“Christ,” groaned Waring, sinking further into his seat.
“He’s blowing hot air,” Arnold declared. “Our own surveys show a solid eight-percent advantage.”
Waring turned his face to regard the Special Committee Chairman skeptically. “You told me two percent a little while ago.”
“I said it was a trend, remember? You’re just going to have to cheer up, my friend,” Arnold chided jovially. “We’re going to win this referendum whether you like it or not.”
The next hour improved the picture considerably. As the voting precincts began reporting their tallies, the blue areas on Peter Bancroft’s computer-generated map of Britain began to spread. By eleven o’clock it looked as if the greater London region would remain true blue with Kent the only holdout in the southeast.
Waring’s hopes began to revive. If they carried London, they could conceivably carry the vote. Press Secretary Martin Hutchens, who had been on the phone for the better part of an hour, entered the room to announce, “It’s in the bag, gents.”
“What have you got?” asked Sforza, tipping up his half-empty can.
“Latest exit poll stats.” He waved a piece of paper. “You’re going to love this. It’s from The Times — they’re showing a referendum victory by an eight-point margin.”
“Are they printing that?” asked Dennis Arnold.
“Uh, no,” replied Hutchens, “they’re holding the presses until they get a few more returns. But it’s great. We’ve done it!”
Waring sucked his teeth. “We’ll see.”
Another hour passed, and the returns as posted on the BBC map did appear to bear out The Times’ prediction. The blue was spreading outward now to include portions of the Midlands. True, there were some tiny purple bits showing — mostly in the sparsely populated areas of northern Scotland. Nevertheless, as Arnold pointed out, “Hell, we can give away all Scotland, and it won’t make a blind bit of difference.”
Sforza left a short while later, declaring himself satisfied that the trend would hold and that the referendum would carry by a narrow but sufficient margin. When Peter Bancroft predicted that the southwestern Cardiff-London corridor would go solid blue, Dennis Arnold departed. “Congratulations, Tom,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow and we can begin concentrating our full attention on our reelection campaign.”
Waring returned from seeing Arnold out, and settled into his chair once more. “Want a drink or anything, Hutch?” he asked, feeling expansive for the first time in many days. “I’ve got some good single malt — twenty-four-year-old Springbank. What do you say?”
“Sure, why not?” Hutch agreed. “We’ve dodged the bullet. Let’s celebrate.”
The two sat and sipped their Scotch and watched as the BBC map of Scotland gradually turned purple. This did not alarm Waring unduly. “Arnie’s right,” he mused, “we can afford to give up the whole of Scotland and never miss it.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Hutch. “Whatever you say.”
“Ever been to Scotland?” asked Waring.
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never had a reason to go.”
“You should. Fresh air, sea, sky. It’s nice — apart from the midges.”
“Well, I’m more of a city man, you know?”
They chatted like this for a while, and watched the purple stain spread down through the glens and seep southward. When it crossed Hadrian’s Wall and started bleeding into the North Country, Waring grew irritated. When it claimed Yorkshire and the Lake District, the Prime Minister grew agitated. By the time the royal purple tide had swept down the west coast and into North Wales, Waring was anxiously pacing the floor in front of the TV, and Hutchens was on the phone to the pollsters, demanding to know what was happening.
BBC political commentator Peter Bancroft leapt around his little set like an overactive elf, excitedly pointing to this, that, or the other amazing development. Meanwhile, Newcastle, Sunderland, and Middlesbrough fell beneath the advancing purple flood. Once into the old industrial heartland of Britain, there was no stopping it. Sheffield, Leeds, Manchester, and Liverpool blushed bright purple, and were followed in quick succession by Nottingham, Birmingham, Leicester. The rout continued as the rural provinces around Coventry, Northampton, and Peterborough fell beneath the purple onslaught. Cornwall and Devon, long-time royal haunts, were swept away, followed by Somerset, Dorset, and Wiltshire.
