Avalon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “As it happened, the young Marquess was not at all a materialistic man. I do believe he would gladly have forfeited his inheritance to live in humbler circumstances with the woman he loved. But there was someone else to consider now: his young wife was pregnant. While the Marquess might have been willing to abase himself for the love of his life, he could not bring himself to dishonor the young lady and his unborn child.

  “Forced to this dire extremity, the Marquess showed his true mettle. He devised a plan which, although involving a certain amount of sacrifice in the short term, would secure a long-term benefit for himself, his wife, and child. He hit upon the idea of a false annulment. Through a sympathetic solicitor, he fashioned a document convincing enough to fool the Duke into believing his son had finally seen the sense of putting the unacceptable marriage behind him.”

  As Embries talked, a strange detachment crept over James. Even though the people in the story were intimately known to him, their lives as much a part of him as his own, he could not help blurting, “You’re not saying the Duke fell for it?”

  Embries rose and began to pace slowly, one hand supporting an elbow, the other fingering his chin. “The Duke wanted to believe his son had acceded to his wishes and, in fact, he had every reason to do so. Still, the old fox was very much a belt-and-braces man. He accepted the annulment but made a further demand. He told his son that he would not be reinstated until the young woman was married off quietly to another. Only then would then young man’s future be secure.”

  “Unbelievable,” muttered James.

  “Well, the young people were stuck,” argued Embries. “They had not anticipated anything like this; what is more, they were quickly running out of time. With each passing day, the unborn child was growing; their secret could not be kept from the world very much longer. What could they do but agree?”

  “They caved in to the old bastard,” remarked James gloomily.

  “Ah, but the Marquess did not surrender without a fight,” Embries continued, moving with slow, deliberate steps. “He fought for, and won, a dispensation: the young woman should be properly cared for — in short, she and her new husband, whoever that might be, should receive a house and a position on the estate.

  “The Duke — as yet unaware that Elizabeth was with child — reluctantly accepted these terms, whereupon the Marquess played his last desperate card in this whole miserable game. He recruited a long-time friend to pretend to marry the girl.”

  “John Stuart,” James murmured as the final piece of the puzzle dropped into place.

  “Yes. The man you knew as your father entered the scene. Now, I do not know if money changed hands, or whether there was some other inducement, but — knowing the people involved — I rather think Stuart acted out of genuine friendship for the Marquess and a sincere regard for Elizabeth.

  “These arrangements were swiftly carried out, and soon after the Duke suffered a minor stroke. This encouraged the young people mightily. No one expected the situation to be anything but a short-lived ruse which would be abandoned upon the imminent death of the old tyrant.

  “After all, once the Duke was safely in his grave, the Marquess, having inherited his birthright, could do as he wished. His friend John would step aside so he could resume his life with his beloved Elizabeth, and raise his child in a manner appropriate to his station. This was the gist of it. A foolish, fantastic plan beginning to end, but they were young and they were desperate. They had been made aware of the consequences for their child, and willingly accepted the risks. And yet, in spite of all its flaws — in spite of everything — it might have worked.

  “The only trouble was that the Duke did not die quickly. He had two more strokes in swift succession; and though each one laid him low, the iron Duke recovered, sending his son into the depths of black despair and depression. You can imagine the Marquess’ agony: here, the woman he loves is living with his best friend under the roof that he himself has provided. He can see her, talk to her, adore her from a distance, but he cannot touch her, hold her, make love to her as a husband ought. In due course, Elizabeth gives birth to a son — his son — and he can do no more for the lad than is fitting for a laird to offer the child of a tenant. Because the Duke is watching, watching, watching all the time.”

  James swallowed hard. “Are you saying that my mother — that she became the wife of John Stuart while still married to the Marquess? What’s that — bigamy? It’s outrageous!”

  “Easy, Jimmy,” urged Cal. “Hear him out.”

  Embries shook his head placidly. “Just as there was no real annulment, there was no true marriage, either.”

  “Adultery, then!”

  “No, not adultery. And here we see the beauty of the sacrifice Jack and Elizabeth made. It is, in some ways, the most extraordinary part,” Embries said, his voice taking on a note of respect, almost reverence. “In choosing John Stuart, the Marquess chose a true and loyal friend. John lived with his lovely Elizabeth in a completely celibate relationship. He was — and you know this as well as anyone — a deeply religious man, and not to be swayed from any path he believed was right. He was a man who placed a high price on his beliefs and did not sell them cheaply.”

  James nodded. That was the man he knew.

  “Also, you must remember, they all expected the Duke to die any day, and this hope gave them tremendous patience.” Embries shook his head sadly. “But life is stranger than we can ever know, and far more unpredictable. What we expect to happen and what actually happens very often bear as much resemblance to each other as bright flame to damp ashes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Ah, can you no’ guess what happened, James? Can you no’ remember?” cried Cal. “Even I remember!”

  Instantly, James’ memory flitted back to early childhood. He had a hazy remembrance of the Marquess — talking to his father outside in the yard with three or four dogs running around him. He also remembered the Duke — the formidable dictator with the brass-topped walking stick who seemed determined to make everyone as miserable as himself. Holding the picture in his mind, he recalled what had happened to spoil the plan. “The Marquess died,” he intoned softly.

