Avalon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  All in all, it was a tremendous performance, and one which managed to appear both spontaneous and unscripted, but which Waring was certain was neither. Impressive as it was, as far as Waring was concerned it was only that: a consummately polished performance enacted for the cameras by a shrewd and calculating upstart for purposes unknown.

  The Prime Minister did not wait for the press conference to finish, but switched off the broadcast following the young King’s speech. Then, turning to his staff, he said in quiet, measured tones, “This man is a threat.”

  Some of the younger advisors opened their mouths to object, but Waring halted them with a raised hand and a dark glance. “I do not know what he thinks he can gain from this stunt,” he continued, “but I want him to know that his moment in the spotlight is over. Finished.”

  Turning to the Deputy PM, he said, “Angela, I want to know who is behind this. I want to know what game they think they’re playing. I want to know what they want.”

  Telford-Sykes, through her long association with Waring, knew the danger signals; she knew when to shut up and do what she was told. “I’ll get on it,” she said. “Right away.”

  Waring turned next to his press secretary. “Hutch, this media circus has to be shut down. If he’s campaigning for something, I want him to know his campaign is dead in the water. It is going nowhere. I want it stopped before he gets any more airtime.”

  “Done,” replied Hutchens.

  “The rest of you,” the PM said, “get busy and assemble everything you can on him. I want a full dossier first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you want to make a statement?” asked Angela Telford-Sykes.

  “God, no,” sneered Waring disdainfully. He gestured at the blank television screen. “Dignify that crap with a comment? Are you joking? Let them have their fun. When we make a response, it will be to blast him to kingdom come.”

  He dismissed them all to their work, and sat for a while staring at the blank television, thinking about what he had seen. The more he thought, the more agitated he became. He got up and stalked to the next room, the private secretary’s office. DeVries was nowhere to be seen, but two of his assistants — young single women whose names he had never bothered to learn — were sitting on the edge of one of the desks, watching the press coverage of the King’s announcement.

  “He’s gorgeous,” one of the assistants was saying. “Ooh, that delicious Scottish accent. He’s a total dish.”

  “Mmm,” agreed her co-worker enthusiastically. “I could eat him up with a spoon.”

  The reaction of the two young women caused the Prime Minister’s scalp to tingle as cold dread descended full upon him. Where only a moment ago he had been alarmed, now he was panic-stricken. The sight of the two young females almost hugging the television screen, and their idle banter as they drooled over the newcomer, frightened him more than anything he had seen or heard so far. For in them he saw the shape of the battle to come.

  Waring stepped into the room. “Where’s Mr. DeVries?”

  Both women leaped up as if scalded. “Sorry, Prime Minister, we were just —”

  He held up his hand. “I don’t care.” He offered a small, deprecating smile and glanced at the TV. “I agree, he’s very sharp. I’m rather taken with him myself.” He turned his smile on the young women.

  “Mr. DeVries stepped out for a moment,” the senior of the two volunteered. “He said he’d be right back. I’ll tell him you want to see him as soon as he returns.”

  “Please,” replied Waring, moving back into his own office.

  He crossed to his desk and sat down, but could not concentrate on any of the items waiting for his attention. He kept seeing this man Stuart, standing there God and everybody, pouring out his heart and soul. It was unheard of. Extraordinary. And, if the reaction of the two females in the next room was a reliable indication, the world was eating it up — with a spoon.

  There came a knock on the door and Leonard DeVries opened the door a bit, and stuck his head in. “You wished to see me, sir?”

  “Smoking is a filthy habit, Leo,” he said. “It’ll kill you one day.”

  “Of course, sir,” agreed his private secretary affably. They had this conversation from time to time. “Was there anything else?”

  “Send my car around to Number Eleven. Back door, please.”

  “Right away. Shall I note your destination?”

  “I’ll inform the driver when I see him,” replied the PM.

  “If anything comes up I can be reached on the mobile.”

  “Very good.”