The Prime Minister sank back in his leather chair and stared at the screen in abject disbelief. He felt sick to his stomach; his head ached and his eyes felt like dead embers in his head. “How?” he asked, his voice cracking with fatigue and defeat.
Martin Hutchens, morose and ashamed to meet his boss’s eye, shrugged. “Who knows?”
“It was in the bag, you said. We had an eight-point lead, you said. We couldn’t lose. For Chrissakes! Everybody was so sure we couldn’t bloody lose!” The enormity of his loss was just beginning to strike home. The years of work, years of his life… gone.
“What can I say?” Hutchens bent his head and shook it slowly. “Exit polls are notoriously fickle. People lie.”
“Do they now!” growled Waring. “Bloody hell!”
“They say what they think the survey taker wants to hear. They lie to keep their ballot secret. They lie just to confound the polls. Nobody tells a pollster the truth.”
“Eight points… bloody hell!” It would be a long, lonely night. “Eight bloody damned points.”
“I know. It sucks. What can I say?” He shook his head again, yawned, and stood. “I’m going home.”
He walked to the apartment door. Waring glared after him as if he were the cause of all human misery. “It’s not the end of the world, you know,” Hutchens volunteered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Waring sat in his chair for a long time after his spin doctor had gone. “Tomorrow belongs to the victor,” he moaned to himself. “For losers, there is no tomorrow.”
The referendum coverage descended into nightmare. The home counties offered token resistance; here and there, pockets of blue stood out like island refuges in a surging violet sea. Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, Norfolk, and Suffolk were almost completely conquered by the royal purple of the monarchy. Oxford, that hotbed of political anarchy, joined the purple rebellion at first opportunity, while the rest of the county remained blue for a long while — until finally succumbing to the purple tide along with Gloucestershire, and Hereford and Worcester; Shropshire and the rest of Wales from St. David’s to Llandudno pledged themselves to the purple, thus completing the patchwork map.
Waring poured his Scotch freely and drank deeply to ease the hollow pain throbbing in the space where his heart had been. As the dull alcohol mist rose in his exhausted brain, he sat in bleary-eyed agony staring at a political map tinted almost completely royal purple — save for the tattered swatch of blue that was greater metropolitan London.
Jonathan Trent, looking surprisingly alert and well rested, reappeared just before the telecast ended. With evident relish, the cheerful presenter pronounced the fateful words, “Judging from the returns of ninety-seven percent of the precincts, the referendum to abolish the monarchy has failed. I repeat, the referendum has failed. The monarchy of Britain has survived and will continue.” Grinning widely, he wished everyone a good night and a pleasant tomorrow. The broadcast concluded for the night with a film montage of Great Britain over a stirring rendition of “God Save the King.”
Waring sat long in the void that followed, gazing vacantly at the blank screen, listening to the muted howl of the empty airways.
Forty-six
Holyrood Palace appeared much as it must have looked the day the last Scottish king had been crowned in Edinburgh. Less palace than prison, it began life as a guesthouse for dignitaries visiting the then important Holyrood Abbey next door — the site of the final resting place of the True Cross, so legend maintains.
Now it was a guesthouse once more, for the palace had been given over to t
he use of the royal party, which numbered well over a hundred and, with the coronation only scant hours away, increased with every passing minute. Friends and relations of the monarch, well-wishing subjects, and official representatives of churches, charities, and foreign governments arrived at the palace in an endless train. Those who did not attend in person sent cards, telegrams, faxes, and couriered greetings and congratulations — along with a mountain of fruit, flowers, gifts, and commemorative souvenirs.
Edinburgh has been in the kingmaking business every bit as long as London or York, and it was at Embries’ insistence — with James’ wholehearted approval — that the coronation of the first Scottish king in half a millennium should be held there.
The evening before the ceremony, Embries took James up to Arthur’s Seat — the city’s most often remarked-upon ancient landmark. The rocky core of a long-extinct volcano, it rises majestically above Auld Reekie, giving anyone who endures the climb magnificent views over Scotland’s capital city.
