Avalon: The Return of King Arthur

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Dennis Arnold shrugged, and pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “Damned if I know,” he said. “She’s not on the passenger list. Maybe she’s with the Ambassador’s party.”

  “What party?” Waring demanded sourly. “There wasn’t supposed to be any party.”

  They watched as the woman reached the bottom of the gangway and stood beside the two officials as the casket was loaded into the back of the hearse. As soon as the rear door closed and the soldiers backed away, the woman turned and started towards the Prime Minister and his colleagues.

  “You don’t suppose she’s Teddy’s mistress, do you?”

  As she drew closer, Waring recognized the shapely curves ill-concealed beneath the tight black skirt and short jacket. “My God, what’s she doing here?”

  “Want me to get rid of her?” Arnold started forward.

  “I’ll handle it,” Waring said, pulling him back into line. “Stay here, and act like we expected this.”

  Waring moved quickly to apprehend the approaching woman before she came within earshot of the others. Although her hair was black beneath the veil, there was no mistaking the green eyes or the full, seductive lips that greeted him with a sly, almost mocking, smile.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” demanded Waring.

  “Good evening, Mr. Prime Minister,” she said, her voice low and beguiling. Despite his anger, Waring felt himself drawn to her.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “If anyone finds out we’ve been —”

  “You didn’t expect me to stay on that beastly island forever, did you? I couldn’t bear it a minute longer.” She put her hand on his sleeve.

  Waring stiffened. “Stop that,” he growled. Removing her hand, he patted it as if consoling her.

  Her smile teased. “You couldn’t live without me — that’s what you said last time.”

  “I mean it,” he said, taking her elbow and turning her around. “If anyone finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I need you, Thomas,” she said, the ache in her voice weakening his resolve. “I want to be with you.”

  “All right,” he relented, “I’ll call you.”

  “When?”

  “In a few days.”

  “No,” she countered, “tonight.”

  “It’s too risky. Now behave, or you’ll screw everything up. I’m going to put you into the car,” he said, lifting his head in a sad smile of condolence for the cameras across the tarmac, “and I want you to disappear for a few days.”

  They reached the car, and a soldier opened the rear passenger door. “I’ll call you.”

  She reached out and offered her hand to the Prime Minister in farewell. He took it and she leaned forward. “Tonight,” she whispered, and then slid quickly into the back of the limousine.

  Waring and his party returned to their limousines and, together with their police escort, led the hearse from the London City Airport.

  Everything that could be done to minimize the event, had been done — and would continue to be done. Both the airfield and the route had been kept secret to the very last minute to discourage any would-be mourners from turning out to watch the procession. Not that anyone would see much, he had made certain of that. But Waring knew down to his socks that public opinion was an unpredictable beast — as likely to bite the manipulating hand as lick it.

  Up to now, the renegades and royalists had been kept off balance and out of the way. They had yet to organize themselves into anything remotely resembling a coherent threat. But the King’s precipitous death was just the sort of quirky thing that brought factions together and focused objectives. It gave various disparate elements a central cause, created commonality, a rallying point. No one knew better than Waring that all it would take was a sound bite or two with an inappropriate inflection, an unfortunate phrase, the wrong choice of words, and the heretofore carefully managed affair would blow up in their faces.

  Already, The Sun and the Daily Star were making sympathetic noises, talking about the tremendous pressure poor King Edward had faced in his last days. It was no great leap from lukewarm insinuation to a barefaced declaration that the Government had actually hounded poor, misguided, unloved Teddy to death. If left unchecked, Waring knew he could end up bearing the blame for the King’s suicide. People were already thinking it, no doubt; it was only a matter of time before some big mouth broadcast it on national TV. He could live with that — his antimonarchy stance had kicked up fierce opposition every step of the way — but if the ensuing outcry cost him any more defections in the House, his all-too-slim majority could vanish overnight. That was something he could not accept.

