News presenter, the “highly respected Jonathan Trent,” informed an intensely fascinated nation that any moment they would be bringing live coverage of the historic announcement as it happened by way of their crews on location. He then went directly to Kevin Clark, who had been flown back from Madeira some days earlier, asking him to describe the situation at Blair Morven.
“Thank you, Jonathan,” said a frozen Kevin, his breath puffing in the cold northern air. “The atmosphere here could not be more keenly anticipatory. As you can see behind me, the television and radio crews of every major news organization in the country are here, and we are eagerly awaiting the arrival of the new King.
“What a truly amazing day this has been! This revelation could not have been better timed or organized to garner maximum attention. Our own crew has been instrumental in —”
The screen switched back to the studio, and Jonathan Trent said, “We’ll come back to you in a moment, Kevin, but it has just been confirmed that one of the two vehicles currently under investigation — the brown Lexus… yes, that is confirmed — the Lexus has turned off the road at Bridge of Cally and is currently heading towards Pitlochry. That leaves the Jaguar, which is now just outside Braemar.” The screen showed the fuzzy grayish infrared picture of the top of a dark car moving along a dark road. “It would appear that the next King of Britain is nearing his destination.”
Jonathan came back onscreen then, and said, “While we are waiting, we will go now to Gina Thompson for this special report.”
The screen switched to an office, and the camera zoomed in on a desk on which had been spread several pieces of paper. The silky voice of Gina Thompson announced, “At twelve o’clock sharp this afternoon, an envelope containing these documents was delivered to the office of the King of Arms, at the College of Arms in London. Identical parcels were simultaneously delivered to, at last count, two hundred and fifty-four other news agencies and offices in the capital and throughout Great Britain. Each parcel contained documents identifying this man” — the screen shifted to a close-up photograph of a young officer in military uniform — “by the name of James Stuart, as the next reigning King of Britain.”
Dark-haired Gina then appeared on screen. “Fantastic as it might seem to some,” she announced solemnly, “that claim is being regarded as genuine. Our own investigation has so far corroborated the evidence contained in the mysterious parcel. It is not known at this hour who is responsible for disseminating this information, or how this remarkable claim was uncovered. But, as these documents suggest, although a king may have been buried today, the monarchy is far from dead.” She smiled grimly at her witticism, and then said, “Back to you in the studio, Jonathan.”
“Thank you, Gina.” The newsreader turned to an owlish man sitting nervously across the desk from him. “With me in the studio now is Thurgood Pilling, the Norroy and Ulster King of Arms at the College of Arms. Tell us, Mr. Pilling, is this claim likely to stand up in a court of law, or wherever these cases are heard?”
The round-faced man smiled timidly, and cleared his throat. “Please, allow me to clear up a few misconceptions. While it is true the College of Arms is the final authority on all matters pertaining to nobility in this country, we do not deal with questions of Scottish royalty. Neither do we adjudicate such matters.”
Jonathan looked surprised. “No? But I thought the Norroy and Ulster King oversaw all of the north, including Northern Ireland.”
“Yes,” allowed Pilling, “that is correct.”
Now the news presenter appeared bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“All of the north,” said Pilling, “of England. I’m afraid you must have the wrong impression. Scotland has its own college of arms, if you will — the Lyon King of Arms. This body, roughly analogous to our own, is responsible for all matters arising in and pertaining to Scotland.”
“I see.” Trent appeared deflated by this pronouncement.
“However,” the owlish Pilling continued, and Jonathan Trent’s hopes revived, “I can tell you that from what I have seen, the claim — were it to be made in our jurisdiction, so to speak — would have no difficulty being proved. In other words, while I cannot speak for my Scottish colleagues, I will venture the opinion that, where their criteria and requirements are similar to ours, the documents I have seen are more than adequate to the task at hand.”
“For our viewers,” put in Trent quickly, “by documents you mean, of course, the birth certificate, the Royal Heritage Society affidavit, and so forth.”
“Indeed.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pilling,” he said, dismissing his guest and turning to face the camera once more. “There you have it: were the claim to be mooted in England, it could be proved.” He glanced at a sheet of paper on the desk before him, and said, “There has been no official statement from Downing Street as yet. We are hoping to have a word with the Prime Minister following the official announcement, which we are, like the rest of the nation, awaiting with bated breath.”
He paused and arranged his papers. “This is the BBC, bringing you special coverage on our Six O’Clock Report.”
Trent’s face was replaced by a graphic of the dragon symbol adapted from the one found on the press packet. Beneath the dragon were the words “Monarchy: End of an Era… Beginning of a Reign?”
When he came back on, Trent said, “Now let us take you to Westminster Abbey, the scene earlier today of King Edward’s funeral, Ronald Metcalf reporting.”
The image shifted to Westminster, garish yellow-orange in the floodlights, and Ronald Metcalf standing before the closed chapel door with a microphone in his hand. “Dour, grim, almost brutal in its brevity — these are words which would seem to sum up the funeral service for the last reigning monarch of our country. Certainly, no expense appeared too small for what may — or may not — be the last royal funeral in Britain. For the select few gathered here, as well as those who viewed at home —”
“Thank you, Ronald,” interrupted Trent. “We’ll have to come back to you on that story. We have just received confirmation that the self-proclaimed King has been sighted — that is, the car containing what looks to be the next King of Britain has been sighted in Braemar. What can you tell us, Kevin Clark?”
