Avalon: The Return of King Arthur

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Somebody with you?”

  “A friend,” he said, jerking a thumb at Cal.

  “These are yours then.” The clerk slid two tickets under the glass. “Enjoy your trip.”

  James scooped up the tickets, and the two headed for the platform where the train was waiting. Once they were rolling through the countryside, Cal, propping his feet on the opposite seat, said, “So tell me, what’s this all about then?”

  “I already told you — it’s to do with the estate.”

  “Yeah, so? Did the solicitor turn up something?”

  “Something turned up, but I’m not sure what.” Suddenly reluctant to rehearse the scant details leading up to their present situation, James simply told him, “Apparently the answer awaits us in London. I honestly don’t know all that much about it myself.”

  Cal regarded him dubiously for a moment, suspecting there was more James wasn’t telling him.

  “Um,” James said, “it’s sort of a long story. I’d really rather not go into it all right now. Can we just leave it at that for the moment?”

  “Whatever you say, Sonny Jim. So far as I’m concerned, it’s a free weekend in the big city. I even put on a new shirt,” he boasted, tugging gently on his cuffs. “Wine, women, and song — here I come.”

  The train sped through a rain-streaked countryside, and the two occupied themselves talking about the annual village stag hunt; Cal, for the third year running, was to act as gillie as well as organize the prizes. When the lunch hour rolled around, they swayed to the buffet car and bought beer and sandwiches, which they carried back to their seats. Cal took a nap after that, and James soon dozed off, too, sleeping through a minor mechanical hold-up at Crewe, and awaking only when the train pulled in at New Street Station, Birmingham, where four businessmen in smart blue suits got on and started ringing up wives and girlfriends on their mobile phones.

  The sky was already growing dark by that time, the short winter day fading quickly into a gray murky half light. James caught a last lingering glimpse of ruddy color low on the horizon as the train came out of the city, and watched it until the twilight closed in. He sat looking out the window and wondering what in heaven’s name he was doing. Have I become so desperate to hold onto my little bit of land, he wondered, that I will clutch at any straw?

  Yes, he concluded gloomily. It has come to that.

  The train pulled in at King’s Cross. They disembarked with the businessmen, and walked to the head of the platform where James paused.

  “What now?” asked Calum, stretching his neck.

  “Somebody’s supposed to meet us.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For a military man, you don’t really have this goose chase under control, do you?” Cal shook his head and chuckled.

  “Not really, no,” James conceded, growing increasingly perturbed for having allowed himself to be so easily led down the garden path. He was just about to suggest they go and try the phone number on the card, when they were approached by a slender, dark-haired youth. His solemn expression made him appear older than he was, and his bearing gave James to know he was a soldier or had been; he had seen the sober look and clipped walk far too many times not to recognize it now.

  The young man walked directly to where the two stood waiting. James could have sworn he almost saluted. “Captain Stuart?” It was not so much a question, as a statement of fact.

  James acknowledged his terse greeting, and said, “This is my friend, Cal — Calum McKay.”

  The young man nodded at this information, and said, “This way, sir. I have a car waiting.” He reached for James’ bag. “Allow me.”

  “Lead on,” he replied, relinquishing his luggage. “My name is James, by the way,” he offered, falling into step beside their young guide. “What’s yours?”

  “Just call me Rhys, sir. I’ll be your driver during your stay in London.” He glanced around expectantly, and it was all James could do to keep from returning the implied salute.

  “Thank you, Rhys,” he said, and as he spoke the name aloud, felt an unaccountable familiarity sweep over him. I know this young man, he thought. No sooner had the thought formed in his head, however, than it was brushed aside by the realization that, as an army officer, he had known hundreds of earnest young fellows exactly like Rhys; they were a type. And the name — a venerable old Welsh standard — was hardly unique.

  They crossed the station, passing the baguette kiosk, burger bar, and Sock Shop, and came to a roped-off area where, parked in the center of three empty spaces, sat a sleek black Jaguar sedan. Cal took one look at the plates and nudged James with an elbow. “Brand-new,” he murmured. “I’ll take it.”

