James felt his own hands grow tight with the clenched weight of cold steel, and suddenly he was there: he sees the bowed heads lift as the Bishop’s prayer falters. The sword! Astonishment on the faces around him quickly gives way to bristling anger. They are on their feet, their prayers forgotten. There is only the dry rustle of shoe leather on stone. No one speaks. It is the false calm before the storm.
Instantly, the violence breaks like thunder after the lightning’s sharp flash. Voices: irate, outraged, demanding, questioning. Hands: straining, grasping, making fists, reaching for weapons. Bodies: thrusting forward, crowding in. But he does not flinch. He grimly holds his ground as all hell breaks loose around him. The lords of Britain surround him now. They are shouting. Usurper! Upstart! Like scalded pigs they scream.
The holy sanctuary has become a bear pit. He stands bold and silent in the center, unmoved by the violent reaction his presence has provoked. He has become an effigy carved in stone, and the noblemen are savages writhing around him, rage and fear twisting their faces into masks of hatred.
Weapons glint in upraised fists. Kill him! Kill the usurper!
Urbanus struggles forward. Arms above his head, hands waving, face as white as death, he calls for peace and order. No one hears him; the Bishop’s words are lost in the whirling maelstrom of hatred. A hand snakes out and the Bishop falls to the floor, blood spurting from his broken nose.
Kill him! Kill the usurper!
The din is deafening. The crowd crushes nearer.
Kill him!… Kill him!… Kill him! they cry. It is a death chant.
Arthur lowers his head and tightens his grip on the sword.
And then, above the clamor, there is heard the sound of a tempest, the blast of a mighty gale. The petty kings fall back. They cover their heads and their eyes strain upward into the darkness above. Is the roof falling? The sky?
When they look again, the Wise Emrys is with him, standing beside him. They cry trickery, sorcery, and demand to see the proof that even now their eyes will not accept. Shoving, jostling, they push their way out of the church and into the yard where the forlorn keystone stands in the snow. Their torches flicker over the naked stone; the sword is not there….
James, rapt in his strange, vivid reverie, leaned towards the stone. He reached out a hand and, like Doubting Thomas putting his fingers into the sacrificial wound, touched the cleft in the stone and believed. What he had seen was true.
“You said for me to get myself another boy,” Embries said. “There is no other boy, James. There wasn’t then, and there isn’t now. You are the only one.”
“That’s why you brought me here. You knew I would remember.”
“I hoped you would recall something of what had to be faced long ago, and find it within you to shoulder the burden once more.”
James gazed at the keystone and tried to imagine the awful span of years between that winter’s day long, long ago and this one. Although he could remember it in a curious, dreamlike way, he could not make the required leap. Yet, as solid as the stone before him, and as certain as the cleft striking deep into its heart, he had faced the enraged nobility of Britain as they shouted for his blood. He remembered, and felt the weight of conviction settle upon him. Very well. He had done it once, he could do it again.
Rising slowly, James turned to the man beside him. Myrddin Emrys, faithful through all things; he had stood with him on that fateful day, and would stand with him now. “Bring it on,” James said softly. “I’m ready.”
Embries smiled. “Then let us begin. There is much to be done before your announcement.” He made to turn away, but James put out his hand and stopped him.
“Not so fast,” James said. “If there’s going to be a battle, I want to fight it on my own turf — at Blair Morven. That’s where we make the announcement.”
Twenty-one
At the same moment the contingent of Coldstream Guards were removing Edward’s casket from the Picture Gallery and placing it in the back of an undertaker’s hearse, a young man in a dark green blazer, black trousers, white shirt, and blue-and-yellow-striped tie, was arriving at the Whitehall offices of the Chairman for the Special Committee for Royal Devolution. He carried a thin black-leather briefcase and an appointment card.
