Avalon: The Return of King Arthur

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The comment caused James to reflect on just how much had happened in the past few months to make this day possible: from the actual suicide of a failed monarch, to the political suicide of a would-be president. Even poor King Edward’s demise, dismal as it was, possessed infinitely more dignity than former Prime Minister Waring’s ignominious departure from public life. The British Republic Party’s spectacularly acrimonious implosion in the wake of the Unified Alliance’s solid election victory appalled even their staunchest supporters. Following the defeat of the fifth and final referendum, the most powerful party in British political history seemed to go into freefall. One pundit likened it to watching a kamikaze squadron take a flaming nosedive from a great height.

  The new Prime Minister, Huw Griffith, had made it a priority of his government’s first legislation to reinstate a few of the royal perquisites abolished under the previous administration; not all of the privileges were restored, to be sure, but enough, for example, to grant James adequate security when traveling around the country.

  Part of this newfound governmental largesse could be seen in the regiment of King’s Own Highlanders which had been requisitioned for the royal procession. Together with the famed Scots Guards detailed to bring up the rear, these traditional regiments had been returned to royal duty with the King as commander in chief. Where past monarchs had favored cavalry regiments, James was an infantry soldier at heart. The only horses in his parade belonged to the mounted police assigned to crowd control.

  The honor of leading the procession fell to the pipe and drum band, directed by Pipe Major Alexander McTavitt, who went before them in fine Highland tradition. As kings of old marched into battle behind their pipers, and heralded each royal occasion with the pipes, so James would proceed to his crown-taking.

  Thus, as the gatehouse clock struck ten, he signaled Pipe Major McTavitt, who promptly puffed up his bagpipe and, with measured, stately steps, led them out through the palace gate. They entered Canongate Street, the pipes in full cry, and the people burst into ecstatic applause.

  From the first glimpse of the royal procession, the crowds went berserk, screaming, crying, waving banners and flags, signs and pennants. Pressed ten, fifteen, and twenty-deep on the street between the barricades and the buildings, they cheered and clapped and whistled. They hung out from the upper windows of every building, and leaned out from every roof — by the hundreds, by the thousands. They filled the air with whoops of delight and crown-shaped confetti. They reached out to touch the royal couple, to shake their hands, and to offer keepsakes and flowers.

  Those who could not reach them threw bouquets instead, lofting them high over the heads of the throng, so that the King and Queen moved in a blizzard of flower petals and multicolored confetti. Buffeted by wave upon wave of applause, the procession marched slowly up the street, the roar of the crowd all but drowning out the skirl of the pipes.

  Canongate became High Street, and the parade moved slowly on, arriving at St. Giles Cathedral — also decorated with flags and banners and colorful streamers on poles. The multitude in the square outside the kirk thundered their applause when, as the King and Queen paused before the war memorial to pay homage to the valiant dead, a little girl in a kilt and white socks darted out from the barricade to present Jennifer with a bouquet of daisies. The child received a kiss from the Queen, and James thought he would be deafened by the crowd’s roar.

  The girl was escorted back to her beaming parents, and the royal train moved on. High Street became Castlehill, and James could see the broad Esplanade with the castle brooding on its rock beyond. A platform had been erected in the middle of the Esplanade where the actual ceremony would take place.

  They made the long slow climb up Castlehill and, as the procession entered the Esplanade, the band fell silent. The drums gave out a long, low, rumbling roll, and the pipes launched into “Scotland the Brave.” The strains of that gallant song sent a thrill of pride through James, and he found himself singing the words under his breath. “Land of my high endeavor, land of the shining river,” he sang, “land of my heart forever… Scotland the brave….”

  The Highlanders marched to the foot of the platform and surrounded it on all sides, facing the crowds. Jenny and James, Cal, and Embries mounted the platform steps to join the rest of the royal party already waiting there. Along with Archbishop Rippon, and an ecclesiastical contingent representing other denominations, there were ambassadors from virtually all of the former Commonwealth nations, the European Union, and a handful of officials representing government and the armed forces, including the Prime Minister, Huw Griffith, and James’ old commanding officer, Field Marshal William Dawes.