  As Rhys merged the car smoothly into the city traffic, his passengers settled back into the cool leather seats and gazed at the lights of the capital through tinted glass. A short drive brought them to the tall Victorian houses of Belgravia, the embassy district, and at last to a long cul-de-sac surrounding a park. Rhys stopped the car outside an enormous white town house with a newly painted black iron fence bearing the sign KENZIE HOUSE. He got out and opened the door. “Go right in. They are expecting you, sir.”

  “They?”

  “Lord and Lady Rothes.” The answer brought raised eyebrows from Calum, in whose opinion only the stodgily elitist clung to their titles these days. “They are Embries’ associates, you might say,” Rhys continued, ignoring Cal’s expression. He went on to inform his charges that the Rothes were, from time to time, pleased to offer discreet accommodation. “You are the only guests.”

  “I see.”

  “Is something wrong, sir?” He regarded James intently — as if ready to act on his slightest word.

  “No, not at all,” James assured him quickly. “It’s just that I thought we would be seeing Embries tonight.”

  Rhys relaxed. “Ah, yes, well.” He smiled by way of apology. “Mr. Embries’ affairs called him away at the last minute. You’ll be very comfortable here, sir.”

  “I’m sure I will,” James replied, feeling acutely disappointed for the second time that day.

  Rhys stepped to the rear of the car, pressing the key fob as he did so. The boot opened with a sigh as he came around, and he lifted out the luggage.

  “You don’t have to fetch and carry for us. We can manage,” said James, reaching for his bag.

  “Certainly, sir,” he said. “I will collect you in the morning, and Mr. Embries will see you then. Is eight-thirty convenient?”

  “Extremely,” replied James.

  Rhys wished them both a good night, and drove away. “Who’s this Embries chap?” asked Cal as they made their way up the short walk to the steps. “You never told me about him.”

  “He’s the one with all the answers.”

  Before Cal could ask anything else, the door opened and they were swept into the house by a tall, handsome matron dressed in a trim white cardigan and black-and-white checked slacks. She had well-brushed gray hair, blue eyes, and the kind of fresh, slightly wind-chafed complexion women get from days spent in healthy outdoor pursuits.

  “Here you are at last!” she exclaimed, her accent burring gently. “I am so glad you’ve arrived. Please, come in, come in both of you.” She pulled her visitors convivially into a grand foyer, tastefully — and expensively — decorated with polished wood and dark blue wallpaper stamped with tiny gold crests that glittered in the softly flickering light of a dozen candles of various sizes. “I’m Caroline,” she said, putting out her hand to James. “You must be Mr. Stuart.”

  “Yes. James, please. And this is my friend Calum McKay.”

  “Delighted,” replied Caroline Rothes. “This way — I’ll show you to your rooms.” She led them up a curving stairway to the next floor. “If you’re anything like me,” she said, pushing open the doors, one next to the other, “you’ll be wanting to refresh yourself after a long day’s journey. Please, come down for a drink as soon you’re settled.
I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  The rooms were spacious and comfortable. James put his bag on the floor beside the bed, sat down on the edge and bounced up and down a couple times to test the hardness of the mattress, and then went into the blue-tiled bathroom to try out the plumbing.

  “I expect you’re famished,” Lady Rothes said, when they rejoined her downstairs a few minutes later. She led them across the foyer and through a set of wide mahogany doors. “There are drinks and nibbles waiting for you in the living room; they’ll tide you over until dinner.”

  This room was larger than the entire ground floor of Glen Slugain Lodge, and James marveled at the extravagance of space. Two deeply upholstered chairs of dark red leather had been pulled up on either side of a low table that supported a drinks tray and bowls of various sizes containing crisps and crackers and salted nuts. The chairs faced a very large television.

