Avalon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Even so, there is worse to come. The declaration of my reign will provoke the rulers and powers of darkness. I warn you now, the conflict to come will be great. But when the enemy appears with weapons drawn, and when the thunder of their drums and battle horns drives the strength from your hands, I ask you to remember that we do not go into the fight alone. The Swift Sure Hand goes before us, and will not forsake us.

  “As Arthur told his scant few soldiers here in this place on that fateful day so long ago, I tell you now: Whether tomorrow finds us in triumph or defeat, I leave to God. I do not ask you to defeat an enemy, I ask only that you stand with me to the end, that our courage may be the spark that kindles the flame of hope in our kinsmen’s hearts. Once kindled, that flame will grow, and it will become a consuming fire that drives every enemy before it.

  “Listen! This is where the battle to restore Britain begins. I, James Arthur Stuart, call you to arms. Join me! Fill your hands with strong steel, bind courage to your hearts, and take your place beside me. Together, we will make of this island realm a blessing to all the nations of the earth. Together, we will bring about the wonder that is Avalon.”

  Twenty-three

  The day’s fishing had been moderately successful, and the crew of Godolphin Girl were looking forward to their evening pint at the Smugglers’ Arms. The short winter day had left them over two hours ago, but the moon was bright, throwing a tracery of silver netting over the sea. The wind was light out of the south and unseasonably warm. They were seven miles off the Cornish coast, making for their home port of Penzance when they noticed the sea begin to bubble.

  “Trevor! Pete!” shouted the boat’s skipper, George Kernan. “Look’ee aft!”

  Trevor Qualk, the boat’s first mate, put his head around the small wheelhouse and looked over the rail. He saw nothing but the scattered reflection of the moon over the calm sea. “What was it?” he called back.

  “T’sea is aboil!” came the skipper’s reply.

  “Where?” he shouted. “There’s ne’er a ripple all the way to St. Mary’s.”

  Peter Kernan — the skipper’s son, and one of the two other fishermen aboard — was sluicing down the aft deck and happened to be dipping water when he saw a great bubble rise like a dome to burst on the surface. “I see it!” he shouted.

  “Where?” hollered Trevor, leaning out over the rail.

  Andy Gullicks, the fourth deckhand, was tying up nets when Peter shouted. He looked back just in time to see the ripple caused by the disturbance. “Away to the southwest!” he confirmed, and joined Peter at the stern.

  Trevor walked back and took his place beside them. He was about to ask if they were having him on, when a third great blister, almost twice as large as the first two, bulged up and burst on the surface. At almost the same instant, further away, several more huge bubbles surfaced. The sea rippled in outward-racing rings that overtook the ship and set it rolling in the water.

  “Holy God,” said Trevor. “Ain’t never seen anythin’ like that.”

  “Did ya see those ones?” called George from the wheelhouse.

  The three fishermen replied that they had indeed seen them. Peter ran to the wheelhouse and grabbed the binoculars. Steadying himself on the rail, he put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the moon-bright sea. He saw the water heaving and boiling with great belly-shaped domes. Passing the glasses to Trevor, he turned and called to his dad that he thought he could see land two or three miles away to the southwest.

  This caused the sea-wise George to cut the engine and join his crew on deck. They passed the binoculars from one to another, and tried to determine exactly what it was they were seeing. Even with the brightness of the moon, the dark shapes were still so far away that they could not decide if they were there at all. They debated whether to turn around and go for a closer look, but George ruled it out; a cautious sailor, he felt charging off into the unknown too risky a venture.

  “Maybe we should get on the radio,” suggested Peter, “and see if anyone is out tonight.”

  “We could call Samstead’s in Hugh Town,” put in Trevor. “Maybe they heerd some’ at o’ this.”

  Just then another enormous boil burst not twenty meters away to starboard, throwing a shower of seawater up with a hearty belch. A few seconds later they all smelled a stench like rotten eggs, and the sea fizzed and roiled as the wave swept towards them. “That’s it,” said George, making up his mind at once. “We’re gunnin’ for home.”