  As soon as DeVries disappeared, Waring rose from his desk, moved to the small coat closet, and retrieved his dark blue cashmere topcoat and gloves. He then made his way along the connecting corridors at the back of Number Ten through to the house next door. He considered having a word with the Chancellor, but decided anything Adrian Burton had to say on the matter wouldn’t bear thinking about. The man was a buffoon.

  So he pushed through the heavy, bomb-proof doors and went out into the garden to wait. The back gardens were always manicured to perfection, even in winter, and now the rosebushes were done up with tiny white fairy lights. Happy bloody Christmas, he thought when he saw them. With Christmas on the way, the whole country would be feeling all warm and squidgy and sentimental — something else he could do without. The Great Unwashed were suckers for cheap sentiment, and indulging it was always something of a bouncing Betty, politically speaking, as there was no telling where it might explode, or how often.

  He shook his head wearily as he paced slowly down the path. Teddy’s funeral had gone off without a hitch; they had foreseen and countered every contingency — except this one. How could he have imagined something like this would happen? He had just rid himself of the last King, and now he had another on his hands. Black emptiness welled up within him at the thought.

  Well, he resolved, taking a deep breath, if it came to it, he’d bury this one, too.

  The car arrived just then, and he opened the garden gate and went out into the narrow, bollard-lined drive. The security man jumped out and opened the door for him. “Good evening, sir,” he said.

  “Good evening, Robert,” Waring replied, climbing into the back of the car.

  “Where to this evening, sir?” asked the security man.

  “Nowhere in particular,” Waring replied. “I just want to drive around, get some fresh air.”

  “Very good, sir.” Robert closed the door and climbed in. He punched the central locking switch and the door locks clicked shut. He then spoke quickly into a tiny microphone under his lapel, rattling off a string of syllables and numbers that meant nothing to Waring. There came a chimed beep from a box on the dashboard in front of him, and he turned to the driver. “We’re clear. Go.”

  The car moved out and passed the blue security box. The duty officer lowered the spiked chain at their approach and waved them through. The emerald-green saloon rolled smoothly onto Horse Guards Road and joined the sparse traffic on The Mall. The driver worked his way through the streets north to the Embankment, and then drove along the river.

  As the car approached New Bridge Street, Waring leaned forward and said, “Let’s go by St. Paul’s; I want to find a phone.”

  “You can use this one, sir,” the security man reminded him. He picked up the car’s mobile phone, and started to pass it back.

  “Thank you, Robert,” the PM replied. “But I’d rather use a pay phone if you don’t mind. It can be done, I believe.”

  “Of course, sir,” he answered, giving the driver a sideways glance. The driver shrugged.

  They cruised along slowly, and came to a rank of phone booths near the Old Bailey. “This will do,” said Waring, and both he and his minder got out of the car and walked to the phones. There was no one else in any of the booths, so the PM selected the first one that accepted coins, opened the door, and stepped in. Robert, speaking into his lapel, planted himself outside, his back to the door while his b
oss made his call.

  After slipping a number of coins into the slot, Waring tapped in the number. The phone rang several times, and his heart sank lower with each unanswered ring. He was on the point of hanging up, when a low, silky woman’s voice said, “Yes?”

  Waring sighed. “I have to see you.”

  “Thomas! What a pleasant surprise.” The voice sounded far from surprised. “How did I know you would be calling?”

  “Tonight.”

  “My, you are the anxious boy,” she purred. “I don’t know whether I should see you or not. I think you made your feelings perfectly clear last time.”

  “This isn’t like the last time,” Waring said, trying his best not to sound as desperate as he felt.

  She laughed — a full, throaty laugh which teased and taunted even as it seduced. “That’s what they all say, my darling.”

  “Please,” he said. God, he thought, it is almost worse talking to her than not talking to her. Ten seconds on the phone and she already has me begging.

  “Very well,” she relented.

  “I’ve got a car; we can pick you up.”

  “No,” she replied crisply. “That would not be wise. Thank you, but I’ll make my own way.”

  “When?”

  “I shall have to consult my diary, I think.”