  An altar had been set up in the center of the platform and, before it, an antique throne; the clergymen and official witnesses were arranged in a half circle around the throne and altar. Before the throne, however, was a roughly rectangular block of yellowish rock: the Stone of Scone, known and revered by the Celts as the Stone of Destiny, on which the kings of Scotland have been crowned for ages past remembering.

  James took his place before the Stone of Destiny, and the Prime Minister, looking earnest and dignified, stepped forward to read the proclamation. “Whereas it has pleased Almighty God to call to his mercy our late Sovereign Lord Edward the Ninth” — James could not help noticing he left out the phrase “of blessed and glorious memory” — “by whose decease the Crown is solely and rightfully come to the High and Mighty Lord James Arthur Stuart.”

  The Prime Minister stole a fleeting glance at his King, took a deep breath, and plunged on. “We, therefore, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of this realm, being here assisted by these good hearts and true, with representatives of Great Britain’s several States, and other Principal Ladies and Gentlemen of Quality, together with the citizens and subjects of this land, do hereby and with one voice and consent of heart and tongue publish and proclaim that the man standing here before us is our only lawful king, by the Grace of God, King of Britain and of its constituent realm and territories, Defender of the Faith, to whom his subjects do acknowledge all loyalty and constant obedience with hearty and humble affection, beseeching the Heavenly Father by whom earthly sovereigns do reign, to bless the Royal King, and his Lady Queen, with long and happy years to reign over us.”

  Raising his head, he smiled and then bellowed in solid Welsh tones, “God save the King!”

  At this the multitude gathered on the Esplanade gave out a tremendous cheer, echoing the proclamation with the cry, “God save the King!”

  When the uproar had died down, the ceremony continued with the enthronement. Turning to the assembled clergymen and officials, Prime Minister Griffith said, “I present to you King James Arthur Stuart, by Divine Right, Sovereign of Britain.”

  At this, those gathered on the platform bowed low before the King. Next, the Archbishop of Canterbury and Field Marshal Dawes, bearing the Sword of State, came before him. Archbishop Rippon proceeded to administer the Royal Oath, by which James affirmed that he would govern his people according to the laws of the land, and maintain the Laws of God, and uphold the Holy Church. The Field Marshal turned and, bearing the sword, blade upright, led him to the altar where he kissed the Holy Bible and signed the oath.

  Next, he was led to the throne and sat down upon it. Rhys and Cal stepped forward and, removing James’ tie, unbuttoned the King’s shirt and bared his chest. The Archbishop then came before the King and, taking the Royal Ampulla and Spoon, poured out some holy oil with which he signed James with the cross; dipping his fingertips into the bowl of the spoon, he anointed the sovereign’s forehead, his chest, and the palms of both hands. He then said a prayer, invoking God’s wisdom, mercy, leading, and protection on James’ behalf.

  Field Marshal Dawes then removed the scabbard from the weapon in his hand, and presented James with the Sword of State. “With this sword do justice, halt the growth of iniquity, protect the sanctity of God and his servants in this land, and deal righteously with al
l your people,” he said, laying the naked blade across James’ outstretched palms.

  Then the King stood and, still holding the sword across his palms, stepped up onto the Stone of Destiny. Embries, carrying his venerable old staff and wearing the cloak he’d worn the night James had first met him, stepped up to the stone. Raising his staff, he delivered a long oration in Old Gaelic, and then translated it, saying, “Great of Might, High King of Heaven, Lord of all that is and is to come, Maker, Redeemer, and Friend of Mankind, bless your King on Earth.” To James, he said, “Kneel before the Lord of All, and swear fealty to the High King you will serve.”

  James knelt down on the stone, and Embries took the sword, turned the blade and offered it to him hilt upward so it now formed a cross. Grasping the naked blade, James held it at arm’s length. “As you kneel before God, and in the sight of this multitude of witnesses,” Embries said, “what is your vow?”

