Avalon: The Return of King Arthur

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Ignoring her, Jonathan Trent shifted his notebook and turned a page. “A personal question, this time, if you don’t mind.” His glance was almost apologetic.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he said, his manner that of an amiable intimate, “on the day you declared your kingship, if you will recall, you recited a story which you called the Dream of Taliesin. I don’t mind telling you I was moved by that at the time, and I made it my business to discover the source of that quote. Now, the BBC has a tremendous research department, absolutely world-class, but try as we might, we could not discover your source. In fact, our chief researcher insists that speech isn’t recorded anywhere. Surely, you didn’t make it up. So, I’m wondering, where did you find it?”

  James swallowed, thinking fast. He couldn’t very well tell the world that he simply remembered it, that it had come to him at that precise moment in a vision.

  “I learned that from a friend of mine a long time ago,” James replied, hoping Trent would not pursue it further. “It has always inspired me. I suppose I thought it appropriate to the occasion, so I used it.”

  “Also in that speech,” remarked Trent, “you mentioned the Kingdom of Summer, and you called it Avalon. As we all know, Avalon is closely linked to King Arthur. What did you intend by invoking that connection?”

  “I was speaking from the heart,” James answered. “That speech was, in many ways, the inspiration of the moment.”

  “And yet,” insisted Trent, “you spoke so eloquently, so forcefully, for your vision of Britain, I can hardly believe it was merely happenchance.” Regarding James frankly, he asked, “Do you see yourself as something of a latter-day King Arthur — returned to lead us into Avalon?”

  “Let me explain it this way,” James replied slowly, weighing his words carefully. “As someone who has been critical of modern monarchy’s failure to live up to its high calling, I have been compelled to find examples of good kingship. I went back to history, you might say, to see if I could discover a sovereign worthy of the name on which to base my kingship. In King Arthur, I found very much what I was looking for.”

  “A rôle model,” remarked Trent. “Is that all King Arthur is to you, a sixth-century rôle model? Surely, there must be more to it than that.”

  “Never underestimate the power of a positive example, Mr. Trent.”

  “Some of my more, let us say, romantic media colleagues have suggested that the underwater disturbances around the coast of Cornwall are the fulfillment of an ancient Arthurian prophecy — to do with Llyonesse and so forth. Would you care to comment?”

  “I’ve read those stories, too” — James smiled diffidently — “and some of them are highly entertaining. I suppose you could say I am as intrigued as anyone else. But I’m afraid earthquakes and hurricanes and so on are a little out of my line.”

  And then, mercifully, the interview was over.

  Jonathan Trent closed his notebook and folded his hands. “Your Highness,” he said, smiling cordially, “on behalf of the many millions of people all over this great nation who have tuned in to this interview, I thank you for opening your home to us, and for allowing us a fascinating glimpse into your life. Once again, may I wish you a happy Christmas.”

  Turning to camera one, he said, “To all of our viewing audience, this is Jonathan Trent, at Castle Morven with the King of Britain, saying good night.”

  He smiled optimistically, and held his smile until Julie, her hand pressed to her earpiece, shouted, “We’re clear!”

  Trent’s shoulders slumped. James felt the tightness in his stomach relax; suddenly he felt as if he’d run ten miles in combat gear.

  Tossing aside his notebook, Trent stood and solemnly intoned, “Your Majesty, I am deeply grateful for your willing participation. It has been an honor. As I said a moment ago, your declaration touched me deeply. I wanted very much to believe you; I was on your side —”

  “You have a most peculiar way of expressing goodwill,” said Cal, stepping forward quickly to join them.

  “I apologize if I seemed over the top. Perhaps I felt obliged to present the strongest opposition I could find.” Turning to James he said, “The fact is, though, I really was on your side from that moment. I suppose, like most people in this country, I had pretty much given up on the monarchy. The last thing I wanted was for some good-looking, smooth-talking, hooray-Henry aristocrat to come along and bamboozle the nation with a sparkly speech and a lot of cheap razzmatazz.”

