyes, but piece by piece he got the job done. He staggered and grunted under the weight of each component of the armor and muttered at one point, “How do you wear all this stuff?”

  “With as much dignity as I can muster,” replied Arthur patiently. “I can readily assure you of that.”

  By this point Sidney Krellman had long since dispensed with the notion of contacting the police. The last thing he wanted to do was draw the attention of the store-owners to this bizarre turn of events. The shattered door he would be able to chalk up to vandals. Quigley he would be able to swear to secrecy. Then Sidney looked up and saw the pedestrians looking in through the window, and with a frown he walked over and pulled closed the folding shutters that ran along the inside of the windows. This was enough to discourage most of the idly curious.

  Sidney turned and was astounded to see the knight now clad in a simple tunic and a longsleeved and -legged white undergarment, the assorted pieces of armor scattered about the store. In the armor he’d seemed immense, even threatening. Here he was under five-and-a-half-feet tall. For a moment Sidney entertained the thought of throwing the unarmed and largely unclothed man out of the store. As if Arthur sensed what was on Sidney’s mind, he turned his gaze on the clothing-store manager, and Sidney felt something within him wilt. It wasn’t just that he was suddenly concerned about the man’s physical prowess. He had a feeling that Arthur might very likely be able to wipe the floor with him. But it was more than that. There was a quiet, confident sense of command about him, one that made the notion of laying hands upon him simply unthinkable. Sidney dropped his gaze to the floor, the brief fire of rebellion easily extinguished, and said, “So why don’t we try that suit you had your eye on?”

  Some minutes later Arthur was clad in an outfit more in keeping with the period, and from the look of him, one would have suspected that he was born to wear three-piece suits. The dark blue pinstripe fit him as if it had been tailored for him, except for being slightly tight across his broad shoulders. His hair, which was a shade lighter than his beard, hung in the back to just below the jacket collar. He had picked a cream-colored shirt and a dark red tie to complete the ensemble. Although they did not carry a wide selection, the store also provided a variety of shoes, and a pair of black Oxfords now adorned his feet. He admired himself in the mirror, turning first right and then left, and decided finally, “They are cut quite nice
ly. Not at all what I’m accustomed to wearing, but—”

  “Clothes make the man,” burbled Quigley, “although in this case I’d say it’s more the man making the clothes.”

  Sidney cleared his throat loudly, but the moment Arthur’s gaze shifted to him, Sidney felt an abrupt weakening of nerve. He pursed his lips, clearly intended to keep his concerns to himself, but Arthur caught the gesture and scowled darkly. It was enough to cause Sidney to tremble slightly from the look. “Come now, sir. If you have something to say, say it. Screw your courage to the sticking point.”

  “Nothing,” said Sidney quickly. “I was just … well ...” He thought for something to say that wasn’t inflammatory. He didn’t want to bring up the issue of money. That could cause a ruckus, and again, he knew the mind-set of the owners. “Arthur’s Court” was a gentlemen’s establishment, and the owners would frown mightily upon news stories relating to the armored man who had shown up out of nowhere in the store. Undoubtedly the papers would make great hay of it, having fun with the entire connection between a “knight” and a place called “Arthur’s Court” in obvious reference to the legendary king of the Britons. A gentlemen’s establishment did not have its name bandied about in garish tabloids. And if it did, the owners would have something very profound to say to the manager. The manager, for his part, did not want to hear it. So if it meant swallowing the expense of a suit, then Sidney would open wide. So often people had to worry about spending money to obtain publicity; well, Sidney was willing to spend it in order to avoid publicity. “It’s just that it’s getting late, and I have things I have to do, including get home ...”

  “Oh, but I haven’t settled with you yet.”

  Sidney’s voice was a mouselike squeak. “Par-par-pardon?”

  “Why, yes,” Arthur said mildly. He held out either side of the jacket carefully. “I assume this suit costs money, and your door that I accidentally destroyed also would amount to a sum.”

  “Oh, no. No, that won’t be necessary. Obviously this was an emergency situation, and as such, I hardly think it fair to take advantage of—”

  Arthur waved a hand in peremptory dismissal. “I wouldn’t hear of it.” He began to pat the pockets of the suit, as if looking for a wallet. This, thought Sidney Krell-man, was rapidly degenerating into the ridiculous. How could this lunatic possibly think that he could check the pockets of a brand new suit and find a wallet in it? Then again, what other behavior could one possibly expect from a lunatic? But then Arthur’s probing hand stopped at a vest pocket and a slow smile spread across his pleasant features. From the inside pocket he produced a small wallet, and from that he extracted a familiar platinum card. “Do you take American Express?” he asked.

  Sidney snatched it away, scowling, and studied it. His eyebrows knit and he stared, squinting, at the card. Quigley looked over his shoulder. The date of issue was the current month. They stared at the name, and Quigley looked up. “Well, Mr. Penn ...”

  Arthur looked at him in befuddlement. “Who’s ‘Mr. Penn’ ... ?”

  “According to this card, you are.” He held it up and Arthur leaned forward, looking at the name in the embossed letters.

  “Ah. So I am.” He sounded a bit sheepish about it. “Arthur Penn. Yes, that would be me.”

  For a moment Sidney wondered if the card was stolen, and then decided that it would be far better if such concerns were American Express’s rather than his. He quickly processed the card for the cost of the suit, not even bothering to add in the cost of the door (still preferring to stick to his story about vandals). He handed it back to Arthur, who was watching with amusement Quigley’s attempts to stuff the pieces of armor into a variety of different boxes and bags.

