Avalon: The Return of King Arthur

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Once seen, however, the discoverer would have been struck by the unusually straight line of the thing. At this point, the casual explorer would have concluded that he had happened upon a man-made feature of some kind and, indeed, it looked more than anything like a cable, or pipeline, had been laid down; silt and mire had covered it in the intervening years, reducing it to a mere bump on the ocean floor.

  However, had they followed the line of the supposed cable, as Moira did, the curious diver would have learned that it ran unswervingly east to west and that it gradually grew larger. As it grew — widening and thickening — the straight line became less coherent. Gaps appeared and blocky protrusions jutted up at angles.

  Moira pursued the increasingly rough line across the plane of the tilting plateau, following its descent into deeper water until… all at once, the line ended in a cairnlike heap of jumbled stone. Directly ahead, she could see the darker blue of the void where the landmass shelved away as if carved off by the blow of an axe.

  Her heart writhed in frustration. So close, so very close… but not yet.

  She swam nearer and looked at the sloping edge of the plateau disappearing down and down into the inky blue darkness. She would have to wait until the uneasy seabed lifted the island higher before she could get her hands on the prize. Patience, she told herself. You have waited so long already; you can wait a little while longer. What is time to you?

  Still, she could not bear to go back without at least touching one of the stones, making contact with the home she had lost so long ago. Glancing at her diving watch, she noted the time remaining on her air tank, and dove towards the heap.

  She reached the top of the mound, thrilled by the uniform size and shape of the massive stones. Looking back the way she had come, she followed the straight and unbroken line. From her vantage point, it was clear what that line represented: the remnant of an enormous wall. And the mound of tumbled stone had once been a high tower on a corner of that wall.

  An image of that wall and tower came into her mind’s eye, and she saw it as it once had been. The wall was not high, but it was broad and wider at the bottom than the top so that the wall face slanted inward as it rose. The breastwork at the top was a single solid rim of stone; there were no crenellations, only pyramidlike projections, roughly man-sized, at regular intervals along the top.

  In all, there had been five towers — one at each of the four corners and one over the wide, iron-clad timber gate at the entrance. The towers were taller than the walls, rising above the squat solidity of the ramparts like long, tapering fingers. Slender windows, twelve in all, pierced each tower near the sharp-peaked roof, allowing light into the round upper rooms any time of the day.

  Moving carefully over the cluttered heap of stone, Moira began searching among the individual blocks. She found a place where several larger stones had fallen together in such a way as to form a shallow cave. After first trying her weight against the massive blocks, she reached into the nylon bag at her belt, removed a small diving torch, and switched it on. She shined the torch into the hollow to make sure there were no nasty surprises inside, and then went in.

  The floor of this hollow cavity was littered with broken stone. Holding the torch with one hand, she began turning the smaller pieces over, examining them and setting them aside. In this way, she dug down into the heap, exposing fresh stone to the light. After shifting a dozen or so broken pieces out of the way, the torch beam fell upon an altogether different shape: long and slender, and flared outward at either end.

  She knew, even before the light found it, what she would see: a long serpentine rib, running the length of the fragment — like an artist’s representation of water as a stylized series of waves, each crest and trough exactly the same.

  Moira stared at the simple design, her heart thudding with the shock of recognition. She reached out a gloved finger to trace the pattern, and saw the fragment restored: it was a piece of stone tracery which had formed the inner frame of one of the tower’s twelve windows. She saw this, and into her mind flashed the image of a golden-haired young woman gazing out to sea, her face illumined by the fiery brilliance of the westering sun. High above, the keening cry of seabirds filled the cloudless sky, circling, circling and diving; far below the wave-figured window, the fretful sea, red as blood in the dying light, dashed itself upon the rocks.

  There in the underwater cavern, Moira crouched, cradling the fragment of shaped stone to her cold breast, remembering.