  He went straight back to the wheelhouse and brought the engine up full. A few minutes later, they sighted the light on Gwennap Head, and a short while after that, they could see the scattered lights along the coast. They made for the brightest cluster, and within the hour were gliding into port.

  As they came into the harbor, Trevor called their attention to the unusual number of people gathered on the quayside. “Don’t say nothing about what we seen,” George warned them. “Best let me do the talking, until we know how the thing sits.”

  The boat slid into its berth. “You didn’t have to throw a welcoming party,” he said, tossing the mooring rope to one of his mates standing by on the pier.

  “Good day?” the man called back.

  “Fair to middlin’,” reported George. “It were worth the trouble at least.” He directed Peter and Andy to make the boat fast and get the boxes of fish onto the quay for the van to pick up.

  “You haven’t heard, then,” said one of the men, a fisherman known as Germoe. “There’s a new king appeared in Scotland.”

  “Scotland is it!” said Trevor. “I’ll be damned.”

  “No, we haven’t heard anythin’ at all,” said George, climbing up the ladder to the pier. “Been out all day — good day, too, the sea was calm as May morning. Warm. You should’a come out with us.”

  “I would’a,” said Germoe, “but I’m still waiting for that blasted shaft coupling. It’s a damned shame to lose a day’s fishing, but you missed a whale of a show on the news. This bloke pops up in Scotland, claiming to be the new King. They had him all over the six o’clock news. Captain in the army, they say. Decent bloke, to look at him. What’d you catch?”

  “Mackerel, mostly, but we got a fair few John Dory and a dozen dab, two lemon sole, and some pollack,” said George. “You didn’t hear about anythin’ going on between here and Scilly, did ya?”

  Germoe indicated the crowd. “That’s why we’ve all come out. Samstead called up about an hour ago — said they were having some shakes out there.”

  George and Trevor glanced at one another. “What kinda shakes?”

  Germoe shrugged. “Just shakes. Pictures jumping off the wall and such. He thought they’d ride it out, but if it got any worse maybe we’d stand by to come rescue them if they needed rescuing.” He gave a nod to the rest of the men, boat owners most of them, standing around on the pier. “That’s what we’re all doing — we’re standing by.”

  “What about sendin’ a Sea King to check it out?” asked Pete, climbing onto the pier. “One o’ them could be out there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Why? You see something?”

  “We did,” said Trevor. “Damnedest thing it was, too: sea bubbles big as a house, twenty or thirty of ’em.”

  “Where was this?” wondered one of the nearby fishermen.

  “Hi ya, Eric,” said George. “C’mere and listen t’this.”

  George then went on to explain about looking out the wheelhouse window and catching sight of something on the sea. “Mebbe two, mebbe three hundred meters away. It’s gone again in a blink, so I keep the place in sight case it comes again, and by golly, next thing you know, there it is again — a little further south this time. I calls out t’ Trev and asks does he see anythin’, and he says no.”

  “I didn’t see nothin’ until Andrew up and hollers it’s off to port, and then I see this whopper like so.” He made a balloon shape with his fingers and set it expanding until it burst. “Sploosh! Like that. The waves catch us two minute
s later.”

  “But it weren’t much,” said Andy, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stepped in beside Peter. “Rocked us about a bit is all.”

  “It got a little choppy in harbor a while ago,” confirmed Eric. Lifting his eyes to the harbor beyond the seawall, he said, “Looks quiet enough now, though.”

  “Pete got hold of the glasses,” Trevor said. “What we spied out there was some black shapes out Scilly way, but we couldn’t make nothing of ’t.”

  “We thought as how we ought t’ go check it out,” put in Peter. “But then one o’ them eruptions goes off right off port bow and we hightailed it home instead.”

  “Did Samstead say anythin’ about that?” asked George.

  “What kind of eruptions?” another boatman wanted to know.

  “Big ones,” replied Trevor.

  “Who’s got big ones?” called someone else.

  “Pipe down, Macky,” said Germoe. “We’re discussion’.”

