King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court
by Kim Iverson Headlee
Genre: SciFi Time Travel Fantasy
How sick are you of US politics? How doomed is the world because of who has claimed the Oval Office throne—er, chair?
Refresh your spirit by laughing along with what Mark Twain might have written about today’s political falderal.
“Solidly entertaining.” —Publishers Weekly
WINNER 2016 IBPA Benjamin Franklin Gold Medal for Science Fiction & Fantasy.
Morgan le Fay, sixth-century Queen of Gore and the only major character not killed off by Mark Twain in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, vows revenge upon the Yankee Hank Morgan. She casts a spell to take her to 1879 Connecticut so she may waylay Sir Boss before he can travel back in time to destroy her world. But the spell misses by 300 miles and 200 years, landing her in the Washington, D.C., of 2079, replete with flying limousines, hovering office buildings, virtual-reality television, and sundry other technological marvels.
Whatever is a time-displaced queen of magic and minions to do? Why, rebuild her kingdom, of course—two kingdoms, in fact: as Campaign Boss for the reelection of American President Malory Beckham Hinton, and as owner of the London Knights world-champion baseball franchise.
Written as though by the old master himself, King Arthur’s Sister in Washington’s Court by Mark Twain as channeled by Kim Iverson Headlee offers laughs, love, and a candid look at American society, popular culture, politics, baseball… and the human heart.
Mark Twain began work on A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court in 1879—the same year the Yankee Hank Morgan departed for his sojourn in sixth-century Britain. The first edition was published in 1889 and features more than 200 illustrations by the man who later would become founder of the Boy Scouts of America, Daniel Carter Beard. These illustrations are now in the public domain, and a handful have been incorporated into King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court as an artistic homage to this classic edition of the first time travel story in all literature.
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Video Trailer
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EXCERPT (from A Word of Explanation; ~150 words)
ALL CALL ME
Queen. For my unparalleled skills in leechcraft, most call me “The Wise.” No
man dares call me “le Fay,” lest he die.
I hight Morgan.
That is to say,
my name is Morgan, so chosen by my mother, Duchess Igraine, to honor the Great
Queen of the Old Religion, Mór Rigan, goddess of war. My mother never knew how
prophetic her choice would prove to be.
I am the daughter
of Duke Gorlois, the sister of Queen Margawse and Queen Elaine, the wife of
King Uriens of Gore, and the mother of Sir Uwaine of the Table Round. Blessed
good fortune made me all of these things.
By the capricious
hand of ill fortune, King Arthur became my younger half brother, spawned upon
my most virtuous and blameless mother by that demon in man’s raiment, Uther
Pendragon.
I despised Arthur
from the very hour of his birth.
EXCERPT (from Chapter II: King Henry’s Court; ~175
words)
“Ah, Connecticut.
Nay, fair Queen Morgan, that land lies many leagues to the north.” After
nodding northward, King Henry spread his arms wide. “I bid thee well come to
Crownsville, and I further bid thee and thy comely companion”—King Henry smiled
at Lady Jane—“to join us at the feast anon.”
Queen Anne cast
her liege husband a disconcerted glance but glided forward, smiling and
extending both her hands toward me, which I did grasp warmly; and she said:
“Aye, Queen Morgan, thou art ever well come to feast with us on this most
glorious of Saturdays, the twenty-third day of September in the year of Our
Lord fifteen thirty-four.”
If I could lay
head to heel the bodies of every loser of every tournament in every realm since
the birth of Our Lord, even should such a line compass the entire kingdom,
’twould not come nigh unto compassing my anguish upon hearing that my
enchantment had missed its mark by more than three full centuries.
I concealed my
dismay as I accepted the royal invitation.
EXCERPT (from Chapter XV: Sandy’s Statistics, ~140
words)
“Is—is this you?” Sandy whispered.
“What is this book?” I asked.
He left his finger to mark the page and with the other hand
flipped over the cover, upon which I read, A Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
and, beneath a fanciful yet ridiculous coat of arms, “Mark Twain.”
Ah. This must be the tome to which Clarice had alluded when
we first met, when at the fair in Crownsville I was treated to a reenactment of
events straight off a page of my ancient life. True to her promise, Clarice had
procured me a copy—though not as old as this one—yet I had been too deeply
engaged with Malory’s campaigns to have a go at reading it.
I said, “’Tis a reasonable likeness, do you not agree?”
He nodded, but his pallor increased a shade or two.
EXCERPT (from Chapter XXIV: A Rival Player; ~200 words)
“Grief? Is that
how you view our relationship? Naught but grief?”
“No, of course
not, but—”
“Indeed. Then how
do you view it?”
He rolled his
eyes. “You know how I feel about you—privately, that is. I just don’t
appreciate my judgment being questioned on the job all the time. Believe it or
not, Boss, I do want what’s best for the team, and I do know what the team
needs; but I can’t deliver it to you under these conditions—it’s like I’m bound
and gagged. I can’t operate like that. Either free me to do my job for the
Knights or free me to do it elsewhere.” His gaze turned soft and sad. “Please.”