Kevin, his voice quivering with cold and excitement, announced, “That’s right, Jonathan. The car has left Braemar and is proceeding towards Blair Morven. I can hear the helicopters — they seem to be just beyond those trees to the south of us here — which would indicate that the vehicle is very near, perhaps — yes, it must be — on the estate even as we speak.
“The mood here has intensified in the last few minutes. We are, as anyone can imagine, keenly interested to get our first look at this man. Is he a poser, an imposter? Or is he the genuine article? We hope to have those questions answered before long.”
The windblown reporter paused, pressed his fingertips to his right ear, and then said, “The car is on the estate. Stuart is expected to arrive shortly, and now…”
There came the thrumming of helicopter engines, and the camera shifted to a view of the expansive castle lawn. There were so many television crews encamped on the grass, the scene resembled a carnival all lit up for business. Lights large and small, many with reflector umbrellas attached, bathed the lawn and drive in a wash of brilliant white, while journalists and their crews huddled around their heaps of gear — cameras, boom mikes, parabolic sound reflectors, battery packs, and coils of cord and wire. There was a surge of bodies around Clark as reporters and their cameramen went after the shot of the arriving car.
“Yes, I can see the vehicle now,” Kevin Clark continued, trying to remain calmly objective. “Yes, it is a late-model black Jaguar… I cannot see inside it at the moment… It is now coming up the drive towards the house where I am now standing. There is only the single vehicle — no parades, no processions, no entourage…”
The screen showed the car as it rolled slowly to a halt on the gravel yard in
front of the house. The lights glittered on the paintwork and tinted glass. Instantly, the car was surrounded, inundated by the waiting crowd as they jostled for prime position. And then everything went still.
The driver’s door opened and a young man in a smart black suit stepped out to the chorused click and whir of the cameras. Ignoring the media attention, he turned and opened the rear passenger door. For an instant, the entire television world held its collective breath. There was a movement at the open door, and the next King of Britain emerged.
From one end of the country to the other, a television audience numbering close to thirty million saw a sandy-haired young man with the physique and easy grace of an athlete, standing straight and tall in a severe dark suit. They saw him take in the ranks of media folk gathered around him and smile. The smile went a long way towards earning him the right to be heard, for it was a confident yet genuinely appreciative smile, not the practiced grimace of the professional politician or the plastic rictus of the Hollywood huckster. It was the friendly, unaffected grin of one who is truly pleased and honored by the occasion.
The King smiled, and the flashes blazed. And then, in a purely spontaneous moment of welcome, the assembled media army began to applaud. Most peculiarly, especially for hardened media pros, the applause did not die away in an embarrassed ripple, but grew more enthusiastic as James, smiling, genuinely moved and appreciative of his reception, offered an impromptu bow in acknowledgment of the honor paid him. And when he stepped into their midst to shake their hands, the press pack actually began cheering.
This spontaneous act of welcome proved infectious, for it was widely reported in the next day’s papers that in pubs, homes, and offices, all over the country, viewers applauded and cheered, too.
Later, skeptics would say that it was only the release of tension after the mad scramble to capture the first glimpse of the man who would be king. Others said that it was merely a way of breaking the ice of what was after all a very awkward moment. Still others said it typified and was a physical expression of the confused emotional state of the country following King Edward’s death.
Perhaps it was all those things. Even so, the image of the young man of regal bearing, receiving the adulation of those who had waited many hours in the winter cold to see him, was the perfect portrait of the new King — a fact not lost on the photo editors of the national press. Most newspapers in Britain carried the photo — the rest ran some variation of it — on the front page; it also made the papers across Europe, the United States, Australia, and Canada, as well as the rest of the world.
When the acclaim finally slackened, James Arthur Stuart raised his hand for silence, and tens of millions leaned forward to hear what he would say.
Twenty-two
James stepped out to confront a gathering of men and women almost faint with expectation. Having waited through the day in a state of heightened anticipation, the crowd surged forward to meet this new upstart of a king.
He looked at the faces of all those strangers, so eager, so hopeful, and it seemed to him that in that moment — if for only that moment — they needed him and genuinely wanted him to succeed. Here, James thought, I have been bracing myself for an angry confrontation, but they only want to welcome me.
Indeed, the enthusiasm of the crowd lifted him high, and he was swept away on waves of optimism and goodwill. He found himself so overwhelmed, it was some moments before he could find his voice to speak. So he just stood there and grinned. Then, he bowed in acknowledgment of their homage, and the camera flashes went off, and the applause started.
In the same instant, James felt the fiosachd quicken. The skin on the back of his neck tingled, and he felt a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach as if the earth were dropping away from beneath his feet. The scene before him abruptly changed.