  “The news is on shortly,” their hostess told them, crossing directly to the TV. She switched it on. “I thought that, what with all that’s happened lately, you might like to watch. If not, just chuck a brick at the screen.” She beckoned her guests to the chairs. “Come along and make yourselves at home. I have a thing or two to do in the kitchen, but I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  She swept from the room, leaving Cal and James to fend for themselves. Cal pulled off the top of a bottle of Ruddles County ale, and poured it into two glasses. “Cheers!” he said, handing one to James. His gaze drifted around the room as he drank. “Some place.”

  “Just like home,” James said. He offered the comment as a mildly ironic quip, but Cal’s suddenly knowing expression rocked him back on his heels.

  “I can see you here,” he mused seriously. “I really can.”

  “I’m not even sure we can afford dinner, to say nothing of staying the night,” James replied, trying to lighten the mood again.

  “You worry too much, Jimmy. You should be more like me.”

  “Have a nibble, Cal, and shut up,” said James, shoving the bowl of nuts at him.

  The news came on and they sat down to watch. It was BBC anchorman Jonathan Trent, looking grave and serious. “Good evening. Tonight’s broadcast has been expanded,” he informed his audience soberly, “so that we may bring you extended coverage of the National Tragedy, the Death of King Edward.” A small golden crown appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the screen; beneath the crown was the royal monogram and above it a black-draped cloth.

  “Oh, for the love of God,” muttered Cal. “They’ve given it a logo, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “As promised on our midday report, we have a live update from Kevin Clark in Madeira, but before joining Kevin on location, we take you to the House of Commons for a repeat of this afternoon’s announcement in Parliament by Prime Minister Thomas Waring.”

  Trent, ever the professional presenter, hesitated meaningfully, turned to his on-desk monitor, and intoned, “This was the scene in Parliament this afternoon.”

  Five

  They watched as the television screen flashed up an image of an absolutely packed House of Commons chamber. Every seat on every green leather bench was full, as were the members’, press, and strangers’ galleries. The aisles were jammed with those without places. Looking both suave and severe, a sober-faced PM rose from the front bench, holding a black portfolio. He nodded to the Speaker of the House, and took his place at the dispatch box.

  “Further to my press announcement at Downing Street last evening, Mr. Speaker,” he said, “it is my regretful duty to inform this House of the death of our monarch, His Royal Highness Edward the Ninth, King of England, at his winter residence. He was pronounced dead on arrival by the medical staff at the Hospital of the Holy Ascension in Funchal, Madeira, approximately fifteen minutes past eight o’clock local time last night. Preliminary investigations conducted by the police, with full knowledge of and cooperation with our own consular authorities, indicate that the King was found at his home by his personal valet, who, having been alerted by the sound of an explosion, discovered the King suffering from a single gunshot wound to the head.

  “It is not known at this time whether the fatal wound was accidental, the result of an action by the King himself, or the tragic outcome of an attack by a person or persons unknown. A ruling on this question has been requested by this government as a matter of utmost priority. We are assured that the relevant authorities are in full sympathy with our concerns.”

  He paused to take a drink from the glass of water beside the dispatch box, thereby giving members a chance to interrupt with questions. “Mr. Speaker!” they shouted, waving their order papers to be recognized. “Mr. Speaker!”

  “Order!” cried Olmstead Carpenter, Speaker of the House, from his elevated chair. “Order, ladies and gentlemen, please! The Prime Minister will continue with his statement.” Carpenter glared at the assembled MPs, as if daring them to make another outburst.

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker,” continued the Prime Minister when the shouting had abated. “I would merely add that arrangements are being made by this government for the remains of the King to be flown back to London for burial. We have obtained assurances from the Portuguese authorities that the body will be released at the earliest possible moment following the conclusion of their investigations. I hasten to assure the House that even now we are working closely with our foreign colleagues to bring about a swift and satisfactory resolution to what is for all concerned an extremely lamentable and sorrowful affair.”

