Avalon: The Return of King Arthur

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  In time, the rejoicing quieted sufficiently for the Speaker to be heard. “The Chair has duly noted the motion’s passage,” Olmstead Carpenter said, sounding like the voice of God, “and on the evidence of the vote it would seem that His Majesty’s Government is no longer in a position to conduct the ordinary business of this House. Therefore, I request and do hereby declare this Parliament to be suspended until such time as it shall be reconvened by His Majesty the King.”

  Rising from his great, thronelike chair, he said, “This House is adjourned.” With that, he stepped down from his chair and left the chamber.

  Donald breathed a silent prayer of thanks, then rose and walked down the steps to congratulate Huw Griffith on their joint victory. “It was your call, Donald,” Huw said, clapping him soundly on the back. “Well done. Are you still going to announce your new party tonight?”

  “As soon as possible,” he said, elation beginning to swell inside him. “Care to come along?”

  “No, you earned your moment in the limelight,” Huw replied, his red face radiant with joy. “Take your bow, Donald; you deserve it. Join us for a drink in the Commons bar afterward. We have a general election to discuss.”

  The Opposition leader was pulled away just then, and Donald went in search of his co-conspirators to welcome them into his new party and, more important, reassure them. It was no mean feat to help bring down a sitting government, and he suspected they might be feeling fretful and forlorn.

  He located the two ex-Government MPs, and moved them smoothly and swiftly out of the chamber and into the corridor, away from potentially hostile colleagues. He thanked his co-conspirators for their support and expressed his admiration for their courage, saying that he hoped the thought of a glorious future with the new party would take some of the sting out of the flogging they were sure to receive from their former party bosses. “You’ve done the right thing,” he told them. “I’m going to announce the Royal Reform Party now. Come along, and stand with me.”

  While His Majesty’s loyal Opposition decamped to the House of Commons lounge for celebratory drinks, Donald steered the first members of his new party through the crush of well-wishers, and hurried down the long corridor towards the Commons entrance. Pausing briefly before opening the door, he said, “Ready? Here we go!”

  Emerging from the building, the three of them were instantly mobbed by the waiting reporters — Donald’s first spontaneous press conference in all his years of government work. “Lord Rothes! A statement, Lord Rothes!” they called, showing a marked respect heretofore absent in his dealings with the media. And then someone from the rear of the pack shouted, “Donald, where’s yer troosers?” and he knew he had finally arrived.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, speaking into the glare of television lights, “I have a prepared announcement I would like to read, and then I’ll take questions.”

  Withdrawing the paper from his jacket pocket, he unfolded it and began to read. “‘It gives me great pleasure to stand before you today and proclaim the formation of a new political party, the Royal Reform Party. I would sincerely like to extend membership to any who wish to help preserve the inestimable benefits of the constitutional monarchy for ourselves, for our children, and for posterity.’”

  There came a flutter of questions at this declaration. Ignoring the commotion, Donald continued, “‘Towards that end, as leader of the Royal Reform Party, I hereby declare our principal aim and political ambition shall be the defeat of the referendum for the Act of Dissolution of the Monarchy. That campaign begins here and now, and I cordially invite any like-minded individuals to join us in the struggle.’” He looked up from his paper. “My colleagues and I thank you for your kind attention.”

  The closest journalist thrust a microphone into his face and said, “Rumor has it that you and Huw Griffith orchestrated the collapse of the Waring government — would you care to comment?”

  Before Donald could answer, someone else called out, “The King’s a rat!”

  There were raucous shouts of “Down with the King!” and “Stop the rat!”

  A reporter in the front row shoved forward. “In light of recent revelations,” he said, “it would seem the monarchy is finished.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Donald remarked.

  “Seriously,” insisted the reporter, “why beat a dead horse?”

  Donald, half-blinded by the TV lights and camera flashes, hesitated, choosing his words carefully. During the ensuing pause, a third reporter called out, “Did the King put you up to this? How much did he pay you?”

