The High King's Return: a Modern Tale of King Arthur

London, June 15, 1994

2:51 PM

"I’m knackered." A tall, young, willowly woman wheezed, verbalizing her state of exhaustion in English slang. Her name was Judy Redford; in all honesty, though, she would have changed it to something more glamorous if she could. Judy was a natural blonde, with skin both ruddy and pale, and given to whining one moment and making great shows of zealous enthusiasm the next. At present, she turned with a sigh to her chum Claire, a short, stocky brunette with a cherub face and ruby red lips. Judy’s shoulders drooped as though she were a lily wilting in the sun. "You think we’ve done enough sightseeing?"Judy asked plaintively. It seemed quite clear that at least she thought so.

It was early summer in London. Both young English women were wearing short black skirts with bright, tummy-revealing tops and knee-high black leather boots; they had dressed to the nines for a day of sightseeing. Yes, they were native Londoners, not tourists, but seldom did either of them have a day on holiday, and neither had the money to go abroad this year. So they were stuck in London, and determined to make the best of it.

After touring around the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, they had decided for a walk in Hyde Park, a late lunch at the Hard Rock Café, and then a visit to Buckinghman Palace. Now, their final destination was within sight; the pair stood in the middle of the stone roundabout across the road from the gilded main gate of Buckingham Palace, but the inappropriate footwear they had chosen for the day was beginning to take its toll on their feet.

Near them, a group of meandering American tourists wearing blue jeans and pressed cotton slacks and skirts unloaded an arsenal of large Canon cameras strapped over their shoulders and began snapping away shot after shot of the palace and its environs. The southern English sunshine had retired for a bit behind a passing herd of drifting clouds but was due to make another brief appearance shortly.

"Yeah, I’m knackered, too. But I could go for a pint." Claire suggested at length, thinking lovingly of a cool pint of beer. She spared a moment in eyeing the enthusiastic Americans, who had only just got off a double-decker tour bus moments ago after hours of sitting. Claire usually liked Americans and was saving up money to visit a cousin in New York City that August. At that moment, though, their visible bursts of energy began to fatigue her. The more she watched them, the more she savored the thought of escaping the warm afternoon and heading to a dimly lit pub to sit down.

"Hey, Claire, what do you reckon he’s supposed to be?" Judy said abruptly in a low class East End London accent. Claire followed Judy's eyes to a moderately handsome, middle-aged man of noble mien now making his way through the crowd, heading boldly towards Buckingham Palace.

Because the girls had spent the morning looking at suits of armor in the Tower of London, it took Claire a moment to register with surprise that the man was wearing a linen tunic over a suit of chain mail.

Now she’d seen everything! Claire thought.

The mediaeval man was staring ahead at the Palace, his eyes set in blind determination as he walked. His hair was gold and copper-fire, his blue eyes keen as a cloudless sky, his step slow, decisive, purposeful. A broad, scabbarded sword swung at his side like a red and gold pendulum. The sword alone was enough to turn heads.