  Just last evening, some bright light at Channel 5 had gone on air with the observation that perhaps the perceived climb-down over the King’s funeral arrangements indicated a massive failure of nerve on the part of the Waring government.

  “Idle speculation, Tom,” the Deputy Prime Minister had assured him as recently as this morning. “Nothing but pure, idle, pie-in-the-sky speculation. They have no way of knowing what we originally planned.”

  Even so, yesterday’s idle speculation had a way of becoming today’s rampant rumor and, before you knew it, you had a full-scale, Opposition-led media firestorm on your hands. Waring could feel it coming; he could smell it on the wind. Speed, therefore, was his best weapon.

  As the limousine and its convoy cruised through nearly empty city streets towards Buckingham Palace, Waring decided it was time to put a little distance between himself and the howling wolf pack.

  Waring turned his face from the rain-spotted window and said, “Dennis, I want to move the ceremony to Thursday.” The move, he reckoned, would cut down the time the renegades and royalists could use to get a sympathy campaign going. Once the King was safely laid to rest, he would cease to be an effective rallying point.

  “You’re not serious,” the devolution committee chairman said. He took one look at his boss and sighed. “My God, you are serious. Look, it can’t be done. We’re already pedaling as fast as we can. Most of my staff haven’t slept in two days as it is. We’ll never —”

  “Save it,” the Prime Minister told him. “We can cite the economic summit meeting — say that we have to take extra security precautions to protect the foreign heads of state. Say we’re concerned that terrorists might use the upset caused by the funeral as an excuse to attack the summit. Make it a security issue. No one will argue with that.”

  “I have no problem explaining it,” Arnold replied. “Do you have any idea the effort it is taking to organize this thing for Saturday? We’re working flat out as it is, and now you want to cut our time by forty-eight hours? Why, there are three thousand policemen alone —”

  “Results,” Waring said, “not excuses. You’re getting to be as bad as Adrian.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Don’t.”

  Arnold knew his boss’s strengths and weaknesses better than most people. He looked at the tightly drawn face in the dim, shifting light of the car. “What’s bothering you, Tom?” he asked quietly.

  Waring stared back at him. “You have to ask?”

  Arnold thought for a moment. “The presidency?”

  “Got it in one,” grumbled Waring.

  “Look,” said Arnold, adopting a conciliatory tone, “it’s two months to the referendum — eight weeks, and that’s including Christmas and New Years’ holidays. The next by-election is more than a year away. The last opinion poll put the public in favor of full devolution by seventy-two percent! Seventy-two! We’re in with a comfortable margin.”

  “Six seats is not what I call a comfortable margin, Dennis. Christ, we came in with over eighty.”

  “I meant the referendum vote. I know about the seats, Tom. We all know about the seats. How could we forget? You remind us hourly.” He paused, exasperated by his boss’s obsessive concern over his parliamentary majority. “We’ll get them back,” he concluded, “and more besides. Let
’s just get through the next few days without having a stroke, hmm?”

  “Your optimism is infectious.”

  “Eight weeks,” Arnold repeated. “The monarchy will be dead, buried, and forgotten by then — along with the monarch.” He chuckled, but his boss was not amused.

  “The referendum will take care of itself,” Waring insisted. “It’s the floaters that worry me, Den. If any of them should jump on this royalist bandwagon, we could —”

  “What royalist bandwagon?” scoffed Arnold lightly. “There isn’t any band; there isn’t any wagon.”

  “Make bloody sure it stays that way,” Waring said firmly. “We can’t allow any of that bouquet-laying crap. The last thing we need is another Kensington Palace flower show.”

  “It’ll never happen. We’re at Buckingham Palace, for one thing.”

  “You know what I mean, damn it,” growled Waring testily. “There are bound to be floral tributes — we can’t stop that. But I want them kept to a minimum. If they start piling up, keep them thinned out. And no goddamn teddy bears! Those are to be removed at once — immediately. Got it?”

  “Got it. No teddy bears.”