  Trent regarded James as if he might be the long-lost brother he had been searching for all his life. “When the opportunity for this interview came up, I decided it would probably be my one and only chance to put you to the test. I had to know if you were for real.”

  “I hope he passed,” Cal said, stepping forward. He had by no means forgiven Trent for ambushing his friend.

  “Let me put it this way: I threw my best punches today, and he came through unscathed. I’ve interviewed enough politicians, celebrities, and professional con artists of one kind or another to know when I’m being lied to. A fraud would have cracked under the strain.”

  Shona appeared just then, her plump face glowing with pride. “Well done, Your Majesty,” she said.

  “Was I okay?” asked James.

  “You were brilliant, sir,” she answered. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so.” Producing a mobile phone, she held it up to her ear and spoke into it, saying, “Yes, I have him now. Here he is.”

  With that, she handed the phone to James. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end said, “The answer is yes.”

  “Jenny?”

  She laughed. “Of course, Jenny! How many other women have you proposed to lately?”

  Thirty-two

  “I’ll boil the bastard’s balls for breakfast!” muttered Thomas Waring. He clicked the remote control ineffectually at the television screen before giving up and throwing the blasted thing at the TV. Reaching for the phone on the nearby stand, he jabbed a button. “Waring here,” he barked. “I want Hutch right away.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line, and then a woman’s voice said, “I am terribly sorry, Prime Minister, but Mr. Hutchens is in New York City for the Christmas holiday.” It was Geraldine Joseph, staff secretary, who had obviously drawn the short straw on the holiday rota. “He is not due back in London until late tomorrow evening. Do you wish me to ring him for you?”

  Bloody Christmas, thought Waring. In his anger and agitation, he’d overlooked the fact that his staff was off for the day. He glanced at his watch — five hours earlier in New York; they’d just be sitting down to dinner. “No,” he grumbled, “don’t call him. Just tell me who is in town.”

  There was another pause, longer this time. “It seems that Mr. Burton is at his constituency residence in Dulwich,” answered Geraldine. “Hmm… Oh, I see that Mr. Arnold is with his family at Gravesend, and… Mrs. Shah is at her estate in Kent.” She paused once more, and Waring could hear pages turning. “I’m afraid those are the nearest,” she said at last. “All the rest seem to be further afield, Prime Minister.”

  “Call Dennis Arnold. Tell him I want to see him as soon as he can sneak away.” He started to hang up, and added, “Thank you, Gerry, and happy Christmas.”

  “You’re very welcome, Prime Minister. Happy Christmas to you.”

  He replaced the receiver and walked to the sideboard, and poured a hefty splash of brandy into a crystal snifter. From a new box on the coffee table, he selected a hand-rolled Cuban cigar — his one celebration of the day — and sat down in his armchair. The TV was still going: Claymation reindeer dancing across the screen. Waring stared at the set dully, wondering how much damage this latest bombshell would do.

  Taking a sip of his brandy, he considered ringing Shah and Burton as well, but decided there was nothing to be gained by spoiling their celebration. Let them have their holiday; he and Dennis would decide what should be done. Having made that decision, he got up and went in search of
a match.

  He was halfway through his cigar and onto his second brandy when the duty officer rang to say that Mr. Arnold had arrived.

  “You look like hell,” said Waring as the devolution mastermind entered the room. “Here, have a brandy.” He extended a cut-crystal snifter, which his old friend accepted gratefully. “Didn’t take you long.”

  “I was already on my way when Gerry caught up with me,” Dennis Arnold explained. He took a healthy slug of the brandy.

  “Sorry to interrupt your festivities,” Waring said.

  “You didn’t,” Arnold replied. “It was the fool King who did that. Who the hell does he think he is anyway?”

  “If you were already on your way,” Waring said, “then you couldn’t have seen the end.”

  “No. I heard him say he was going out on the road to fight for the monarchy, and that’s when I left. I got the tail end of it on the car radio. Why — what else did he say?”

  “There was some crap about King Arthur, and Trent went all loopy and sentimental. God, it made me sick.”

  “What?” Arnold tossed back a bolt of brandy. “Our yobo thinks he’s King Arthur now?”