After presenting himself in the lobby, he passed through a metal detector, and an armed guard searched his briefcase; he was then admitted, signed in, and conducted along the corridor to a red door and ushered into a suite of offices decorated with very modern, very expensive, Italian titanium-and-leather furniture, handmade Swedish wallpaper, and French abstract paintings. The young man was greeted by the office administrator, who took his appointment card and waved him to one of the low, polished-leather seats.
He had just settled himself comfortably when the administrator, replacing her phone, announced, “Mr. Arnold’s assistant can see you now.” She indicated a door marked with the name D. Toley, and said, “It’s right through there, if you’d like to go in.”
The fellow in the green blazer thanked the woman but declined, saying that he preferred to wait until the appointed time. The woman drew his attention to the clock on the wall and observed that it was an hour and fifteen minutes until twelve o’clock.
“You are very kind,” the young man replied politely. “But I have my instructions. I would prefer to wait.”
This same scene, with numerous variations, was enacted at the offices of every major newspaper, radio, and television station in the city of London, as well as the metropolitan areas of Wales and Scotland. In all, 277 couriers — young men and women dressed in identical dark green blazers and striped ties — arrived at their various destinations carrying identical black-leather briefcases.
Each declined to see or speak to those with whom they had made their appointments until twelve o’clock. All waited patiently, the briefcases on their knees. Several of them, because employees of the offices they were visiting were also watching, were able to view the televised coverage of King Edward’s funeral.
What they, and anyone else tuning in, saw was a small convoy of black vehicles — a hearse and three limousines — making its way slowly along empty streets through a drab, drizzly November morning. No horse-drawn caisson or carriage decked in royal livery, no floral tributes heaped high on the coffin, no teary-eyed, mournful masses. In fact, very few people lined the streets, and most of these had not braved the damp weather to watch the procession with their grieving fellows, but were unwary pedestrians united only in the misfortune of having their progress arrested by the police cordon. Unable to continue with their errands, they had no choice but to wait until the cortège passed and the barriers were cleared.
When the hearse arrived at Westminster Abbey, the casket was carried in and placed on a low stand before the outer quire screen. The massive nave was brightly lit by the lights of the TV crews, and the turnout was decidedly more respectful. The few friends and relatives of the deceased, augmented by ranks of government and ex-royal functionaries, filled the limited seating, presenting a suitably somber yet tidy contingent of mourners. Prime Minister Waring and his deputy, the Home Secretary, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, along with spouses and various family members, held the front rank of seats; opposition party MPs, led by Huw Griffith, filled two rows behind them.
After a brief voice-over description of the ancient chapel, the ceremony commenced. A single large candle at the head of the black-draped coffin was lit by the Dean of Westminster, signaling the organ to play a dutifully solemn hymn. Ladbrokes, the betting agents, received several phone calls during the piece from people willing to wager good money on whether or not the last hymn Teddy ever heard was also the first. The bet was declined, not because it was unlikely but only because insofar as the King was dead the result could not be authenticated.
After the hymn, the Dean read out a passage from Psalms, and led the congregation in a prayer — in which the Almighty’s clemency and mercy were invoked in large measure, and the deceased
’s worthiness glossed over entirely. Following the prayer, a soprano with the English National Opera sang Cantaloube’s Baïlèro which was widely and erroneously reported to have been one of Edward’s lifelong favorites.
There followed a lengthy homily by the Canon of St. Paul’s, the Right Reverend Perceval Preston-Giles, who seemed quite concerned that a tone of harmonious equanimity should be struck. While, by earthly standards, Edward, by any account, was not a particularly godly man, he said, by heavenly standards he was really no worse than any other unregenerate sinner. Suspecting that he may have overtipped the balance somewhat, he tried to correct himself by asking the congregation to look deep within themselves and see how well they measured up against God’s yardstick. The proof of a life, he said, was not how well it was lived, but how well it was loved. The Canon surmised — nay, was fairly certain — that Edward had been loved. Wisely declining to name names, he let it go at that, and quickly moved on to his closing point which was that death, the Great Leveler, was no respecter of persons, and that it would therefore behoove every person in the land to look long and hard into his soul and determine to put his house in order, because no one, whether prince or pauper, knew when he might be called before the throne of God and the Final Accounting demanded.