  Cal leaned back in his chair, nodding with approval.

  “Exactly,” confirmed Embries. “The Marquess was injured in an accident — near Glen Shee pass one black winter night his car went off the road — and he died two days later, leaving his father the Duke alive, and his wife and young child in the care of his friend.” Embries paused, gazing inwardly at the unhappy scene.

  After a moment, he said, “Now then, any of several things might have happened. I know both your mother and John Stuart were all for coming clean and facing the consequences. I counseled against this —”

  “You,” breathed James aloud. In his mind’s eyes, he saw the photo he’d found in the hunting diary. “You knew about this from the beginning?”

  “From the beginning? No.” He shook his head. “But I knew about it long before it reached this point. I advised against revealing the Marquess’ plan for several reasons — the most pertinent and important was that telling the Duke would almost certainly have destroyed the one thing they valued above all else, and for which all three of them had sacrificed so much.”

  “And that was?”

  “Your future.”

  “My future!” James shot up out of the chair. “This is crazy! Fake annulments… phony marriages… plots and counterplots — it’s a soap opera you’re selling, and it has nothing to do with the people I knew in real life. You make it sound smutty and low. These were my parents, and it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “For a fact, Mr. Embries,” Cal put in, “James’ mum and da’ were the finest people I knew. Like second parents to me, and it’s an insult to us both if you say a word against them.”

  Embries stood slowly and looked James up and down. He did not say anything for a moment. He neither defended his
story, nor attempted to disperse his listeners’ indignation. He merely gazed at James with his pale eyes, and waited until the heat flash of fury had abated.

  “You can prove all this, I suppose.”

  “We would not be here otherwise.”

  “Show me.”

  “What do you want to see?”

  “Something. Anything. Everything.” James gestured towards the stack of papers on the desk. “There must be something in there you can show me to make me believe your story.”

  “I can show you any number of things,” Embries replied quietly. “Proof is easy to come by. Belief is difficult — that is a matter of personal conscience and volition. What could I show you that you would believe? A birth certificate? A will? Documents can be forged, they can be changed. Belief is not here” — he placed his hand on the pile of papers — “it is here” — he tapped his temple with a fingertip — “and here” — he tapped his chest.

  “I still want to see it.”

  “I thought you would,” replied Embries. To Cal, he said, “Drag your chair around here so you can see.” He drew the stack of documents to him. “Now sit, both of you. We have a long day ahead of us.”

  Slowly, inexorably, the evidence mounted with every scrap of paper Embries produced. Most of it pertained to the property and the hopelessly tangled settlement of the Duke’s estate. James had learned enough about the legal ins and outs of the matter in the last few months to know that what he was being offered was genuine. From time to time, James showed one of the papers to Cal, who leaned over to inspect the document without comment. The clincher came in the form of a wedding certificate. Embries produced this in its turn, and any last resistance James had maintained to this point crumbled away.

  Despite what Embries had said about documents being forged and changed, James had merely to glance at the single piece of badly photocopied paper to know it was the genuine article: John James Stuart and Elizabeth Anne Moray, nee Grant, had been married in a magistrate’s office in Aberdeen. He stared long at the date. He would have been six years old at the time.

  Finally, James had seen enough. Shoving the photocopy across the desk for Cal to see, he pushed back his chair, stood up, and moved quickly to the door.

  Embries took a step after him. “James?”

  “I have to get out of here. I’m sorry.”

  Cal stood up quickly. “Where are you going?”

  James pulled open the door. “I don’t know.”

  “Here, I’ll come with you.” Cal started after him.

  “No,” James told him without looking back. “Stay here.”

  Cal stepped to the doorway, intent on following. “James, wait —”

  Embries called him back. “Let him go, Calum. He will be better off on his own for a while.”

  Cal hesitated, then returned to the desk. “I guess he got a little overwhelmed by all this” — he frowned at the untidy pile of papers — “all this stuff you’re telling him.”

  “It’s a great deal to take in,” suggested Embries.

  “I’ll say,” replied Cal. “He’s just gone from being a homeless bastard to being a bloody rich bastard — and I use the term in the technical sense.”

  “An unacknowledged son,” corrected Embries. “There is a difference. Still, there may be a few more shocks and surprises to come. He’ll need a friend, Calum.” Embries grew suddenly serious. “Are you the man to stand beside him?”

  Embries allowed the question to hang in the air between them. Cal looked away, gazing out the door through which James had just passed.

  “I need to know, Cal,” said Embries. “How far are you willing to go?”

  Cal swallowed and, dropping back into his chair, began to speak. “James and I used to cut school sometimes,” he said, his voice low. “Once we took a couple of ponies without permission, and two rifles. We were, maybe, thirteen — and we were playing the big, brave hunters, setting out to bag the mighty monarch o’ the glen.

  “We couldn’t have picked a worse day — cold, misty, thick fog rolling down the hillsides, couldn’t see your hand in front of your face — but we had heard about this stag, and we were determined to bring it down and win the undying admiration of the world. We got out on the moors, and followed this track that James’ father had shown him. We rode further and further into the hills — we should have turned back, but we kept going and going. The land got wilder, the hills higher, but we kept going.