  “He doesn’t say that — but, by God, I wish he would.” Waring turned and retrieved the bottle from the sideboard. He felt better knowing he was not the only one upset. “You know, Dennis,” he said, refilling the glasses, “that gives me an idea. We might just be able to dig a hole for our Arthurian friend to fall into.”

  “He’s certainly due for a fall,” the devolution chairman agreed.

  “It goes without saying that anything we discussed would have to remain just between us.”

  Dennis Arnold peered around the room. “I don’t see anyone else here, PM.”

  Waring waved his aide to a seat on the couch. “The speed with which the media can turn against someone is truly astonishing, wouldn’t you agree? Riding high one moment, shot down the next. Shocking when you think about it.”

  “No one knows that better than I do, Tom. You can’t survive in government this long without participating in a few media dogfights. God knows we’ve had our share.”

  “It may be that our King’s honeymoon with the media is coming to a swift and ignominious end,” Waring said. “In fact, I think he might quickly discover what a fickle friend the great British media can be.”

  “It’s a harsh lesson,” replied the devolution secretary thoughtfully. “Some people never recover.”

  Waring recharged the glasses then, and proposed a toast: “To King James,” he said. “May his inglorious reign commence.”

  They raised a glass of Christmas cheer and drank to the ill health of the King, then spent a happy hour dreaming up various dirty tricks. When at last Arnold rose to go, Waring inquired how the Embries investigation was coming along.

  “Nothing but dead ends there, I’m afraid,” he replied. “We’ve got a few stones left to look under, but I don’t think we’ll find anything useful. Still,” he smiled suddenly, “maybe all this new media scrutiny will turn up some dirt.”

  “You know, Dennis, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Waring agreed.

  “I’d better go before they send out the dogs,” James said.

  “No one knows you’re here?” wondered Jenny. “Is that wise?”

  He shrugged off her concern. “What could happen to me? Besides, I didn’t think you’d want our secret beamed out to the nation for tomorrow’s breakfast.”

  “No,” she allowed, “I suppose not. But you should at least tell Cal or someone where you’re going.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, opening the door and stepping out into the cold, dark night. The air was crisp, and heavy with the scent of snow. “Don’t come out; it’s freezing.”

  “So keep me warm.” Jenny stepped into the circle of brightness beneath the back door light.

  James gathered her into his arms and kissed her lightly. “I love you, Jen. I know I should have asked you to marry me years ago, but I’ll make it up to you. Our engagement party will be spectacular, I promise.”

  “So you said.” She kissed him again. “But you don’t have to do anything extravagant to keep me happy. Are you sure you want to go through with it?”

  “The wedding?”

  “Announcing the engagement,” she corrected. “We could just have a few friends around and pop a cork, or something. Hogmanay is less than a week away.”

  “I’ve got a staff now to take care of such details,” James said, gathering her close. “Leave everything to me. I want this New Year’s to be special. You’re going to be a queen, after all.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  They kissed again, and the first flakes of snow began falling. Several snowflakes settled on Jenny’s hair and eyelashes and clung there, glittering in the light like tiny clusters of diamonds. “I love you,” James murmured, holding her close, feeling her warmth against him. “But I do have to go.”

  “Sleep well, my love,” Jennifer whispered, releasing him with a full and passionate kiss. “Something to dream about.”

  James started for his old blue Land Rover, resisting the strong temptation to scoop her up and carry her off to bed. Opening the vehicle door, he turned back to see that Jenny was watching him from the doorway, silhouetted in the light.

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” he told her. “Now, go inside or you’ll freeze.”

  She didn’t say anything, but blew him a kiss in farewell. She was still watching as he drove from the yard.

  Next morning, after the King’s staff assembled for their daily meeting, James announced his intention to host a slap-up Hogmanay celebration. “I want it to be a New Year’s Eve bash to end all bashes — sit-down dinner and entertainment laid on. Spare no expense. I’ve drawn up a guest list.” He slid sheets of paper across the table to Shona and Cal. “I want everyone on the list to get an invitation.”