  “They just belched up,” Peter informed them. “Threw off a stink, too.”

  Andy nodded. “Rotten eggs.”

  “Brimstone,” surmised Germoe.

  “That’s what we was thinkin’ all right,” confirmed George. “Brimstone.”

  “D’ye see any flashes o’ light with it like?” asked Eric. “The ol’-timers said as how they sometimes seen flashes o’ light with them big bubbles.”

  “What ol’-timers you talking about?” demanded George. “I been fishin’ these waters for near twenty years, and I ain’t never heard o’ no brimstone bubbles and no flashes o’ light.”

  “Oh, sure,” replied Eric. “My da’ used to tell us all the time. Granda’ — he was on a boat once that near capsized when one went off dead under it.”

  “You don’t say,” said Germoe. “How far back was this?”

  “Oh, sixty — maybe eighty year ago,” replied Eric.

  A man in a cashmere flat cap and blue boiler suit joined them. He was smoking the stub of a panatela. “Evenin’, gents,” he said.

  “Evenin’, Noel,” they all replied.

  “I been on the radio with Samstead. Everything’s settled down now. Haven’t been any more shakes since the last one, maybe an hour ago. I think we can all go home. I got your numbers and I’ll call if we need you.”

  Most of the boatmen and fishermen began drifting off in the direction of the Smugglers’ Arms. “Right,” replied Eric. “I’m off t’ pub. You fellas coming?”

  “In a minute,” said George. “I’m goin’ to speak to Noel first.”

  Noel Gant, the harbormaster, stubbed out his cigar and lit another one as George described what they had seen out on the water. “You ever hear tell o’ anythin’ like that? I never did.”

  “No,” answered the harbormaster, “can’t say as I ever have. I had a quick call around earlier, and it looks like you were the only ship out tonight. Tony and Bill were out early this morning, but they were back before dark. Tommy went up to Falmouth, and I checked with them up there, but they had no boats out.”

  “Thank the Lord for that,” said George. He looked around at his crew. “Well, we better get on over t’ pub before they run out of beer. Right, lads,” he said, turning to Peter and Andy, “get those fish over t’ quay and I’ll see ya there.” To the harbormaster, he said, “Buy you a pint, Noel?”

  “Thanks all the same, George, but I’ve got to go back and listen for Samstead. I told him to give it another thirty minutes and call me again just in case.”

  “All right then. See ya.” George started off, adding, “You call us if you need us, now.”

  “Yeah, sure enough.” He sent them on with a wave, and wandered back to his office on the quay.

  At the Smugglers’ Arms further down the quayside, the television was on behind the bar, and in the lounge, too, and both rooms were full as people watched the nine o’clock news recap of the new King’s speech. Already, the fellow had been branded the Young Pretender — in recognition of the last Scottish nobleman who had tried to restore the monarchy to its rightful heritage.

  The boatmen were skeptical but tolerant in their views of the new King. Several — George included — went so far as to voice the opinion that if they had had a king as well-spoken as this young fellow, the royals might not have run aground so badly as they had in recent years. “They might still be afloat,” he said, and many agreed with him.

  After the news, talk turned to the sea and the strange events near the Scilly Isles which they’d heard about and which the crew of Godolphin Girl had experienced. When the bar crowd learned that George and his crewmen had witnessed the phenomena firsthand, none of them had to pay for another pint the rest of the night.

  Twenty-four

  Avoiding the reporters encamped outside his door, Prime Minister Thomas Waring left Downing Street via the back entrance to Number 11 next door. He had called for a car, and was picked up and quickly driven away. He slumped back in the cool darkness, and felt himself relax for the first time that day.

  It had begun well enough; a drab, dreary morning, the weather had cooperated admirably. The funeral, he thought, had been a success. They had struck just the right note: formal but not sentimental, and with enough ceremonial pomp to satisfy the wetboys who were always bleating on about protocol and tradition but not enough to create any lasting impression on those who saw it. Not that many did see it; early viewing figures suggested that fewer than one household in fifteen had tuned in. Despite any latent interest, the number was kept low thanks largely to his insistence on holding the funeral on Friday when most of the nation was on the job, finishing the working week.