  The Prime Minister sat down abruptly, which was the signal for the Opposition benches to have at it. First on his feet and first to be recognized was Huw Griffith, the feisty, wirehaired leader of the Unified Alliance Party, the Government’s erstwhile opposition. The UAP was a coalition of five smaller parties which struggled year after year to mount a meaningful, coherent opposition to Waring’s British Republic Party juggernaut.

  “Are we to understand, Mr. Speaker,” roared the amply padded MP, “that the death of our monarch is the subject of a continuing police investigation? Does this indicate foul play? If so, what are the circumstances? If not, what, in heaven’s name, does the Prime Minister mean? I would ask the Right Honorable Member for additional clarification, if it is not too much trouble.”

  Griffith sat down, glaring across the table at his rival. Amid the shouts of friend and foe alike, the PM rose to his feet. “I would most happily provide clarification for the Honorable Gentleman, Mr. Speaker, if that were possible. Unfortunately, I can only say that inasmuch as King Edward was apparently alone in his residence, further details of the tragic event must await the results of the official investigation.”

  The PM sat down, and the clamor resumed. “Mr. Speaker!” shouted Charles Graham, shadow home secretary, and leader of the New Conservatives, one of the coalition Opposition parties. “I am appalled, Mr. Speaker, that the death of our nation’s monarch should be treated in this callous and irreverent manner. Will the Government mount a full and thorough inquiry into this tragic affair immediately?”

  The Prime Minister rose and returned to the dispatch box. “Allow me to reassure the Honorable Gentleman, Mr. Speaker, that this government is offering its complete support to those in charge of the investigation. A report is in the offing. If, after receiving that report, we feel further scrutiny is warranted, I can personally assure this House that a government inquiry will be conducted.”

  The Speaker then recognized a backbencher whose name James didn’t catch, but who spoke in a loud voice with an accent that could cut crystal: “Mr. Speaker, will the Prime Minister please confirm that inasmuch as Edward the Ninth was the reigning monarch of Britain at the time of his death, that he will be accorded a State funeral — with all the honor and, may I say, pomp and prestige suitable to such an occasion — and further, will he confirm in unequivocal terms his understanding that insofar as Britain is still a monarchy, he will continue to fulfill his sworn obligation, as the King’s Prime Minister, namely, to uphold,
defend, and serve the sovereignty of our nation?”

  The double-barreled question seemed innocuous enough, but a hushed House waited as Waring slowly rose once more to the dispatch box.

  He cleared his throat. “Mr. Speaker, the Honorable and Gallant Member from Glenrothes has raised an important constitutional point regarding the funeral, and one which is currently being assessed by the Home Office. Their recommendation will form the basis of this government’s decision, which will be announced at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, I most happily reiterate that as Prime Minister, it is not only my obligation, but my very great honor, to defend and serve the sovereignty of this nation.”

  “Mr. Speaker,” the Fife backbencher continued, “should the PM be reminded that he is living in a dreamworld if he thinks he can bamboozle the great British public —”

  “Order!” cried Carpenter from his thronelike seat. “The Honorable Gentleman will rephrase the question.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker,” replied the member from Glenrothes, and continued as smoothly unruffled as before, “I would merely ask whether it is the Prime Minister’s intention to deprive the nation of the opportunity to mourn their sovereign’s tragic death in a manner befitting the long and illustrious tradition of the monarchy of which Edward was the representative, or whether the Right Honorable Gentleman will choose instead to make a cheap political point at the expense of the British people?”

  The question was aired before the Speaker could cut it off, and the House shook with the uproar. Speaker Carpenter shouted something, which was lost in the furor. The BBC voice-over announcer pointed out that, as the question had been ruled unparliamentary, the PM was not required to answer — and he didn’t. Instead, another question was taken, and a member inquired whether Magna Carta II would be discontinued now that it had achieved its purpose.

  This question, which could not have been far from many minds, silenced the House again. As Prime Minister Waring returned once more to his place, every eye was on him, every ear awaiting his explanation.