  “Mind if we invite a wee friend or two as well?” asked Cal.

  “Got someone special in mind?”

  “If you remember,” replied Cal, “I invited Izzy and her family up to the estate to go riding.” At James’ blank look, he said, “Isobel Rothes, remember?”

  “Isobel, sure. Why not? Let’s cast the net wide,” said James. “The more the merrier.”

  “Would I be right in thinking you had an ulterior motive for hosting this party?” asked Embries. He held his head to one side, regarding James shrewdly.

  “All will be revealed on the night,” James told him. Eager to end the scrutiny, he rose abruptly. “Right! Everyone get busy. We’ve got a party to plan.”

  James, like many Scots, considered Hogmanay the great event of the calendar, and the only fitting and proper way to usher in the New Year. Throwing open Castle Morven for a royal gala celebration — the first since Scotland reclaimed the throne — would, he thought, provide the perfect opportunity for the future royal couple to announce their engagement.

  Cal and Gavin undertook the cleaning and furnishing of the great hall; Shona spent hours closeted with Priddy in the cook’s pantry, poring over the old Duke’s favorite recipes and drawing up a menu. Rhys, along with Mr. Baxter and anyone else who happened along, was press-ganged onto foraging and decorating crews.

  A truck was driven up into the forest, and a load of fresh greenery cut and brought back to deck the hall. The Duke’s fine bone china — which hadn’t seen the light of day for thirty years at least — was uncrated, washed, and sorted into place settings; likewise the silver and crystal. Assorted salvers, bowls, tureens, and decanters were removed from display cases, polished, and brought back into service. Some of the pieces, so old and eccentric their uses could only be guessed at, provided a few good laughs and were swiftly snatched up for decorative purposes.

  As the short winter days moved swiftly on, arrangements steamed ahead; everyone became caught up in the fizzing spirit of the occasion, and a harried conviviality set in. The night before the party, James went to bed exhausted, and with a mo
untain of chores left to do, but feeling that if this was to be the last royal Hogmanay ever to be celebrated, at least it would be one to remember.

  On December 31, Jenny and her cousins, Roslyn and Cara, arrived in the morning to help with the final preparations. The Rotheses appeared just after lunch; Caroline and Isobel came bearing gifts, and Donald a briefcase full of unfinished business. “An MP’s work is never done,” he explained. “But I promised the ladies I would not keep my nose buried the whole time we’re here.”

  Introductions were made all around, and Jenny, Caroline, and Isobel settled down to making one another’s acquaintance. Meanwhile, Calum and James were discussing the Prime Minister’s recent visit with Donald, who was keenly intent on getting them to reveal all that had taken place.

  “I saw it on the telly, of course,” he said enthusiastically. “The arrival and departure, I mean. Beyond that, Downing Street is strangely silent. They normally leak information like a rusty bucket, but for some reason everybody over there is incommunicado. But I can tell you the Christmas interview is still the talk of the town. There isn’t a soul in all Whitehall who wouldn’t kill to have been a fly on the wall of Number Ten. Are you really going through with it?”

  “With what — the campaign? Yes.”

  “You’re serious about that?”

  “Entirely,” James replied.

  “He’s already got us organizing the venues,” Cal put in. “It’s going to be a genuine roadshow.”

  “Jolly good,” enthused Donald, and professed himself delighted by the prospect. He leaned forward and seemed about to impart something important.

  Caroline saw her husband in a posture of intrigue, and raised a mild protest. “Donald, darling,” she called from across the room, “you promised to wait until Embries gave you the all clear. Or am I mistaken?”

  Donald puffed his cheeks. “Oh, very well. I did say something like that.” He smiled apologetically. “I suppose it’ll have to wait.”

  “We’ve got all night ahead of us.”

  “Speaking of which…” Cal said, glancing at his watch. “You’ll have to excuse me — I’ve a few last-minute chores.” He grinned suddenly and confided, “Actually, I was thinking of maybe getting Isobel to help me raid the Duke’s cellar. How about it, Your Highness? Fancy a posh tipple for tonight’s revel?”