The Palace of Holyroodhouse sits directly beneath Arthur’s Seat; owing to security precautions for the coronation, the hill and park environs had been closed to the public until after the ceremony. Thus, James and Embries had the entire place to themselves, and hiked up to the top of the hill for a little exercise after supper. Embries said the air would clear their heads, but, as James guessed, there was more to it than that.
They trudged up the empty pathways, Embries silent, lost in thought, and James in a reflective mood. The cold, wet winter had given way to a spectacular spring: bright, shower-dazzled days and exceptionally warm nights. The entire country had been enjoying the best planting season in living memory, and already by the end of April, the northern days were growing longer, the gentle twilights lingering for hours.
James’ adventure in Glen Beag had been kept out of the press until the referendum was decided; he wanted no sympathy votes and the journalists, for their part, agreed to delay reports of the incident while the polls were open. After that, however, the papers and television broadcasts were awash with accounts of the newly confirmed monarch’s derring-do, not to mention his surprise wedding to the woman who had captured the hearts of her people.
Having received a ringing endorsement from the nation’s voters, James had decided on a May Day coronation, in keeping with an ancient tradition. The last few weeks had been taken up with planning the gala event, and now, on the eve of the big day, everything was in place. They walked to Arthur’s Seat and stood to look out upon a city bathed in the rich honeyed light of a fine Scottish evening.
After a while, Embries said, “It is the time-between-times, a holy time, when the veil that separates this world’s-realm from the next grows thin, and mortals are allowed a glimpse into the Otherworld.” Glancing sideways at James, he said, “What do you see?”
Gazing out across the land, James saw the strong arm of the Firth of Forth, glimmering in the evening light like molten gold as it curled into the deep, blue-green fold of the hills beyond the city. “I see…” he began, and instantly the modern conurbation dissolved before his eyes.
Houses, buildings, streets, traffic — all gone; whole suburbs and districts disappeared as if they had been nothing more than smoke on the wind. He looked across to see Edinburgh Castle perched upon its rocky roost, but it was a smaller, far more primitive version of itself: a timber and thatch settlement sheltered in the shadow of Caer Edin’s rock; the lower slopes and flats contained new-plowed fields. Instead of traffic noises, he heard the lowing of oxen being led to the cattle enclosure and the cackling of rooks as they settled in their high nests for the night.
Away in the east, the first stars were shining like splinters of burning diamonds. A new moon was rising pale and ghostly above the forested hills across the firth. The air smelled of peat smoke and sea salt; James drew it deep into his lungs and was overcome by the almost heartbreaking sensation that he had experienced it all before, an unutterably long time ago.
Into his mind flashed the image of two boys — one light, one dark — nine or ten summers old, barefoot and shirtless, wearing loose yellow-and-brown-checked trousers. They were running up the hillside through the long grass, the sun warm on their shoulders, larksong pouring from a high, bright sky. As they crested the hill, a vast encampment came into sight: clusters of tents, wicker huts, and leafy-branched bowers, surrounded by long lines of horse pickets, occupied the plain from end to end.
“The Gathering,” he whispered, as an ache of longing pierced him through the heart.
“Yes,” murmured Embries close beside him.
And James thought, Surely, he has always stood beside me; it has always been this way.
“What else do you see?”
Turning his eyes to the path by which they had come up the hillside, he saw a long string of lights flickering in the twilight — a torchlight procession. In the front of the parade were men with spears across their shoulders; upon the spears they bore a heavy round oaken shield, and upon the shield they carried a man, a prince of their people.
