Knight Life

Knight Life

P
ETER
D
AVID

D
OVER
P
UBLICATIONS
, I
NC
.

M
INEOLA
, N
EW
Y
ORK

Copyright

    
Copyright © 2002 by Second Age, Inc.

    
All rights reserved.

    
Bibliographical Note

    
This Dover edition, first published in 2016, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published in 2002 by the Berkley Publishing Group, New York.

    
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: David, Peter (Peter Allen) author.

Title: Knight life / Peter David.

Description: Mineola, New York : Dover Publications, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015039905| ISBN 9780486804682 |

            
ISBN 0486804682

Subjects: LCSH: Arthurian romances—Adaptations. | Knights and knighthood—Fiction. | New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. | Fantasy fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3554.A92144 K58 2016 | DDC 813/.6– dc23 LC record available at
http://lccn.loc.gov/2015039905

    
International Standard Book Number

    
eISBN-13: 978-0-486-81103-1

Manufactured in the United States by RR Donnelley

    
80468201 2016

    
www.doverpublications.com

Contents

Ye Olde Foreword

    
Chaptre The First

    
Chaptre The Second

    
Chaptre The Third

    
Chaptre The Fourth

    
Chaptre The Fifth

    
Chaptre The Sixth

    
Chaptre The Seventh

    
Chaptre The Eight

    
Chaptre The Ninth

    
Chaptre The Tenth

    
Chaptre The Eleventh

Ye Olde Sound Bite

    
Chaptre The Twelfth

Ye Olde Sound Bite

    
Chaptre The Thirteenth

Ye Oede Sound Bite

    
Chaptre The Fourteenth

    
Chaptre The Fifteenth

Ye Olde Sound Bite

    
Chaptre The Sixteenth

Ye Oede Sound Bite

    
Chaptre The Seventeenth

    
Chaptre The Eighteenth

    
Chaptre The Nineteenth

Ye Oede Sound Bite

    
Chaptre The Twentieth

    
Chaptre The Twenty-First

    
Chaptre The Twenty-Second

Ye Olde Sound Bite

    
Chaptre The Twenty-Third

    
Chaptre The Twenty-Fourth

Ye Olde Sound Bite

    
Chaptre The Twenty-Fifth

Y
E
O
LDE
F
OREWORD

F
OR YEARS NOW
,
Knight Life
has proven to be the most elusive of all my published novels. Folks who came across my work by way of comics, or
Star Trek
novels, or
Howling Mad
, have been unable to turn up the original edition in used book stores and have inquired as to when—if ever—it might be brought back into print. So I shall tell you right now, you should all be thankful to editor Ginjer Buchanan (who shepherded the book through the first time) for pioneering a deal that has not only returned my little tale of Arthur's to print, but has ensured a sequel, tentatively titled
Dead of Knight
.

    
However …

    
A few years back, during one of the several times that
Knight Life
was optioned for the movies (and never made, as I'm sure you've surmised), I wrote a screenplay version of the book. And as I did, I was struck by all the things in the novel that I did—well, not
wrong
—but not as right as I could have. The story was told, yes, but I took shortcuts
in getting there, and there were some problems to be solved in the narrative, which I hadn't solved properly because I lacked the tools as a writer to do so. There were carryovers from the bland journalistic writing style I used at the time and story elements that were put in to serve my convenience rather than the story. It was as good a tale as I could have told then—but I felt I could do better. Crafting the screenplay forced me to think more visually, and ultimately I was happier with the screenplay in many ways than I was with the published manuscript. I wished there was some way that I could go back in time and “fix” the original book; improve upon it.

    
So part of the deal I cut with Ginjer was that I would return to the original manuscript and fix all the stuff that was fixable. It's ironic in a way: At conventions, one of the standard questions I get is, “Are you writing any new novels?” To which I used to respond, in my smart-ass fashion, “No, I've decided to write only old novels.” Well, I can't say that anymore, because that's fundamentally what I've done here, not only incorporating aspects from my script version, but also trying to bring the story more in line with the way my writing style has developed over the years.