  “Tonight.”

  “Ah.” She paused as if considering the suggestion. “No, I think not tonight. You’d best sit tight for a little while longer.”

  “Soon then.”

  “Say it, darling.”

  “What?” Waring’s stomach tightened.

  “You know,” she insinuated. “You won’t see me unless you say it.”

  Warning swallowed, and glanced over his shoulder. His bodyguard did not appear to be listening.

  “I’m waiting, Thomas. You know how it upsets me to be kept waiting.”

  Clutching the phone tightly to his cheek, he whispered, “I… I worship you, Moira.”

  “Lovely, my sweet.” She laughed again, and whispered, “See you soon….”

  He slammed the receiver back into the cradle and pushed open the glass door of the booth, almost knocking Robert the minder off his feet.

  “Where to now, sir?” asked the security man.

  “Home.”

  They walked to the waiting car and, just as the minder opened the door for the Prime Minister, the first shock wave struck London. The ground trembled — but only for an instant — and the tremor was accompanied by a sound not unlike that of an Underground train passing beneath the street. Waring thought nothing more about it.

  Twenty-five

  Contacting the Prime Minister had been the new King’s first priority. There were conventions to observe, mutual obligations to fulfill, a new reign to inaugurate; free and open lines of communication would be immediately and continually necessary. So, following his broadcast announcement, James called Downing Street to arrange a meeting with Thomas Waring. But the switchboard would not put him through. He sent a fax. No reply. He wrote a letter and had it in the post that same night. Three days later, he was still awaiting a reply from Number Ten.

  Despite the PM’s silence, Embries assured James that the organs of state were conscious of his presence, and were actively engaged in dealing with his claim. “Your announcement caught them unaware,” he said. “Do not imagine that they will treat it as anything less than a declaration of war.”

  If the Government was incommunicado, the rest of the world was eager and anxious to talk. Embries had warned James that the declaration of his kingship would cause a considerable stir. Even so, he seriously underestimated the size of the uproar. James was thinking countrywide, when global would have been closer to the mark. The commotion was extraordinary.

  Within minutes of the declaration broadcast, every media organization in the United Kingdom — and most of the rest of the world — was beavering away, intent on either proving or disproving his kingship. The Court of Claims, a traditional body charged with examining all assertions of royalty, had been hastily convened by the Earl Marshall — recalled from retirement — to investigate the new development. While James was fully prepared for his claim to be subjected to rigorous and meticulous scrutiny — indeed, he welcomed the challenge — many of the stories emerging from the resulting media feeding frenzy were factually wrong, some were pretty far-fetched, and a few were unbelievably fantastic.

  Of this latter type, one story featured an interview with a psychic from California who said the spirit of the deceased King Edward had appeared to her in a séance and revealed to her that this new King was not only a fraud, but had actually been Adolf Hitler in a former life, and was once more embarking on the path of world domination. This assertion was staunchly refuted by two other psychics. One in Glastonbury insisted the new claimant had instead been Alfred the Great. Another, in Cardiff, maintained that the new claimant was actually James Teach, cutthroat brother of Edward “Blackbeard” Teach, which by miraculous coincidence had been the deceased King Edward’s identity in a former life.

  The lunatic fringe aside, it bothered James that the serious press had cooled to him, adopting an aggressively skeptical stance which they put across in the most jaded, cynical, and factually irresponsible terms. Judging by the tenor of their investigative reports, the press corps seemed angry that he had come forward and that his claim might indeed prove true. They called him “The Man Who Would Be King,” “Lord Jim,” and “Monarch O’ the Glens.”

  On Tuesday following the declaration, one paper suggested in veiled terms that James had paid for his lordship out of money given him by radicals from the Save Our Monarchy organization. On Wednesday, a scandal sheet alleged that he had hired hit men to bump off the old Duke so he could inherit his title.

  It was all James could do to keep from calling a press conference every few hours to correct the latest inaccuracies. Embries cautioned against this, and instead advised that they simply ride out the storm. “The more they convince themselves of your integrity,” Embries told him, “the less convincing we will have to do along the way.”