  “Don’t bother, please,” he said, laying a hand on Quigley’s shoulder. “I assure you that if I never see the wretched stuff again, it will not trouble me at all.” A stiff wind was blowing through the destroyed door, and Arthur felt the chill even through the buttoned suit jacket. “You know, I think I might have need of an overcoat.”

  Sidney dashed around to a rack of coats, picked a long tan one out, ran back and gave it to Arthur. “This is perfect. It’ll be just what you need.”

  He regarded the coat with scrutiny. “You don’t have anything in purple, do you?”

  “Not unless you’re a pimp,” Quigley said helpfully. Then he shut up as Sidney glared at him.

  “No need for concern, then. This will do just fine.” He slid it on, signed “Arthur Penn” on the charge receipt, took back the card, and then frowned. “I should pay for this coat as well … and certainly breaking the door was …”

  “Please,” Sidney said, and his voice began to tremble, “please. Please go. I can’t take this much longer.”

  “All right,” said Arthur, a trifle befuddled. “But let me at least pay for—”

  “It’s my gift to you!”

  Arthur stepped back, eyes wide. “If you put it that way, all right. I shall remember you for this kindness.”

  “No! Don’t remember me. Forget you ever saw me!” His fists were clenching and unclenching.

  Quigley took Arthur by the elbow. “I think you’d better go, sir. He gets like this when things go a little … wrong.”

  “Well,” said Arthur, buttoning his coat. “That’s the true mark of a man. To be able to take minor variances in routine in stride. He could stand a bit of work on that score.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You be certain to tell him that.”

  “I will, sir,” Quigley assured him, bobbing his head obediently.

  “When he stops crying, that is.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walked over to Sidney, who cringed slightly back from him, and extended a hand. Sidney looked at it as if it was the hand of a leper.

  “In my time … that is to say, in the old days,” Arthur said softly, “we proferred hands in order to show that we carried no weapons. It was considered a very suspicious sign when one person would refuse to present his hand to the other for inspection.”

  Sidney immediately grabbed Arthur’s hand. Arthur shook it firmly …

  … and for no reason that Sidney could readily discern, he felt ... at peace. As if merely clasping the man’s hand was more than enough to assure him that everything— the world, his life, everything—was going to be just fine.

  “Take heart,” Arthur told him. “I’ve returned … and everything is going to be all right.”

  “That’s ...” Sidney drew an unsteady breath. “That’s … good to hear.”

  “Yes. I imagine it would be.” He released his hand, patted Sidney on the shoulder, and said, “Good evening to you, then.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Arthur turned and walked out of the store, stepping delicately over the broken glass. Sidney watched him go and then, after a long pause, turned to Quigley and said, “We’re going to get this cleaned up, report a break in, and when all that is attended to … then we’re going to go out and get drunk. How does that sound to you, Quigley?”

  “Like a plan,” Quigley said with certainty, and he went to get a broom. He noticed the mace lying on the floor, picked it up, and put it behind the counter. Wouldn’t hurt to keep it around; there were all sorts of weirdos walking the streets these days.

  CHAPTRE

  THE THIRD

  ARTHUR SHOOK HIS head in wonderment, tilting back leisurely on his heels so that his gaze could follow to the tops of buildings that caressed the skies. He felt mixed emotions: On the one hand, they seemed heartless and cold. There was no style or design to them, really. There were some minor variations, but for the most part it was just tall building after tall building. Not even a decent gargoyle in sight. On the other hand, the sheer height and immensity of them were enough to take his breath away. It led him to conclude that modern man was incapable of doing anything with genuine flair, but was able to turn out rubbish in staggeringly impressive fashion.

  It was a cloudless night, with more
than a considerable nip in the air. Arthur hardly noticed, so captivated was he by the sheer enormity of the city around him. And the thing he found more staggering than anything else was that the evening’s pedestrians seemed to be utterly oblivious to the wonderment all about them. No one looked up to admire the architecture or whistle at a building height that, in Arthur’s time, would have been considered a fantasy. If Arthur were able to go back to his own time, he could have assembled a hundred architects of the period—all great and learned men—presented them with drawings of what he was beholding, and been assured by every single one of them that it was simply physically impossible. That any building that tall would topple over, a victim of its own pretensions. They would have dismissed the drawings as a pleasant fantasy, nothing more.

  “How things change,” he murmured. “Now these buildings are the reality, and it is I who have become the fantasy.”

  He jammed his hands deep into his coat pockets. He had kept only one piece of his previous ensemble with him: The scabbard. He felt the comforting shape of the empty scabbard through the cloth. Only the tip was visible, peeping out every so often from the long coat, and Arthur was certain that no one could possibly spot—

  There was a gentle tap on his shoulder, and he turned to look up—gods above, why was everyone so bloody tall?—into the face of a middle-aged, uniformed man, whom Arthur promptly and correctly took to be a police officer. He was sizing up Arthur with a gaze perfected over years of staying alive when, in his uniform, he was a walking target. He said, “Excuse me. Might I ask you what you’re wearing under that coat?”

  Arthur smiled politely. “Certainly. It’s a scabbard.”

  “Ah.” The cop smiled thinly. “Are you aware of the laws, buddy, against carrying a concealed weapon?”

  Arthur’s voice abruptly turned chilly as the evening air. He was, after all, still a king, and there were certain tones of voice that he simply was not going to tolerate. He had suffered enough ignominy this evening, and this latest assault on his self-esteem was simply unwarranted. “I am aware of a great many things—” and he glanced at the officer’s name badge, “Officer Owens, the main of which is that I do not appreciate your tone of voice, nor shall I endure being addressed in that manner.”