  “If anyone wants to make an issue out of it, tell them it’s by order of the Metropolitan Police — bomb security.” Having given vent to his apprehension, the Prime Minister subsided. “We’re not having everybody going all teary eyed over stuffed animals. The media eat that stuff up.”

  “Understood,” Arnold said. “Now I want you to understand something, all right?”

  “Yes?”

  “Everything you say, I’ll do it. But it can’t be Thursday. You can’t plan a state funeral overnight. It can’t be done. There simply isn’t enough time.”

  “Very well,” Waring agreed. “Friday then.”

  “God, you don’t give up, do you?” Dennis Arnold shook his head slowly. He could see the sleepless nights piling up ahead of him.

  “On Friday, Dennis,” the Prime Minister stated. “It’s got to be Friday.”

  Arnold puffed his cheeks and exhaled heavily. “All right,” he sighed, “if that’s what you want, Friday it is.”

  Twelve

  After dropping Cal in front of the hotel so he could retrieve his car, James drove home and quickly showered, shaved, and put on his Sunday best. He made coffee and toast, and collected the newspapers and mail from the last two days to read while he ate. There was nothing of interest in the post, so he scanned the papers — it was all to do with King Edwards’ death and the minor controversy which had, thanks to Donald Rothes, boiled up over the arrangements for the old boy’s funeral.

  One faction wanted to see the King quietly cremated in a private ceremony, and another wanted a full State funeral with burial in Westminster and all the trimmings; a third group was agitating for a less expensive yet still tasteful compromise. The debate was made more fraught by reason of the fact that whatever happened, it would all have to be arranged in the next few days because the funeral ceremony had been scheduled for Saturday.

  James folded up the newspaper and shoved it away, poured another mug of coffee to keep himself awake and then headed back to town. The small graveled parking lot beside the church was mostly full by the time he got there. The service had already started, so he slipped in quietly and took a seat in a pew at the back. He looked quickly around, but did not see Jenny or any of her family and was surprised to find how disappointed he was. St. Margaret’s is an old church, and the only one of which James had ever been a member. It had been his parents’ church, and it was where he had been baptized. In all the years he had attended, the church had known but two rectors: Doctor Hillary Oliphant, and the Reverend Raymond Orr. Both were good solid men of faith, much, James always thought, like the hills themselves: softly yielding as the mossy, mist-fed turf on the outside, but with spirits as tough as the hard granite inside.

  James’ father — that is, the man who had raised him as his son — was such a man, too, and in his better moments, James hoped he could one day be like them.

  One of the wardens — a genial old duffer named Gus — saw James as he entered and came after him with a news sheet. “Gude ta see ya’, Cap’n James,” he said, stretching out a horny hand. “Ah heered you wast in London.”

  “Good to see you, too, Gus.” They shook hands, and the organist launched into a rousing hymn, saving James further explanation. The congregation rose to sing, and Gus crept away to make his head count.

  There were more songs, an offering, prayers, and anthem, and a lengthy and gently meandering sermon which James only half listened to until Orr read from the morning’s text in Corinthians: “‘Who makes you, my friend, different from anyone else? What do you possess that was not given to you? If, then, you received it all as a gift, why take the credit to yourself?’”

  Although he knew it was only his imagination, James could not help thinking Reverend Orr looked straight at him when he read, “‘You have come into your fortune already. You have come into your kingdom… ’”

  As the service drew on, James tried to lose himself in the long-familiar rituals, the comforting ebb and flow of ancient liturgy. Every time he began to relax and let go, however, some word, some image, would set off a chain reaction, and the inner turmoil would start all over again.

  Why, he wondered, did they have to sing “Crown Him with Many Crowns” on this of all Sundays? Why was the anthem “O Worship the King” instead of, say, “Blest Be the Tie that Binds,” or some other regularly sung hymn? And why did the good reverend have to keep banging on about the sovereignty of the Lord?