  She heard again the sound that had filled her with such piercing longing: a young man singing; he was sitting on the cliff top in the flame-colored twilight, singing a song of love to an unknown lover. She held her breath as the shimmering notes of the harp quivered on the air, and Taliesin’s matchless voice rose like a graceful and effortless prayer towards the heavens.

  Oh, the desire awakened by that voice was more powerful than anything she had ever known. She wanted to possess the object of that yearning, to own it, to worship it. But even as she felt her heart lifted on the first waves of desire, she knew it would forever remain beyond her. It belonged to a world she could not inhabit. Even as she listened, transfixed at her window, the first seeds of envy were sown. In time envy would turn to bitterness, and bitterness to hate. What Moira could not possess, she would destroy.

  When at last she stirred, she placed the carved stone fragment into the net bag, secured it, and began her long swim back to the waiting boat.

  Thirty-one

  It snowed on Christmas Eve, and the press pack, with homes and families of their own to go to, decamped quietly following the evening news so that when James pulled back the curtains in the morning it was to a brilliant field of pure, spotless, glittering white — and not a single journalist in sight.

  He enjoyed a leisurely breakfast for a change — tea and toast by the fire in his sitting room, looking out on the snowy hills. He called Jenny to wish her a happy Christmas, but her aunt said she had gone to early chapel with her cousins. Accompanied by Rhys and Embries, he drove into town for the Christmas Day communion service at St. Margaret’s Reverend Orr was in good form, his sermon pithy and mercifully succinct. The congregation, agog at the King’s unexpected appearance — even though James had been attending the church for over twenty years — sang all the carols, and enjoyed mulled wine and mince pies with him following the service. Then it was back to the castle for a quick lunch, after which he and Rhys dressed for hiking and took a long walk up into the forest rising behind Blair Morven.

  After days indoors, James found the silence amid the snow-covered pines refreshing and the sharp, nipping cold a genuine treat. Cal, Shona, Gavin, and the rest of the castle staff had been given as much of the holiday off as possible. By five o’clock, however, almost everyone had returned, with assorted relatives and sweethearts in tow.

  James called them together and handed out a few small gifts, and raised a toast or two with Priddy’s eggnog — in anticipation of a sumptuous Christmas supper following the interview, should he live through it, whereupon he had to abandon the festivities to prepare for the ordeal. Embries, Rhys, and Cal departed with him, leaving the rest of the guests to fend for themselves. Lest anyone be tempted to sneak away, Shona had brought a television from her room and set it on a tea trolley so she could wheel out the TV and switch it on for everyone.

  The sixteenth century great hall had been given over to the TV crew, where it was decided the interview would take place. While James received a light dusting of make-up in the anteroom next to the hall, Cal followed up on arrangements with the production crew; Rhys, ever watchful, quietly made the security rounds, checking everything twice; and Embries undertook to encourage James. “Just relax and be yourself. Let people get to know you, and you’ll be fine,” he said.

  “I don’t know why I let everyone talk me into this. I’d rather wrestle alligators.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. Jonathan Trent is as scrupulous as they come.”

  “Why do I
find that somewhat less than comforting, I wonder?”

  “Don’t worry, James,” he coaxed. “You can trust him to be fair. I’d be very surprised if he took any cheap shots.”

  “Great. You’ll be surprised, and I’ll look like an ass.”

  “You’ve done your homework well,” Embries assured James. “Your mastery of the details is nothing less than remarkable. We’ve covered every contingency five times over. You’re going to be splendid. Really.”

  James nodded glumly. A criminal going to the gallows, he felt, had more to be happy about; at least the condemned man didn’t have to endure endless postmortem discussions of his performance.

  There were people everywhere, clomping through the anteroom and swarming the hall, each intent and busy. No one actually took any notice of James, until — as the seconds ticked down towards the evil hour — a blue-jeaned young woman with a clipboard and a stopwatch approached. With a gesture that almost looked like a curtsey, she said, “Your Royal Highness, five minutes, please.” She held out a small, bulbous object with a long pigtail of stiff black wire. “Could we mike you now, sir?”