  “So,” he said, becoming part of the event once more, “we stop for a rest, and we’re sitting there, and we hear this sound — halfway between a snort and a growl. The mist is heavy and we can’t see a thing; we can’t even tell which direction the sound is coming from. But we know: it’s the stag! ‘Don’t move,’ says James. We hold our breath.

  “A second later, something big and dark blows past us, and goes straight up the hill. We’re on it like a shot. The horses are stumbling on the slick rocks, and it’s getting steeper, but we’re desperate to keep up. We reach the top of the hill, and all at once the mist clears, and we see it. There it is! God in heaven, it is a magnificent beast — a champion stag with an antler spread out to there” — he opened his arms wide — “and a thick black mane like a lion. The stag stops and turns, and looks right at us. He knows we’re there, and he doesn’t care.

  “Before we can loosen the straps and pull our rifles free, the stag disappears over the hill. Now, it’s down and down and down at breakneck speed. To this day, I don’t know why one of the horses didn’t fall and throw us on our fool heads. But we get to the bottom, splash across the burn, and it’s straight up the other side again.

  “This time we have to go slower. The hill is higher, the rocks larger, and the footing more treacherous. We get to the top and the stag is waiting for us. Waiting for us!

  “There is a tall rock stack behind him, blocking escape that way, and to the other side the hill becomes a ridge that falls away sharp. We have him. James says, ‘Go on, Cal. You can have the first shot.’ My rifle is in my hands already and I put it up and squeeze off a round.

  “The sound is deafening. I’m shaking so bad I can’t see if I’ve hit him or not. The next thing I know the stag is coming at me — head down, those antlers a few inches off the ground. I don’t even have time for another shot before it crashes into me.

  “The pony rears up and turns, trying to get out of the way. The antlers catch the horse in the belly just under the rear flanks, and I’m thrown from the saddle. The force of the charge pitches the horse clean over onto its back — it’s screaming and thrashing, hooves flying everywhere.

  “The stag draws back, lowers its head, and makes to charge again — at me this time. Nostrils flaring, blood in the eyes, this beast is coming for me and there’s not a doubt in my mind but that I’m looking death in the face. My rifle is gone. I don’t know where it is. There’s no time to look for it anyway — the hooves are already churning. I see rocks and gravel flying. I see that great head tilt down and the antlers like a dozen spear blades tipped with blood sweeping towards me.

  “I’m dead, and I know it. I can’t run. I can’t shout. All I can do is stand there and wait to be impaled.

  “And then… and then I feel this hand on my shoulder. And James is there. He pulls me back and steps into my place. The stag is on us. I turn my face away. The shot explodes in the same instant. Smoke fills my nose and mouth and stings my eyes.

  “When I look again, I see the stag on its knees — its hind legs are still driving, but the forelegs have collapsed. James shoots again, and the head falls to one side. The antlers catch in the ground, and that thick neck snaps. It sounds like a tree root breaking deep in the earth.

  “Silence after that…”

  Calum paused; the quiet of the book-lined room was complete.

  “James saved my life that day,” he said at last. “He put himself between me and sure death. There is not the slightest doubt in my mind that he’d do it again. And I’d do the same for him �
�� any time, any place. I’d do whatever it took, and I wouldn’t think twice about it.” He nodded, a quick downward jerk of his chin to underscore the sentiment. “Does that answer your question?”

  Glancing up, Cal saw that Embries’ eyes were closed. At first he thought the old man had fallen asleep, but then he saw the thin lips moving rapidly, as if the old gent was reciting a private litany.

  “Mr. Embries?” he asked. “Are you all right, Mr. Embries?”

  Slowly, the golden eyes opened, and Calum saw in them a strange excitement that both stirred him and chilled him to the marrow. “Forgive me,” the whitehaired old man breathed softly. “I was remembering another day a long time ago.”

  Placing his palms together, he sat for a time gazing at Calum over the tips of his fingers, as if toting up the sum of a complex equation. Calum endured the scrutiny, returning the old man’s gaze with stoic silence. Finally, Embries lowered his hands and said, “Thank you for telling me that. It means more than you can know.”

  “I’d do anything for James, Mr. Embries,” Calum reiterated stubbornly. “That’s my solemn vow.”

  “Very well, first things first. He will need you to be present and available. Wrap up your affairs. You can leave your work for a while, I believe?”

  “I suppose so — seeing it’s winter and things are slowing down a bit. I have two or three hunting parties scheduled around Christmas and New Year’s.”

  “Cancel them,” Embries ordered.

  “Sure. You got something else in mind?”

  “Oh, I do indeed. There are one or two other details to explain, but let’s just say that it would be best if you remained unencumbered for the near future.”

  “For James’ sake.”

  “For James, yes,” Embries assured him, “and for Britain.” His eyes took on the strange excitement once more, and it seemed to Calum as if the man before him was looking through him — or beyond him — to something he found intensely, dazzlingly fascinating. “We will do great things,” Embries said, his voice the echo of a whisper. Cal was not even sure if the old man was talking to him.