  The question sparked an instant reaction inside him. He leaned forward into the banked microphones and replied, “You know, you’ve just reminded me that when I began my political career in the House of Lords, I wore my title proudly. Yet, when that lofty — and, to be honest, outmoded — institution was dismantled to make way for the coming devolution, I could not have cared less, because, like a lot of people in this country, I had long since lost any sense of honor or respect I might have had in my title.

  “After all, what is nobility worth when it is debased daily in the eyes of the watching world by a randy old profligate who cannot bring himself to reside in the land that gave him birth, to live among the people who nurtured and sustained him in his youth, and furnished him with his position, wealth, and purpose in life? What is nobility, then, when it becomes a byword for indulgence and excess, a laughing-stock for the professional comedians of the world, and an embarrassment to those who still possess a sense of moral indignation?

  “Like many of my countrymen, I felt that the crown of Britain had become both source and symbol of all that is sordid, shabby, and salacious. In consequence, I held my own title lightly; I considered it a thing to be despised and, when the third referendum dissolved the House of Lords, I welcomed it. Instead of railing against the injustice of a shortsighted, unthinking government — as did many of my ermine-wearing colleagues — I went on the campaign trail and got myself elected to Parliament where I thought I might do some good.

  “Now, you might well ask me why I started a political party with the sole purpose of restoring and preserving the monarchy. Why try to revive that dead horse? I’ll tell you this: I did it because our nation desperately needs a champion to rescue it from the creeping pessimism and distrust of our age. Our country, our world, needs the inspiration of true nobility, the example of a sovereign king who can redeem our highest hopes and aspirations.

  “Why did I do it, you ask? I did it not because I desire the reclamation of a shallow, self-interested monarchy, but because I crave the restoration of our better selves.”

  Donald finished in silence. The reporters had caught the edgy enthusiasm of his tone, and were much affected by it in spite of themselves. He had not intended to say all that, yet when pressed to respond, a lifetime of yearning had boiled up and overflowed.

  The moment passed, and the press pack recovered its voice. They began clamoring and shouting more questions, but Donald merely replied, “I have nothing more to say right now. Thank you very much for listening.” Turning to the members with him, he said, “I’ll turn you over to my colleagues now. Perhaps you have some questions for them.”

  With that, he pushed on into the crowd, which gave way grudgingly to let him by. They continued flinging questions at him as he passed, and no doubt would have pursued him from the parking lot if they had not been distracted by the appearance of Huw Griffith and Charles Graham, who emerged from the House of Commons just then. The mob abruptly abandoned Donald, and raced to gather sound bites from the major players in the day’s monumental drama.

  Donald found himself quickly alone, and hurried towards the Commons taxi rank, hailing a cab as he went. The day’s result had exceeded his wildest imaginings, and he was anxious to share his moment of triumph with Caroline. Also, he had promised to call James and Embries with a full report as soon as practically possible.

  As the black cab drew u
p, he opened the rear door, bending forward to tell the driver his destination through the half-open window. As he did so, a young woman appeared and quickly slipped into the cab through the open door.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said, “this cab is taken. I’m sure there will be another along shortly.”

  “I heard what you said just now,” answered the young woman, “and I want to talk to you about it.” She slid further into the cab, and patted the seat beside her. “Come on, don’t be afraid. I won’t bite.”

  “It’s not that,” Donald protested. “Look, it’s been rather an eventful day, and I’m exhausted. I’d really just like to get home, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind in the least. We can talk on the way.” She opened the bag at her side, and withdrew a microphone which was attached to a tape recorder inside. “Please? It would make my editor a very happy man, and I would be forever in your debt.”

  “I’ve said all I intend to say at the moment,” Donald informed her.

  The taxi behind them, having picked up a fare, gave a sharp blast on the horn to move them along. “What’s it going to be, mate?” called the driver, losing patience. “Going, or staying — make up your mind.”

  “No detours — I only want as much as you can tell me on the shortest route to your place,” the reporter promised cheerfully. “Please?”