  Once the tiny microphone was duly attached and hidden, the young woman with the clipboard led him away. “I’ll take you in now. By the way, I’m Julie. Mind the cables underfoot.”

  She opened the door and ushered James into the great hall, now awash in brilliant white light. It was a great deal quieter here, the activity less fraught if no less intent. Four men were standing beside a portable sound desk, drinking something pale out of clear plastic cups. James, his mouth suddenly dry and his throat parched, wished he had a shot of whatever they were having.

  Julie threaded her way carefully among the lighting trees, aluminum flight cases, and various other bits of electronic gadgetry and onto the cleared space which formed the set. Three large video cameras on wheeled carriages stood at the ready. A small sofa had been plucked from one of the rooms and brought to sit at an angle to the fireplace in which a roaring blaze had been prepared. On a low table before the sofa sat a crystal carafe of water and two crystal goblets; a large, overstuffed armchair faced the sofa.

  “Is it going to be this hot the whole time?” James asked, taking his place on the sofa. Julie expertly straightened his jacket and tugged his collar into place.

  “You’ll get used to it, Your Majesty,” Julie said, taking up her clipboard and stopwatch from the coffee table. “One minute!” she shouted. The men gathered at the sound desk snapped to attention — one on the desk, the others to the cameras. “Where is Jonathan?”

  When no one replied, the production assistant shouted again, “Has anyone seen Jonathan?”

  A call went out for Jonathan, and Julie asked the King to test his microphone. She consulted her clipboard and stopwatch once more. “Thirty seconds!” she cried. “Where are you, Jonathan? The whole world is waiting.”

  “Here’s Jonathan!” someone called, and a tall, distinguished man in a dark suit stepped swiftly onto the set. James recognized him at once as the fellow he had seen countless times, sitting behind his desk at BBC studios, reporting the day’s events and interviewing guests. Taller than he imagined, a little younger, and better looking, he carried a leather notebook in one hand and his lapel mike in the other.

  With practiced efficiency, he clipped the mike to his tie and, smiling warmly, put out his hand. “Your Majesty,” he said with a slight bow. “Very pleased to meet you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jonathan Trent.”

  Before James could reply, Julie shouted, “Ten seconds!”

  “Quiet now, everyone!” called the director from somewhere near the sound desk. “We’re live in five… four… three….”

  The assistant producer, holding two fingers in the air, backed away from the set. She pointed directly at Trent, mouthing the word “Go!”

  James felt a rush of nervous excitement jolt through him, and they were on the air.

  Smiling warmly into camera one, the suave presenter leaned forward casually over his notebook and said, “Good afternoon, this is Jonathan Trent, and we are broadcasting live from Castle Morven near Braemar in Scotland, the home of our nation’s new monarch who, for the next sixty minutes, will be allowing us a rare and exclusive insight into his life, his aims, and his hopes for Britain on this festive day.”

  He paused, arranging his posture in the chair, as if readying himself for serious business. “We hope the next hour will prove stimulating, thought-provoking, and enlightening as we attempt to gain the measure of the individual whom some have termed ‘The Man Who Would Be King.’”

  Turning to James, he smiled again, saying, “Your Royal Highness, best wishes and happy Christmas. First of all, let me thank you for graciously allowing us into your home on Christmas Day, and for agreeing to this interview.”

  “You are most welcome, Jonathan,” James replied, fighting the urge to clear his throat. “It is my pleasure.”

  Trent glanced at his notebook, folded his hands, then looked at the King and said, “One month ago, no one had the slightest inkling Britain would have a new monarch. Yet here we are: your claim to the throne has been recognized and, against all the odds, your reign has begun. How does that make you feel?”

  Trent smiled, encouraging James to take the plunge.

  “Quite honestly, it has been something of a shock,” James told him, trying, in the most unnatural of circumstances, to sound natural and spontaneous. “Unlike virtually every one of my predecessors, I did not grow up in a royal household; I was not raised with any notion, however remote, that I might be king one day. I am the first to admit that if not for a rather singular chain of events, no one would ever have heard of me and, of course, I would not be speaking to you now.”