All the photographic and video gear disappeared, as did the castle and car and drive. It seemed as if the crowd were standing at the upper end of a gently sloping meadow, with thick forest pressing in all around. James did not need to turn around to know that if he looked behind him he would see the leather campaign tent which had once belonged to Uther Pendragon and, behind it, row upon row of picketed horses. Spread out on the wide meadow before him a number of bonfires had been lit to take the chill off the night; but there was a ring around the rising moon, and he knew there would be snow before another day was done.
The people have come to me, he thought. They expect something. What is it? He looked at their hopeful faces, the way they leaned towards him in their yearning. What did they want? What did they need?
James reached out to them with the fiosachd, and suddenly he understood. There is a battle coming, he thought. The enemy is approaching and will soon close upon us. The people are looking to me for reassurance. They want to know that I will not fail them, that my courage is sufficient to the day. They want to hear me tell them how it will be, so that when the fight begins in earnest they can trust me to lead them to victory.
He looked out at the close-grouped crowd and heard the fluttering hiss of the torches and the crack and ripple of the bonfires; he gathered his people to his heart and began to stoke the flame of their valor. For the British are a remarkable race, quick to rally, slow to fear, quietly determined and able to endure the worst with patience and fortitude. They possess a natural nobility staunchly resistant to oppression and injustice. Although uniquely tolerant, and therefore difficult to rouse, once roused, even the least among them is capable of great heroism.
The battle begins here. As always, the battle begins here and now. Before the first blade is drawn, before the foe is sighted, we begin by putting fear to flight.
They were waiting for him to awaken their courage for the battle to come, so he said, “You honor me with your presence here tonight, and I welcome you, one and all.” A rippling flare of light met this first utterance, and the torches and campfires of another time became camera flashes and TV spotlights once more.
“A few miles from here a king was buried today,” James told them, looking away to the east. “With the ending of his reign, another begins. This is the way it has always been in this land, and it is right that it should be so now. I know there are forces at work in our country which would make it otherwise. Yet, God willing, a monarch shall always reign in Britain.
“I say this, not from selfishness or ambition — unless it is the ambition to restore Britain to her rightful place in the world. As I look around me now, I see the hope in your faces, and I, too, take hope. For I see in you the yearning for a better way, a higher purpose, a more meaningful existence than any offered by our materialistic, narcissistic, fatalistic age. I tell you the truth: this longing is not misplaced. Rather, it is our heritage, and it is borne in the blood and bone of Britain’s true daughters and sons.
“Indeed, it is part of the very character of our island race to ever and always look beyond the narrow horizons of time and place and circumstance to the paradise we have seen shimmering in the west. Listen, my friends, and I will tell you a wonder.”
Raising his hands, palms outward in the age-old gesture of declamation, James knew deep in his inmost heart that he had stood this way before and spoken the words he was about to speak. He had no need to plan them, or even to think about them. The words were written on his very soul.
He gazed out upon the expectant faces of the crowd, and loosed the words to do their work once more. “There is a land,” he said, “a land shining with goodness where each man protects his brother’s dignity as readily as his own, where war and want have ceased and all tribes live under the same law of love and honor. It is a land bright with truth, where a man’s word is his pledge and falsehood is banished, where children sleep safe in their mothers’ arms and never know fear or pain.
“It is a land where kings extend their hands in justice rather than reach for the sword; where mercy, kindness, and compassion flow like deep water, and men revere virtue, revere truth, revere beauty above comfort, pleasure,
or selfish gain. A land where peace reigns in the hearts of men, where faith blazes like a beacon from every hill and love like a fire from every hearth; where the True God is worshipped and his ways acclaimed by all.
“This is the Dream of Taliesin, Chief Bard of Britain. If you would know this land, know this: it is the Kingdom of Summer, and its name is Avalon. Fortunate are those who stand before me this day. Countless generations have lived and died longing to see what you now behold: the appearing of a king who can lead his people to Avalon.
“I tell you the truth, the Kingdom of Summer is close at hand. Taliesin’s dream can become reality; it only awaits our good pleasure.”
Lowering his hands, James was aware of an embarrassed, uncomfortable silence. He realized his mistake then — people were no longer accustomed to being addressed this way by those who led them. He could almost hear them thinking: is this man a charlatan? is he insane?
“I want you to know, all of you, that we stand on holy ground,” he continued. “Many years ago, in this very place fewer than two hundred warriors led by Arthur, Dux Bello-rum of Britain, met the massed warbands of Saecsen, Jute, and Picti under the leadership of the wily marauder Baldulf. Though greatly outnumbered, the valiant British not only stood against the foemen, but also put a far superior enemy to flight. The cost was fearful. When the battle was over fewer than eighty Britons remained standing.
“The blood of the defenders hallowed this ground, and out of recognition for the sacrifice of those brave dead, Arthur gave this land to one of his battlechiefs with the expressed stipulation that it should be held in perpetuity for the defense and support of the sovereignty of Britain. The link forged that day long ago has held fast; the chain remains unbroken — to this day and to this hour. Through the many storms and gales of adversity, the ducal fiefdom of Morven has remained steadfast and loyal — not to the temporal monarchy, which is all too often invested in weak and fallible men — but to something higher and purer: the True Sovereignty of Britain.
Avalon: The Return of King Arthur Page 21