  “Oh, all right. Just this once.” Donald put his foot into the cab, then hesitated. “Let me see some identification first,” he said to the woman. “Simple precaution. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. One cannot be too careful these days.” She put down the microphone and rummaged in the black bag. “Here it is,” she said, withdrawing a plastic-laminated ID card.

  Satisfied, Donald handed the card back and climbed into the cab. “Is this a common method of securing your interviews,” he asked, as the taxi pulled away, “kidnapping your subjects, Miss Morgan?”

  She put back her head and laughed, her voice rich and throaty and seductive. “Not at all,” she replied. “I take whatever opportunity presents itself. I work purely by instinct, and my instincts tell me that you are a very complicated man, Lord Rothes.”

  “You must be careful,” he warned lightly. “Flattery can be construed in some political circles as a bribe.”

  “I’m merely stating a fact.” She smiled warmly, sliding a long silver pen from her bag. “My sources tell me you’re one of the chief architects of the royalist revival —”

  “Hoped-for revival,” corrected Donald.

  “Quite.” She withdrew the cap from the pen. “I thought we might talk about the resurgence of the royalist sentiment.”

  “Very well, Miss Morgan,” said Donald, easing back in his seat, “for the next ten minutes, you have my undivided attention. How can I help with your story?”

  Thirty-seven

  The body of Donald Rothes was found floating in the waters of St. Katharine’s Dock at half past eleven on the night of his great parliamentary triumph. He was discovered by a young couple who, emerging from the Dickens Inn on that particularly crisp, clear January night, had paused on a wooden footbridge to look at the lights of Tower Bridge reflected in the water.

  They noticed something bumping against the hull of one of the sailboats and, growing curious, walked around the dock for a closer look which confirmed their worst suspicions: the object was a person lying facedown in the water. At first they thought it was a woman, but when the police arrived and fished the body out of the water, they discovered the body was that of a man dressed in a kilt.

  At Blair Morven, James and Jenny had been watching TV in James’ room, flicking through the channels to catch the latest word on Donald’s triumph. The collapse of the Waring government knocked every other story off the schedule; most channels were running in-depth coverage of the extraordinary events of the day. BBC Two had abandoned its regular programming to bring in-depth reporting on what they were calling the “Waring revolt.” The regular ten o-clock broadcast had been extended into the night with continual replays of the crisis in Parliament, interviews with MPs, and endless speculation by political pundits of various stripes.

  James had been following the unfolding drama from the moment coverage of the parliamentary session began. By six o’clock, the British networks were on the air and giving the play-by-play of the vote. Jenny had braved the entrenched journalists outside the castle to join the King and, together with the entire staff of Blair Morven, gathered in the library before the big-screen TV, they watched the collapse of the Waring government live and in color. They popped a cork in Donald’s honor when he announced the formation of his new political party outside the House of Commons.

  Later, they had supper in James’ apartment and settled back to enjoy an evening’s televised news. Both agreed that Donald had acquitted himself well, and his announcement speech struck just the right note. Several broadcasts featured Donald prominently in their coverage of the day’s developments. ITV devoted a ten-minute segment to reporting on the new party, and Donald’s speech was replayed in its entirety.

  Still exhausted from the day’s heady events — and slightly buzzed from the champagne — the royal couple found it somewhat difficult to come down from the high. Jenny, remote control in hand, was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, restlessly channel hopping in order not to miss anything.

  “He just might pull it off,” Jenny was saying as the phone rang.

  James answered, thinking it must be the man himself wanting to share the golden moment. He had been expecting a call all evening, and reached for the phone with congratulations on his lips. A woman’s voice came on the line, speaking so quickly he could not make out what she was saying.

  “Caroline? Is that you?” he said.

  At these words, Jenny turned to look at him and saw James’ expression change instantly to concern. “What’s wrong?” asked Jenny.

  “Yes, by all means, Caroline. I’ll tell him.”