They brought the man to the clefted rock and placed him on it. The warriors gathered around and, at the Chief Bard’s command, each came before the prince. Laying their weapons at his feet, they stretched themselves out upon the ground and placed the nobleman’s foot upon their necks, whereupon he raised them up, embraced them, and returned their weapons. The Chief Bard then came forward and placed a golden torc around the lord’s throat; he raised his staff over the prince’s head and sained him with strong runes. This simple ritual observed, the war host rose up and acclaimed their King. They lifted him high, placed him on the shield, and carried him down the hill once more, singing as they went.
The scene blurred before James’ eyes, blending into the evening mist rising in the valley below. The echo of the warriors’ voices rang out across the lowlands.
“I have been here before,” he said softly.
Embries nodded, watching him.
“I was made King here in this place. This is where I began my reign.”
“King once, and King again,” remarked Embries. “Tomorrow is Beltane, the ancient festival of fire. Always a good day for a kingmaking, I think.”
James stared at his Wise Counselor, and he seemed to shed the burden of age. Whether a trick of the light, or of his own, James could not tell, but the lines of his face softened, his pale eyes deepened in color, and the woad-blue fhain mark reappeared lightly on his cheek — just for a moment — and then it was gone.
“Remember when you took me to Caer Lial?” James said. “I asked you how this was possible. I didn’t get an answer, so I’m asking again. How, Myrddin? How is it possible?”
“I have often asked myself the same question,” replied Embries quietly.
“And?”
“I really don’t know.”
“You must have some idea, some explanation.”
Embries pursed his lips in thought, and they began walking back. “The human soul is that unique point in the universe where spirit and matter meet — so the Druid bards believed. They revered many such meeting places: like the time-between-times, which is neither wholly night nor wholly day, but a dynamic, creative blend of the two. The soul is the forceful expression of its contributing parts. And if we believe that each human life is given for a purpose, I see no reason why a soul cannot be given renewed expression when its original purpose remains unfulfilled.”
“And in Britain’s greatest hour of need, Arthur will return to lead his people to Avalon…” murmured James.
“A strange belief when you think about it — the notion of a return, I mean. Yet it persists. Only a very few people in history are longed for in this way. Arthur is one.”
“As much as I like the name,” James said, “as much as I feel that it fits me, the plain fact of the matter is that my name isn’t Arthur. Not really.”
Embries chuckled gently. “I’ll tell you a secret: it wasn’t your name the first time, either.”
At ten o’clock the next morning, the royal party assembled in the graveled yard of Holyrood Palace to begin the procession. Eschewing the newfangled royal penchant for horse-drawn carriages, James had elected to walk. Surrounded by his friends, with his Queen at his side, he would stroll up the Royal Mile to the castle parade ground where the crown-taking ceremony would be held.
The weather, in typical Scottish fashion, refused to cooperate. A damp, drizzly morning followed a rainy dawn; mist obscured Arthur’s Seat, and clouds hung low over Edinburgh Castle. Cal thought the poor weather could be a good thing, all in all, as it might help in crowd control along the procession route. That was pure wishful thinking. People had been pouring into the city for days by plane, train, coach, and car — and it would take more than a few raindrops to prevent them from witnessing the restoration and renewal of the British monarchy. The route, virtually a straight line along a single street from palace to castle, was barricaded and lined with police, a uniformed constable stationed every few yards. For those who could not attend the ceremonies in person, the coronation would be broadcast worldwide, from the massed banks of TV cameras placed at every strategic location.
“Ready, my love?” he asked Jennifer as they took their places at the head of the procession. She had chosen a simple black dress and a black jacket edged in gold. Her black hair was swept back and held in place with a pair of gold combs. “You look ravishing.”
“And you look… regal,” she replied, brushing a piece of lint from his sleeve and smoothing the lapel of his black suit.
“Cal, are you ready for this?” he called over his shoulder.
“It’s only a wee ramble up the street,” Cal observed, joining them. “I don’t know what everyone’s getting so worked up about.” He gave James a pat on the back. “Relax and enjoy it, Jimmy. You worked hard enough to get here.”
Avalon: The Return of King Arthur Page 45