  “By the power of God’s might, and through his will, I vow to hold myself obedient to my Lord Christ, to be used of him to do his work in this worlds-realm. By the power of God’s might, and through his will, I vow to lead my kingdom through all things whatsoever shall befall me, with courage, with dignity, with faith in Christ who guides me, to worship him freely, to honor him gladly, to revere him nobly, to hold with him the truest faith and greatest love all the days of my life.”

  “Do you,” Embries said, “pledge to uphold justice, grant mercy, and seek truth, dealing with your people in compassion and charity?”

  “I do so pledge,” James replied, “to uphold justice, grant mercy, and seek truth, dealing with my people in compassion and charity even as I am dealt with by God.”

  After receiving the King’s vows, Embries turned and retrieved from the Archbishop’s hand a golden torc of the kind worn by the Celtic kings of old. Spreading the ends apart, he slipped the ancient ornament around James’ neck, and then closed the ends once more. He took a slender golden circlet, also very old, and placed it on his brow.

  Stepping back, he raised his hands palm outwards and commanded, “Rise, Sovereign Lord, and go forth to all righteousness and good works; rule justly and live honorably; be to your people a ready light and sure guide through all things whatsoever shall befall you in this worlds-realm!”

  James rose to his feet once more, and the Field Marshal buckled the sword belt and scabbard around his waist. Embries turned then and, raising his staff over the gathered multitude, proclaimed, “People of Britain! Here is your High King! I charge you to love him, honor him, serve him, follow him, and pledge your lives to him even as he has pledged his life to the High King of Heaven.”

  At this the crowd gave a great shout of acclamation. James held out his hand to Jenny, and she stepped to his side, and together they stood before the watching world and received the adoration of their subjects. Standing on the edge of the platform, gazing out across the crowds and the city, it seemed to James as if he stood on the very pinnacle of the world. He looked at all those people, almost delirious with delight, and his heart went out to them. They were his people, and he was their King — bound by ties as strong as civilization itself, and just as old.

  The drums began beating time, and the pipers played the hymn “Be Thou My Vision.” From the castle crag behind them, seven cannons began firing volley after volley from the high ramparts.

  As the last cannon blast echoed out across the firth, the low clouds parted and, as if on cue, dazzling sunlight streamed down upon the King. From somewhere in the crowd came the shout: “Arthur!”

  The shout was immediately taken up as a chant, and soon the entire assembly was crying, “Arthur!… Arthur!”

  The cry coursed back along the Royal Mile and the streets now filled with people, and all of them chanting: Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!

  As the King stood in the blazing light, receiving the homage of his people, he felt the platform quiver beneath his feet. At first he thought it must be the vibration from all the shouting. But it grew in strength, and he figured it was the castle cannons firing again and the explosions were shaking the stones.

  An earthquake off the Cornish coast — the tremors of which could be felt as far away as Kirkwall in Orkney, and Bilbao in Spain — had shaken the entire British mainland. The ensuing tidal wave had sent water surging up the estuaries, thereby briefly reversing the course of the Thames and several other rivers. Long asleep beneath the waves, Llyonesse had shaken off her slumber and risen from the sea.

  Forty-seven

  Rhys brought the Tempest in low over the water so his passengers could appreciate the dramatic tilting slope of the gigantic new landmass off the Cornish coast. Like everyone else, Embries, James, and Jenny had seen the pictures in the newspapers and on TV; they had also been provided with a specially prepared previsit briefing. But none of what they’d seen or read captured even a fraction of the excitement of actually seeing Llyonesse jutting from the sea.

  At first sight, Jenny thought it looked like the leading edge of an extremely large black paving stone rising at an oblique angle from the waves. Or, perhaps, a gigantic wedge-shaped slab of lumpy clay half sunk in a millpond. The thing that surprised her the most, besides the size — nearly four miles end to end and more than two miles wide, according to the info kit — was the amount of activity.