  That was a coup, and he could rightly be proud of it. He scarcely had time to pop the cork on the self-congratulatory champagne, however, when Dennis Arnold rang to deliver the unexpected news that, according to a press kit which had been delivered nationwide just a few minutes ago, the country had a new king.

  Upon querying the veracity of this claim, Arnold had insisted, “No, it’s true. I’ve got one of the packets myself. It’s all on the up-and-up, all very official. I think we will have to treat the claim as legitimate and act accordingly. All the news agencies are taking it seriously.”

  “Bollocks!”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean how in hell did you let this guy slip through the net?’

  “You can’t think there was any way to foresee anything like this. I mean it’s —”

  “That’s what you’re paid for, dammit!”

  “Be reasonable, Tom.”

  “Don’t give me that reasonable crap. You’ve had six years and all the manpower you needed; we’ve had laws passed, for Chrissakes! I gave you everything you needed to make sure this couldn’t happen, and now you call me and tell me it just did.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t think it’s anything to get worked up about.”

  “Then you’re a bloody idiot, Dennis. I’m telling you it’s a disaster.”

  “You’re upset. Perhaps we should continue this discussion when you’ve had a chance to cool off.”

  “Of course I’m upset. I’ve just been told that everything I’ve worked for has come unglued. What the hell am I supposed to say?”

  “I’ll call you, later. We’ll talk this over.”

  “You’re damn right we’ll talk this over.”

  He slammed the phone down so hard his private secretary came in to see what was the matter.

  “I’m surrounded by idiots and assholes,” the Prime Minister shouted. “Other than that, everything is splendid — jolly damned splendid!”

  He then poured himself a glass of that champagne and switched on the television in his office to see what the damage might be. At first, he was inclined to think he had overreacted somewhat. Perhaps Arnold was right after all. The broadcasters were treating the item as a curiosity — little more than yet another
fascinating example of English eccentricity.

  But as the afternoon wore on, and more information was gleaned from various sources, the tone began to shift dramatically. What had been greeted with mildly amused derision was now being regarded with increasing respect. To Prime Minister Waring’s growing dismay, the story began to eclipse the carefully contrived and orchestrated coverage of the nonevent that was King Edward’s funeral.

  By four o’clock every television channel was doing twenty-minute updates. By five o’clock most had suspended their regular broadcasts in favor of background stories and endlessly looped commentary on the state of the search for the mysterious new King. By six o’clock every TV and radio station had gone to live on-the-spot coverage of the extraordinary event.

  As the BBC Six O’clock Report began, Waring, surrounded by his staff and advisors, watched in slack-jawed horror as a tall, good-looking young man emerged from the back of the black Jaguar sedan to the obvious delight of the eager newshounds. Far from being a kook or crackpot, he appeared intelligent and fully self-possessed. What is more, he exuded a commanding presence Waring would have killed for. The young man smiled and the media pack actually applauded.

  Before Stuart had even opened his mouth, the Prime Minister knew he was in trouble. Oh, but then the young King began to speak, and Waring realized trouble was not a strong enough word; he was staring bleak disaster in the face. Instead of the usual royal flummery — filled with oblique references to “oneself” and bland archaisms to do with duty and privilege — this young pretender spoke with uninhibited passion about a rich, heroic past and a glorious, attainable future. And as if that weren’t enough, he laid out his vision in simple, heartfelt terms which could not fail to reach their mark.

  Waring had shaken his head in utter disbelief as the would-be King had gone on to speak of the Britain he wanted to lead. Rather than steer clear of inflaming nationalist sentiments, the man reveled in it, fanning the spark of British pride with a simple but persuasive honesty.

  To make matters worse, he accomplished all this without awkwardness, without arrogance, without even the slightest hint of pomposity. There was no whiff of the latent condescension, conceit, or deference always present in the royals. My God, thought Waring, the bugger is as humble as he is handsome.