  “It reminds me of the old adage, ‘Some aspire to greatness, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’ You have certainly had greatness thrust upon you. But tell me, did you also aspire to greatness?”

  “My aspirations have always been very simple,” James replied. “To be a good man, a good husband, and a good friend. My father was such a man, and I have always tried to be like him.”

  Trent swooped. “You mention your father. May we talk about your family for a moment? Even by today’s fairly relaxed standards, your early life must have been, shall we say, somewhat confused?”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth,” James protested mildly. “You are referring to the recent discovery of my true parentage. The man I knew as my father, John Stuart, raised me and loved me as a son, and —”

  “Yet,” interrupted Trent, “although your mother was legally married to the Marquess of Morven, she was living with John Stuart at the time of your birth — a relationship which was to continue for many years. Isn’t this so?”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “Then if, by your own admission,” he continued quickly, “your parents were living an elaborate lie, how can your childhood be considered ‘normal’ in any sense of the word?”

  “Simply because it was,” James insisted gently. “You see, my parents loved each other very much, and they loved me. It was out of that love that sacrifices were made which people today may not understand. One of those sacrifices was to give me a solid, normal upbringing in a stable, happy home. In this, they succeeded admirably, and I have always been grateful — all the more, now that I know the truth.”

  “I see,” replied Trent, adopting a tone which implied that he was far from convinced. “Moving on, let us turn to the upbringing you mentioned just now. You grew up here, in a small Scottish town, an uncomplicated rural town, a town that depends almost totally on tourism for its continued survival. It is in many ways as far from cosmopolitan life as possible — very far from the world of politics and government, diplomacy, trade and commerce, and the complex affairs of the great nation-states which make up the world we inhabit today. How, I am wondering, could your upbringing have possibly prepared you for the rôle you are about to play?”


  Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Cal standing behind camera two, face ashen, shaking his head in misery. He realized, too late, that it was going to be a hatchet job — blood and butchery transmitted worldwide, the new King of Britain cut down to size by the BBC’s most trusted and admired interviewer.

  Steeling himself for the onslaught, James looked Trent in the eye, and replied, “Your question appears designed to imply that I somehow lack the proper qualifications to be King of Britain because I did not grow up insulated from life by a cloak of royal privilege.”

  Trent waved aside the observation. “Not at all,” he said genially. “I was merely trying to determine how it is that you see yourself fulfilling a very demanding rôle on the international stage when, by your own admission, you have had no proper training or upbringing?”

  “Mr. Trent,” James countered, “did you know at the age of five, or twenty-five, that we would be having this conversation today?”

  James paused so Trent could murmur, “Of course not.” Then he continued, “None of us ever knows what life will throw in our path. There is no way to be completely prepared for every possibility. That being the case, it is my belief that people do best in life when given a good, solid base on which to build. So, the question becomes: What makes for the best base, the best foundation?

  “Now, then, I would have thought that children raised in stable, safe communities, surrounded by caring and competent adults, and granted the freedom of their environment — not forgetting plenty of fresh air and exercise, and time to think and learn their own hearts, and develop their own particular skills — I would have thought that children raised like this are best equipped to meet the challenges of life in an unpredictable world.”

  Trent made as if to break in, but James had begun to find his rhythm, and wasn’t to be put off his stride.

  “Further, I think that the world you speak of, this world of high finance, global trade, international politics — in short, the world of money and power — is only part of a larger reality, and most likely not even the most important part. After all, the various activities and occupations of government, trade, and diplomacy can be mastered by almost anyone who has the least inclination to do so — indeed, we see it happening all the time. Then again, I’ve always wondered, if the world of money and power is so overwhelmingly important, why are all the stockbrokers and politicians buying up country retreats and moving their families to small, rural communities far away from the heady affairs of the great nation-states on the international stage?