    
There will be some long-time fans of my work who will be irked with this decision, because they will feel they are being “forced” to buy a book they already have. For that matter, they might read it and say that they don't perceive any differences between this and the previous version. To those folks, I will say that the changes that have been made are more than cosmetic. The original novel had just over 65,000 words; this incarnation has 95,000— nearly half again as long.

    
There will be newcomers to my work who will be irked that they still don't have the original. To those folks, I will say that you may very well have found the original annoyingly dated, in little ways (having an office filled with clattering typewriters and computerization regarded
as something new) and in big ways (having Republicans as a non-force in New York mayoral politics.)

    
And to all of you, what it really comes down to is: If you're buying a book with my name on it, I feel I owe it to you to have it be the best book that I can make it. The original edition was as good as I could make it at the time. Now, I think I can do better, and hopefully, I have.

    
And before we go any further, there's some final business to attend to.

    
The author would like to cite the following books and/or authors:

    
Le Morte d'Arthur
by Sir Thomas Mallory

    
The Once and Future King
and
The Book of Merlin
by T. H. White

    
The Last Enchantment
and other assorted titles by Mary Stewart

    
Tales of King Arthur
by John Steinbeck

    
Arthur Rex
by Thomas Berger

    
All of the above have been carefully read, or purchased, or checked out from the local library and never returned by the author of this work. In the preparation of this manuscript the author has at the very least skimmed the flap copy, sell copy, and table of contents of all of the above, plus many other titles too numerous or obscure to mention.

    
The author thanks all of the above for their contributions, however small, to this work. But don't expect royalties.

C
HAPTRE

THE
F
IRST

T
HE APARTMENT WAS
dark, illuminated only by the dim flickering of the twelve-inch, black-and-white Sony that sat atop a scratched coffee table. The Sony itself was showing its age rather severely, having been purchased second hand from a going-out-of-business motel some years earlier. There was a bent antenna on top of it, and a thick film of dust across the screen, which whimsically had the words “Life sucks” etched in it.

    
The apartment had clearly been allowed to go to seed. The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, with squares and circles imprinted where various paintings or pictures had once hung. The floor was bare, the boards warped and uneven. Off to one side was a small kitchen that had a gas stove last cleaned sometime around the Hoover administration, and a refrigerator stocked with two cracked eggs, half a stale loaf of Wonder Bread, and a flat bottle of club soda. And three six-packs of beer.

    
The apartment's sole occupant was also visible in the cathode's unflattering glow. Then again, the only thing
that could have been flattering to the occupant at that moment was utter darkness.

    
An old sitcom was playing on the screen. She had seen it before. She had seen all of them before. It did not matter to her. Nothing much mattered anymore.

    
She smiled slightly at the antics of the castaways on the screen. Somehow Gilligan was always able to make her smile slightly. A buffoon, a simple jester.

    
Simple.

    
She remembered when her life was simple.

    
She took a sip of the beer, finishing the contents of the can and tossing it off into the darkness. She thought there might be a trash can there to receive it, but if there was, she missed it entirely, for she heard the can clattering around in the corner before rattling to the floor. Or perhaps it had indeed found its target, but there was already such a stack of cans built up that the newest one had simply fallen off. Either way, she didn't much care.

    
Morgan Le Fey hauled her corpulent body protestingly to its feet. She was clad in a faded housecoat that had once been purple, and her swollen feet were crammed into large fuzzy slippers. Her tresses, once a pure raven-color, were shot through with gray. The formerly fine lines of her face, her sleek jaw and high cheekbones, were now sliding off into her collarbone. She had given up counting her chins, as another one seemed to spring into existence every decade, like clockwork.

    
As she waddled into the kitchen, her housecoat tugged at the protesting buttons, threatening to pull them all off their thin moorings. She made her way across the kitchen, kicked aside a stray beer can, and pulled open the refrigerator door. She saw something out the corner of her eye, scampering away across the kitchen floor.
Good luck finding something around here of use
, she thought mirthlessly, as she looked into the fridge. She squinted slightly, because the refrigerator bulb was nearly blinding in contrast to the dimness of the rest of the place. She reached in and
snapped another can of beer out of a half-consumed six-pack and lurched back across the kitchen, the slippers slapping against the bottom of her feet.