  He hung up. “Donald’s missing. She hasn’t seen him since he left for the House of Commons, and he hasn’t called or anything.”

  A few moments later, Embries was on the phone trying to calm an increasingly distraught Caroline. “Call the police,” he instructed. “No, do it now. Ask for Chief Inspector Kirkland. Then call me back as soon as you’ve spoken to him.” He paused. “That’s right. We’re on our way.”

  They received word of Donald’s death a little after midnight, and were in the air within minutes of the dreadful news: James, Embries, and Rhys. Calum was left to coordinate security at Blair Morven, which had suddenly taken a much higher priority.

  The Tempest landed at Ealing’s small airfield, and they sped by taxi straight to Kenzie House through nearly deserted London streets. They arrived to find the entire street blocked by police cars, television vans with satellite equipment, a few dozen photographers, a score of journalists, and several neighbors wearing coats over bathrobes who obviously could not sleep for all the commotion.

  Stepping from the cab, they moved quickly to the house, pushing through the crush of cameramen and reporters shouting questions: “Is it true Lord Rothes is dead?” they cried. “Was it suicide or an accident?”

  Rhys shoved his way to the door, where they were immediately ushered into the house by a police constable, who closed the door quickly behind them, saying, “You are expected, Your Highness.”

  The foyer was full of people, mostly policemen and detectives, but several of Donald and Caroline’s friends and neighbors as well. Caroline and Isobel were in the sitting room, shoulder to shoulder in front of the fireplace in which a blaze was roaring. As James and Embries entered the room, they turned and the look on the women’s faces made the skin on the back of James’ neck tingle; his shoulders felt as if an electric current were passing through his body.

  Time seemed to recoil as he stepped through the doorway. The darkened, firelit room took on a dreamlike quality. The quivering firelight illuminated a glowing rectangle
on thefigured carpet where Caroline and Isobel stood. The light shimmered, surrounding the women in a radiant halo as they wept. At the sight, the fiosachd awakened and James heard, as if from far away, the wind sighing over a distant battlefield.

  Into his mind came the image of a darkened, moonlit plain, strewn with the huddled shapes of fallen warriors. There were figures walking among the dead, stoop-shouldered, bent low to peer into the faces of the corpses — women searching for their men. On the wind he could hear the broken sobs of those whose search had ended in cruel discovery. Here and there, the moonlight picked out a shield boss, or spear tip, and glinted with a melancholy gleam.

  The sitting room dissolved around him: James was there on that windswept plain once more. The tang of smoke filled his nostrils, and he turned to see a fire on the riverbank a short distance away. The wounded had gathered there to warm themselves and have their injuries cleaned and bound.

  As he stood looking on, a great grief descended over him — sadness heavy, cold, and unyielding as a cloak of iron. He could not stand. He sank to his knees and fell forward onto his hands, as a cry of sorrow, quick and sharp, tore from his throat. In this torment, he cried once and again; releasing the third cry, he heard someone call his name.

  “Arthur!”

  The call startled him, stifling his cry.

  “Arise, Arthur. Take up your sword and stand.”

  Raising his head, he looked up to see a tall, upright man approaching. His cloak was dark, trimmed with wolf skin. His eyes were stern, and glimmered in the moonlight like pale gold. He came to stand before him, and Arthur looked up into the face of his Wise Counselor.

  “I grieve, Myrddin,” he told him. “When will I mourn my Cymbrogi, if not now?”

  “You are the Pendragon,” Myrddin replied sternly. “While others mourn you must prepare for the battle to come. The enemy will not be stopped by your heartfelt tears of sorrow, but by the sharp blade in your strong hand.”

  Stretching out his hands, he spoke a word in the old DarkTongue, and the King felt strength returning. Seeping up out of the ground and into his bones it came, driving out the dull, clinging weight of grief that hung upon him. The black mist of sorrow lifted; he could see clearly once more. Gathering the raveled threads of his courage, he reached for the sword lying beside him on the ground. Arthur pushed himself up, and stood.