  “I hope you’re right,” James replied, gloomily eyeing the day’s stack of newspapers.

  “Hope,” snapped Embries, “is a precious commodity — save it for situations where it can help sway the outcome. Your kingship is a fact, and one which will be amply demonstrated to be true.”

  He was, James suspected, thinking about Collins’ death. One man had given his life for this truth and, regardless of what Embries said, James honestly hoped he had not died in vain.

  As the days went by, the evidence was shredded, ground, and sifted fine; nevertheless, the various experts at the College of Arms failed to uncover any impediments to James’ kingship. None of the serious media organizations managed to scrape together any sign of skullduggery, or flimflam, and no cogent objections appeared forthcoming. Thus, the end of the first week of his reign approached, and no genuine opposition had emerged to undermine the legitimacy of his claim to the throne of Britain.

  Collins had done his work well, and it stood up to the most severe analysis and investigation possible. He had foreseen and disarmed every potential objection. In this, he had struck the first blow for Britain before the enemy had even been aware of the battle.

  Meanwhile, James did his best to ignore the media storm and instead busied himself with organizing his household. For the first time he was resident in the castle in whose shadow he had lived most of his life. There were numerous adjustments to be made on the domestic side, as well as mountains of material to digest pertaining to his kingship. The latter was accomplished under Embries’ exacting tutelage; for hours each day, James was instructed and quizzed by his mentor on royal protocol, the British constitution, economics, European social history, statecraft, and diplomacy.

  Meanwhile, the press had set up camp in the forecourt of Blair Morven and, like a besieging army, had virtually occupied little Braemar. A prisoner in his own house, James could not take
so much as a single breath of fresh air outside without creating an instant stampede of cameramen and reporters. He did so once, and four journalists were injured in the resulting mêlée. Embries decided it was time to call in a professional.

  “This is Shona McCrery,” he said, introducing a short, somewhat plump young woman the next day. “She is from St. Andrews, and has been living in London for the past four years, working for Page One, the media consultancy firm.”

  “Good morning, everyone,” she said pleasantly. “Your Majesty.” She favored the King with a small bob of her head. “I hear you have paparazzi problems.” She smiled wickedly, and James detected a pugnacious soul who relished a good brawl. “Not anymore you don’t. From this moment, your media hassles are a thing of the past.”

  “Welcome aboard,” said Cal, who had labored under the strain of having to deal with the reporters’ continual pestering presence.

  “Call me a personal representative, call me a royal spokesperson — call me anything you like, but as of right now, today, all statements to journalists — print, radio, or television — go through me. It will greatly enhance our credibility, not to mention our quality of life, if we are heard to speak with a single, distinct voice. That voice will be mine.”

  She served the same affable, no-nonsense notice to the newshounds huddled outside — many of whom she knew on a first-name basis. Reassured by her controlling presence, the press accepted the new regime without a grumble. She negotiated the boundaries, both geographical and professional, beyond which the media could not stray; she fixed the ground rules for press conferences and interviews, and instituted a rota system for controlling how many reporters were allowed on the estate at any one time.

  Blair Morven proved itself a worthy base of operations for the fledgling sovereign and his staff. The traditional seat of the Morven dynasty was a huge, rambling pile of whitewashed stone, constructed in the grand old Highland style around a central hall with clusters of various rooms scattered on three floors, and four circular turrets, each of which had been converted into comfortable, self-contained apartments. In years past, the old Duke had spent a great deal of time and money upgrading the plumbing and fixtures, and had made the place, despite its size, quite livable and homey. The top floor contained mostly bedrooms, the middle floor was offices and workrooms, and the ground floor had seven reception rooms for guests. A 1950s addition housed an industrial-grade kitchen and storerooms. The ancient edifice was large enough to guarantee some privacy and at the same time enable the new King to keep his support staff handy — if not in the castle itself then in the nearby cottages surrounding the old stable yard, and elsewhere around the estate.