Oh, God, he used
that magic word on me—me, mistress of magic, and I stood helpless to resist its
effect. The rage that had built within my breast throughout his speech seeped
from me like helium from a balloon, leaving the skin inflated but with no
volition to rise from the floor. Quietly I said:
“Very well, Sandy
Carter, if your job means more to you than I do, then you are fired.”
Again.
Alas.
EXCERPT (from Chapter XXV: A Competitive Examination; ~120
words)
Being queen means
always getting one’s way, and in the end, the board had to bow to my wish to
invite Prince Peter to become Patron of the Knights, which he accepted with the
grace and speed of a leopard on the hunt.
I must admit in
retrospect the move was an unequivocal disaster. It did carry the singular
advantage of my being invited to the über-posh Royal Box; but the sex was only
fair, and Prince Peter’s public entourage, which included a cloud of hopeful
young women, and ever so many photographers hoping to film him with anybody in
a compromising pose, was an annoyance of imperial proportions.
They do not make
royalty like they used to.
EXCERPT (from Chapter XXVIII: Drilling the President;
~160 words)
During a stop
scheduled for fueling the dragon on our way back to DC, I took Malory aside and
said:
“You have spent
four days trying to be someone else. Strike that—as a politician, you have
spent your entire career trying to be someone else. Do you even know how to be
yourself?”
Panic dominated
her countenance. “What are you talking about? My PR staff, through countless
hours of study and research, has determined the image I need to project to
maximize my popularity, and that is what I have been doing all this time.”
“Have you, now?
And how is that working out for you?”
I knew very well
the answer to that question, and I had a feeling so did she; I was testing
whether she was willing to admit her failing to another.
The droop of her
chin was my answer. A moment later, her chin rebounded, and defiance flashed
from her gaze. “What would you suggest?”
EXCERPT (from Chapter XXXIII: Twenty-first Century
Political Economy; ~140 words)
Conversation was
sparse, awkward, and inconsequential until Malory laid down her fork, nailed
Dowley with her gaze, and said:
“Dan, you know
you had that coming, what with all the verbal shots you’ve been taking at me of
late. It has to stop. We’re in the same party, for God’s sake. All this sniping
is bad form.”
“If I discontinue
my opposition tactics and support you, what’s in it for me?”
The cheeky
bastard! I would have racked him on the spot.
Malory said,
“Why, the ’88 Presidential nomination, of course.”
This, of course,
would be for naught if Malory became President for Life. Promises made by
twenty-first-century politicians were rarely kept; how anything of import ever
got accomplished in this hellish climate of false hope being strung along by
true deceit lay far beyond my ken.
EXCERPT (from Chapter XXXVII: An Awful Predicament, ~130
words)
PRADA HEELS MAY
turn many a head, but they are sheer hell for running. A constable stopped me
before I could exit the park.
“What happened
back there, missus?”
“A man attacked
me. I defended myself and escaped.”
“He’s dead, you
know.”
“Is he? Oh, my!”
Of course I knew he was dead; it seemed best to play dumb.
“Your name,
missus?”
I felt more than
a trifle taken aback that the constable did not recognize me, and so I did not
answer right away. The constable was not pleased to repeat the query.
“Morganna Hanks,
owner of the Knights.”
“Right. Prove it.
Show me your ID, please.”
I could not, I
realized with mounting dread. “I—may we go back? I must have dropped my purse
in the scuffle.”
EXCERPT (from Chapter XLI: The Dictum; ~200 words)
Sandy said in an endearingly hopeful way, “Do you want me to
stay?”
I wish he had not phrased it that way; of course I wanted
him to stay! Of a sudden I had never wanted anything more acutely in my life.
But sometimes wants have nothing to do with the way things must be. I said as
gently as I knew how:
“If Ambrose has come all this way to speak with me, then I
suspect he would prefer a private audience. Do not worry, my love, I shall be
fine.” I conveyed my further assurances with a kiss that I hoped was more
convincing to Sandy than I felt.
“I’ll wait on the other side of the door. If there’s a
problem, just give a shout, and I’ll be here in an instant.”
Our second—and final—kiss felt deeper and sweeter than all
its numberless predecessors combined. It took my full exertion of will to keep
the tears from slipping free. At last we parted. He rose, stooped to brush his
lips across the top of my head, and left my office.
Sandy is—was—will be—such a daisy.
Kim Headlee lives on a farm in southwestern Virginia with her family, cats, goats, Great Pyrenees goat guards, and assorted wildlife. People and creatures come and go, but the cave and the 250-year-old house ruins--the latter having been occupied as recently as the mid-twentieth century--seem to be sticking around for a while yet.
Kim has been a published novelist since 1999 with the first edition of Dawnflight (Sonnet Books, Simon & Schuster) and has been studying the Arthurian legends for nigh on half a century.
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I like the cover
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