  In the end, James gave up trying to fight it and simply prayed, “God, help a drowning man. I’m fighting to keep my head above water, Lord, and I could use a hand just now.”

  By the time the worship service ended, he was only slightly less anxious and agitated than when it began. Ordinarily, he liked to linger after church to talk to the old-timers and townsfolk — most of whom James had known all his life — but he did not feel up to it today. As soon as the last hymn was sung, he headed for the door. The good rector, always quick on his feet, beat him to the exit.

  “James, my boy!” His big booming voice filled the vestibule and spilled out the open door into the churchyard. “Welcome back.” He seized James’ hand, pumping heartily. “Tell me, how did you get on in London?”

  James’ heart sank. Of course, everybody in Braemar knew about the trip by now. Jenny’s mother had no doubt mentioned it to someone, and the Glen Dee grapevine had taken it from there. In the glens, gossip couldn’t travel faster if tinkers took it door to door.

  “You know how London is,” James replied, “busy, loud, and expensive. I couldn’t wait to get back.”

  The parson smiled and nodded. “Well, no matter how far we roam, it’s always good to come back home,” he said. “And it’s always good to see you of a Sunday, too. Blessings, my boy.”

  He released James, and turned to talk to the other members of the congregation as the line formed. James hurried to the car, and drove away quickly so he would not have to discuss his trip to London with anyone else.

  Patches of high blue sky were showing between the fast-moving clouds. It had all the makings of a glorious afternoon and, suddenly, the last thing James wanted was to be alone with his thoughts in an empty house. He remembered Agnes’ invitation to Sunday dinner, and decided he’d accept after all.

  He drove through town slowly, considering whether he ought to call ahead first or just show up. He passed the Braemar Parish Church. Services were just getting out, and the little congregation was filing into the churchyard where the older members were making an effort to ignore three teenage golfers carrying their bags down the road to the old golf club. The heathenish youngsters were talking loudly as they went, merrily oblivious of the darkly disapproving Presbyterian glances.

  Though in no way an unusual sight on a Sunday in Scotland, the presence of the golf clubs jogged James’ memory. On a whim, he proceeded up the road
to the town golf course, parked, and went into the tiny clapboard clubhouse. “Is Howard Gilpin here by any chance?” he asked the weedy youth behind the counter.

  “Old Howard?” he said. “Oh, sure.” He glanced at his clipboard and ran his finger down the list. “He started about half an hour ago.”

  “Thanks.” James headed for the door leading out onto the first tee. “I have to see him. Won’t take a minute.”

  “Sure, whatever,” the kid replied. “He’s probably on the second green by now.”

  Walking quickly out onto the course, James made for the second hole. There were two elderly men in bright green, padded shell suits with bobble hats and scarves, heads down over their putters; he recognized one of them as Gilpin. James waited until they had both sunk their shots. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping onto the green. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I was wondering whether I might have a quick word with Mr. Gilpin.”

  Both men turned from their scorecards and looked him up and down the way old people do when meeting someone they probably know but can’t place. They glanced at his street shoes and grimaced as James stepped forward, extending his hand. “It’s James Stuart,” he said, adding, “from Blair Morven. I think you knew my parents, Mr. Gilpin.”

  The old man shifted the putter and shook James by the hand. His grasp was cool and strong. “James!” he exclaimed as recognition came to him. He made a stiff half turn to his partner. “Look here, Iain, it’s young Stuart — Jack’s son.” To James, he said, “Well, now. I ask myself, what brings you out on the course? Not the golf, I think. No sticks! So, if you haven’t come to join us, what’s on your mind?”

  The old legal eagle’s manner was cordial yet direct. Despite his years, he was trim and wiry, with the short curly hair of a terrier, and James could see he had lost little of his renowned vinegar.

  “I’d like a brief moment of your time, Mr. Gilpin. There’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “You shall have it — that is, if you don’t mind talking on the hoof. Iain will tee off, and you can ask away. Suit you?”