A Garter as a Lesser Gift

At long last! The moment you've all been waiting for! A Garter as a Lesser Gift is now available! (There WILL also be a paperback, whenever Amazon deigns to release said paperback to the public. We shall see!)

Usually I try to post a sample before the book is actually published, but this time I did NOT, so you get it today instead! Here is chapter 1, A Garter as a Lesser Gift, "What if the Knights of the Round Table were airmen in the RAF in World War II and that asshole green knight showed up?"

Chapter 1

The night after Lancelot went down over France, the squadron went to the Green Dragon to get drunk. Even young Percy went with them, although he did not drink, but nursed a ginger beer as he watched Gawain and Kay pretend to play at chess. Ironsides sat a little way off, at the edge of the group as he always was with any group, downing drink after drink without so much as a twitch in his set face.

Their squadron leader, Art, sat in the corner with his pint. Like a clockwork figure he lifted it to his lips from time to time, but he did not drink, only sat with his face white and drawn.

Lots of airmen died that way. So they had lost Tristram just last month. But they had all loved Lancelot, and they were heavy with rage and grief.

Kay sat at the chessboard with his head on one hand and his bishop in the other. At the bar Ironsides called, “Another,” and his voice seemed to wake Kay from a dream. He set down the bishop in a place he would not have chosen if he had been thinking about it.

Gawain with a negligent swoop of his knight took the bishop off the board. “I wasn’t done,” Kay protested.

“You took your hand off your bishop,” Gawain said.

“I was thinking!” Kay was growing red.

“Well, think faster next time,” Gawain advised. Kay knocked over the board, and Gawain surged to his feet, and Kay reared up and they glared at each other, spoiling for the fight that would relieve their feelings without the shame of tears.

The door flew open. Dead leaves skittered in before the wind.

They all swung toward the door, even Art, heads lifting, eyes widening with hope. But their cries of greeting died on their lips, for it was not Lancelot.

In the doorway stood a massive man, so large that he seemed to shoulder aside the door jambs as he pushed his way into the pub. All in green he was: a long green overcoat, and green trousers tucked into green boots, and a green bowler hat all on top. With so much green about him even his skin seemed tinged green; but his lips were red, and his teeth flashed white as he called, “A flagon of ale, mistress!”

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