The service then concluded with another prayer and a hymn, whereupon the organ played while the Coldstream Guards removed the coffin to the hearse for its slow drive to King’s Cross where a special train was waiting to convey the coffin to Scotland for its burial in the family cemetery at Balmoral Castle. As the funeral procession left the chapel, the bells began to ring and, simultaneously, in 277 offices across the British Isles, couriers in dark green blazers stood and presented themselves and delivered their packets to their designated recipients.
Each packet was labeled with the words TIME-SENSITIVE DOCUMENTS, OPEN IMMEDIATELY. Below the label was a small, unmistakable royal insignia, but one which had not been seen in England for over a thousand years: a blood-red dragon, similar to that adorning the flag of Wales. The dragon was emblazoned on a shield surmounted by a cross, over which floated a crown.
Instantly intrigued, most of the recipients opened their packets on the spot. What they found inside was a collection of photocopied documents pertaining to the noble lineage of one James Arthur Stuart. Each individual copy was itself duly witnessed and notarized to establish its authenticity, and two glossy color photos of young Mr. Stuart included; one showed him in full dress military uniform, the other in a more informal pose. Lastly, the packet contained a rather stiffly worded declaration by an officer of the Royal Heritage Preservation Society confirming the legitimacy of Stuart’s claim to the sovereignty of Britain. Taken altogether, the items led inexorably to the startling conclusion that, whether anyone knew it or not, the country had a new king.
In the unlikely event that anyone missed the significance of the packet they had been given, a press release was also included, which spelled out precisely what the documents and declaration meant. Further, the release stated that a formal announcement would be made by the new monarch from his home, Blair Morven Castle, at six o’clock GMT.
The quick-witted among the news-gathering fraternity were instantly aware of the tremendous scoop which had been placed in their hands. Their slower, more cautious brethren, however, asked the couriers who had sent the packet, and was it genuine?
The couriers refused to say any more — other than to direct their questioners’ attention to various aspects of the packet: the notary’s seal, the gentleman’s service record, the Royal Heritage Society’s letterhead and stamp, and the photos. The green-blazer brigade then departed, leaving behind them the chaos of editors, publishers, and broadcasters in pursuit of a major story.
This quest quickly took the form of hasty telephone calls to the several primary institutions. Although the switchboards of the firms involved quickly jammed, those who were able to get through had their queries confirmed. They were assured that the information issued was accurate and authentic. Having ascertained the integrity of the documents, the chase moved to a more physical phase.
Where is this guy? they demanded.
The press release specifically mentioned an announcement to be made by the new monarch. Where was this Blair Morven Castle?
Within an hour of the close of King Edward’s funeral service, reporters and camera crews for the major news agencies were on the way to Scotland — most by way of private plane, several by helicopter. A considerable number were dispatched by rail, causing a shortage of seats on several services as camera crews, sound men, grips, and production supervisors jumped on any train heading to Scotland.
For a few lucky Northerners, the distance to be traveled was not great, and they arrived in plenty of time to set up their equipment in the best spots. The rest, however, had to make do with whatever they could find once they got there.
They quickly discovered that the new King was not in residence, but an agreeable chap who identified himself as the monarch’s representative — a stout, soft-spoken young man called Douglas Charmichael — was ready and waiting for the onslaught. He held an impromptu press conference on the castle lawn in which he disclosed the fact that the King was even now en route to his home, and was expected to arrive promptly at six o’clock that evening. This development was greeted with relief and dismay in equal parts by the newsmen and their crews. On the one hand, they were happy not to have missed out on the scoop, and had time now to establish a proper beachhead; on the other hand, the moment of revelation would not take place for several hours, during which time they had to wait outside in the cold.