  There were tents and pavilions of several sizes and colors scattered over the surface of the sloping landmass, two helicopter platforms had been erected, and there was a makeshift marina with room for fifty or more boats. Clusters of small igloo-shaped tents formed bivouac areas on the leeward side of the island and, nearby, a congregation of temporary huts surrounding a radio and microwave tower constituted the administrative center. While score upon score of workers — their blue or yellow overalls making them look like competing colonies of swarming insects — toiled at digging and scraping away centuries of sediment, a fleet of seagoing vessels of various sorts worked the waters round about. Some of the boats displayed the green-and-blue flag of the British Oceanographic Trust, the body controlling and funding the research; most, however, were co-opted fishing boats and small charter-cruise ships full of curious tourists. In among the divers and sight-seers, Special Branch police cruisers trawled the crowded waters, trying to maintain security for the royal visit.

  How amazing! thought Jenny as Rhys dropped the helicopter onto the landing pad. How absolutely astonishing!

  The chopper bounced down, and Embries smiled. “Welcome to Llyonesse,” he said, grinning with pleasure. The royal visitors stepped out onto the platform, and looked back towards the Cornish coast — hazy in the distance — to see the scattering of tiny islets like stepping stones between the new island and the mainland, the tops of mountains yet submerged.

  Then, alighting from the platform, they touched the surface of the new island. To Jenny it was like setting foot on the moon. She felt a strange, inexplicable exhilaration — as if she were in some way connecting with a power long dormant inside her, a primeval force she had suppressed all her life but which responded to this place. The feeling both thrilled and frightened. She looked to James, and he seemed equally dumbfounded.

  “Good morning, Your Royal Highnesses. I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Dr. Fuller,” said the woman waiting just beyond reach of the whirling helicopter blades. Christine Fuller, the coordinator of the multidiscipline research project and director of the oceanographic unit, was accompanied by two assistants — a slightly older man and a slim, brown-haired young woman. She said, “Claudia, my personal assistant, and Nicholas, our site manager, have prepared a little presentation at site headquarters; I thought we might start there before showing you around. If you would like to follow me.”

  They moved off towards a cluster of prefab huts, around which a group of Special Branch security agents in dark suits was maintaining discreet yet vigilant presence, complementing on land the police in the boats. Dr. Fuller led her guests past four large, diesel-fired generators and a half dozen portable toilets. The whirrin
g whine of the generators drowned out all other sound and set the ground vibrating underfoot; the huge engines filled the air with a fine blue haze of diesel smoke and fumes.

  The largest of the huts was a portable building anchored with ropes and covered by a canopy constructed of scaffolding poles and nylon-reinforced plastic sheeting to keep off the sun and rain. The interior looked like a jumble sale for used computer gear and office equipment. Monitor screens and consoles were heaped on every available surface; cords and wires snaked off in all directions. Members of the research team moved among the stacks of equipment, shouting above the din of the generators outside, checking the monitors, and making notations on charts and clipboards.

  The pale blue interior was lit by halogen lamps centered over a large table covered with a white sheet. A space had been cleared around the table, and four folding chairs lined up on one side. At the director’s invitation, the four visitors took their seats and, while Claudia nervously served coffee and biscuits, Nicholas led them through a printout which explained the technical aspects of the geologic dynamics at work in the area — all about plate tectonics, pressure zones, and sonar mapping. Then Claudia took over; using a prepared flip chart, she outlined the corresponding geophysical relationship of Llyonesse with the mainland and explained the topographical profile of the region.

  Thanking her colleagues, Dr. Fuller continued, detailing the last, dramatic few weeks. “Having established the mean rise ratio over the entire site,” she explained, “we fed the sonar data into our computers at Bristol University and were able to produce a virtual model of the active area. The computer model was used to create this….”

  She nodded to her assistants, who stepped to the table and lifted off the sheet to reveal a large-scale physical model of Llyonesse as it had been in ages past and, by all calculations, would be once again — complete with white-capped waves and tiny boats all around. The new island was an elongated mass that looked like a slightly splayed inverted footprint, the heel of which was separated from Cornwall by a narrow channel, and the toes of which were formed by what had been the Isles of Scilly. The center of the island was dominated by a rising plateau — the tabletop, so to speak, part of which was all that protruded from the sea at present.