With time to kill — and nothing but negative reports from the trains, planes, and coaches — the intrepid media mavens launched a search. Stringers were hurriedly pressed into service to cover all the smaller regional airports, coach stations, and train depots. Promised a sizable bounty for an early sighting, they eagerly worked the crowds, faxed photos in hand. Despite their diligence, all they managed to turn up was a handful of near misses. As the day wore on, the manhunters began to despair of sighting their quarry. Local roads were combed outward to the major highways, which were followed from Braemar. Reporters on the road used mobile phones to call in the registration numbers of the suspect vehicles — a task made much more difficult by the wintry darkness descending over the north. The number plates were swiftly checked against the police register of names and addresses for possible live candidates.
Thus, of the many vehicles that instantly fell prey to the media pack, almost all were just as rapidly eliminated from further investigation. Three however, were not so easily dismissed; because of reportorial “hunches” or the inability to obtain a number-plate match, these were singled out for special consideration. The first, a red Rolls-Royce near Banchory on the Aberdeen road, drew the greatest attention; but two others, a late-model brown Lexus, and a black Jaguar sedan — both sighted on the A93 north of Perth and the Spittal of Glenshee respectively — were also live possibilities.
When the Roller stopped for petrol in Aboyne, and the occupants were revealed as a retired banker by the name of Figgis and his wife and mother-in-law, the chase concentrated on the two remaining suspects.
Meanwhile, in the news studios of the major networks, newsreaders and commentators, who had been breaking into regularly scheduled programs almost hourly since noon to announce the latest wrinkle in the swiftly evolving story, now joined their colleagues in the field and asked them to describe what was happening at Blair Morven. They were told about the two automobiles even now making their way towards Braemar, and airborne cameras provided murky infrared images of cars on the highway.
As the clock ticked down to six o’clock the BBC went on the air with live pictures in split screen of the two vehicles, and asked the question: could one of these cars contain the next King of Great Britain? If so, which one?
News presenter, the “highly respected Jonathan Trent,” informed an intensely fascinated nation that any mom
ent they would be bringing live coverage of the historic announcement as it happened by way of their crews on location. He then went directly to Kevin Clark, who had been flown back from Madeira some days earlier, asking him to describe the situation at Blair Morven.
“Thank you, Jonathan,” said a frozen Kevin, his breath puffing in the cold northern air. “The atmosphere here could not be more keenly anticipatory. As you can see behind me, the television and radio crews of every major news organization in the country are here, and we are eagerly awaiting the arrival of the new King.
“What a truly amazing day this has been! This revelation could not have been better timed or organized to garner maximum attention. Our own crew has been instrumental in —”
The screen switched back to the studio, and Jonathan Trent said, “We’ll come back to you in a moment, Kevin, but it has just been confirmed that one of the two vehicles currently under investigation — the brown Lexus… yes, that is confirmed — the Lexus has turned off the road at Bridge of Cally and is currently heading towards Pitlochry. That leaves the Jaguar, which is now just outside Braemar.” The screen showed the fuzzy grayish infrared picture of the top of a dark car moving along a dark road. “It would appear that the next King of Britain is nearing his destination.”
Jonathan came back onscreen then, and said, “While we are waiting, we will go now to Gina Thompson for this special report.”
The screen switched to an office, and the camera zoomed in on a desk on which had been spread several pieces of paper. The silky voice of Gina Thompson announced, “At twelve o’clock sharp this afternoon, an envelope containing these documents was delivered to the office of the King of Arms, at the College of Arms in London. Identical parcels were simultaneously delivered to, at last count, two hundred and fifty-four other news agencies and offices in the capital and throughout Great Britain. Each parcel contained documents identifying this man” — the screen shifted to a close-up photograph of a young officer in military uniform — “by the name of James Stuart, as the next reigning King of Britain.”
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