Avalon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Uninhabited for the last few years — the staff having been pensioned off by the Aussies — the castle needed attention. At James’ direction, Cal undertook to persuade a half dozen of the old Duke’s former retainers — including the cook, a vast, smiling, red-faced woman known only as Priddy; and her husband, Mr. Baxter, the head gardener — to return to their previous employment.

  Furniture was taken out of storage, and rooms long abandoned, cleaned and rearranged for use. Everything from linen pillowcases to Edinburgh crystal decanters were unpacked, inventoried, and returned to use. Paint and wallpaper were chosen and ordered; and every square inch of the castle was dusted and vacuumed, and then dusted again. Arrangements were made with a firm in Aberdeen to upgrade security using the latest unobtrusive high-tech equipment. Priddy laid in a kitchenful of staples and contracted with local butchers, greengrocers, and bakers to supply the royal table. Mr. Baxter pored over garden catalogs and ordered his stock for the coming spring.

  Blair Morven, which had been mostly a dusty museum, began to reassume the nature and function of a noble household. To James, it was as if a fine garment, which had long lain forgotten and neglected in mothballs, had been aired out and brought into the light of day once more. As more rooms were opened, Cal took up residence in the castle, and Shona had an apartment of her own — as did Embries, Rhys, and Priddy and Mr. Baxter. Within days, the estate began to vibrate with a level of activity that rivaled its earliest years as the seat of a ducal dynasty.

  And still no word from the Waring government. James’ attempts to contact the Prime Minister were persistent, and all were ignored. His intention was to resume the traditional weekly meeting between the monarch and his PM — as he suggested in one unanswered fax, e-mail, telegram, and registered letter after another. Shona had also attempted to contact Waring’s personal private secretary to arrange a phone call, but to no avail.

  “He can’t play hide ’n’ seek forever,” James observed one day. “I’m not going away. I’m like death and taxes. He’s going to have to face me sooner or later.”

  Recognition of James’ declaration arrived in the form of three men in dark suits, who appeared without warning one bright December morning. Presenting themselves at the door, they identified themselves as officials working for the Committee for Royal Devolution, and they asked if they could have a word with Mr. James Stuart. At Embries’ direction, they were invited into the Duke’s library, and kept waiting for fifteen minutes while Embries briefed James on what to expect. “They have come unannounced, hoping to take you by surprise. Just remember what we’ve talked about, and you have nothing to worry about.”

  “We’ll meet them together, right?”

  “Cal will be with you,” he said. “It would be best if they did not see me just yet.”

  When they joined their visitors in the library, James greeted them and asked the nature of their business. The spokesman of the group, a tidy middle-aged man of average height and impeccable grooming, smiled condescendingly as if he were a bailiff and James a quarrelsome tenant he had come to evict on behalf of the absentee landlord.

  “I am Mr. Thompson,” he said, extending a well-manicured hand. Indicating the two with him — one bald-headed company man like himself, the other a younger fellow with light brown hair and the open guileless countenance of a chap who has yet to discover who his true enemies are — he said, “This is my assistant, Mr. Reuley, and” — he nodded to the youngster —” this is Mr. Gilchrist.”

  James acknowledged them in turn, and then said, “Gentlemen, this is my chief of staff, Mr. McKay.” Cal, a frown of disapproval firmly in place, nodded.

  “We would prefer to discuss our business in private,” Thompson sniffed disdainfully. “When you hear what we have to say, I think you will agree that it is the wisest course.”

  “Your visit has been anticipated,” James told him, sitting down on the edge of the desk. He offered chairs to no one, so his visitors remained standing. “As you have neglected the common courtesy of arranging an appointment, I can only assume you must be either extremely busy or extremely rude.”

  “As you might imagine,” Thompson said, ignoring the reproof, “your claim to the throne has caused a considerable flap.” He made it sound as if the sole purpose of James’ declaration had been to cause him trouble. “I am certain you can understand also that, in light of the proposed dissolution of the monarchy, your claim cannot be allowed to stand.”

  “Go on,” James said. “I’m listening.”

  “Allow me to come directly to the point,” the man said, gesturing to his accomplice, who opened a briefcase and brought out a thick square of parchment. It was wrapped in a wide red satin ribbon, which he proceeded to untie. “May I?” he asked, indicating the library table.

  “By all means,” James said.

  He placed the parchment on the table and unfolded it. James stepped to the table and found himself looking at the infamous Magna Carta II. It was interesting, he thought, that they had actually drawn the thing up roughly on the order of the original Magna Carta — red ink on a great square of sheepskin. Clearly, they meant this second document to be fully as historical as the first, and were striving for some sense of inevitability through symmetry.

  Beneath the block of text headed “Declaration of Abdication,” were lines for no fewer than fifty-eight signatures. Every member of the royal succession had signed — dukes and duchesses, princes and princesses — and now only the top signature was missing. This was the space poor old Teddy was meant to have filled in.

  “As you can see,” Thompson said, “only one remains.” He produced a fountain pen, which he handed to James. “If you would be so kind as to sign here” — he pointed to the top line — “we will gladly be on our way.”

  James placed the pen on the table. “I have no intention of signing this document.”

  “It is merely a formality,” Thompson replied smoothly. “Your refusal will not change anything. The Act of Dissolution will proceed — with or without your signature.”

  “In that case,” James observed placidly, “it makes no difference whether I sign or not. Does it?”

  A sly smirk appeared on young Gilchrist’s face. He suppressed a chuckle, and James knew he had an ally.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” Thompson tutted. “I had hoped we would be able to reason together. You see, the devolution will go ahead as planned. The necessary legislation is already in place, and the last referendum is — as you must be aware — only a matter of weeks away.” Taking up the pen, he extended it towards James once more.

  “I fail to see why that should influence my decision.”

  Thompson gave a disappointed shake of his head, and turned to Cal, as if he might be the cause of James’ reluctance. The grimly silent Mr. Reuley spoke up. “Perhaps Mr. McKay might persuade His Majesty to avoid the unnecessary unpleasantness which is certain to derive from a too-hasty decision.”

  By way of reply, Cal reached out and snatched the pen from Thompson’s hand. “You heard the King. He’s not going to sign your piddling paper.”

  This was too much for Gilchrist; he gave a little snort of laughter and swiftly clamped his mouth shut. Thompson glared at his underling with murderous intent.

  “Forgive me,” said Reuley with icy insolence. “I intended no disrespect.”

  “No doubt this was the sort of unnecessary unpleasantness you were alluding to just now,” Cal replied.

  Gilchrist could not stifle his laugh this time; he burst out with a hearty guffaw which caused his boss to glare daggers at him.

  “You must excuse my young colleague,” Thompson said, his voice dripping with poisonous derision. “He seems to be having difficulty keeping his mind on his work today.”

  “Or perhaps,” James suggested lightly, “he simply finds flogging this dead horse a waste of his valuable time and talents.”

  “I am indeed sorry you have chosen to take this attitude,” Thompson tutted. “I had hoped I might pr
evail upon you to do the honorable thing.” He fished another pen from his coat pocket, and made a show of unscrewing the cap and offering it to James. “I will ask you one last time. Your signature, if you please.”

  “Don’t sign it, Your Majesty,” said Gilchrist, speaking up at last. “You don’t have to, and they can’t make you.”

  “Leave us,” Thompson said through clenched teeth. “That is an order.” He nodded to Reuley, who took a step towards the young man.

  James raised his hand and stopped him. “As I have already said, I have no intention of signing this document, and I will not be harassed or otherwise intimidated into doing so. If obtaining my signature was the sole item on your agenda, then our business is concluded.”

  “That is your decision, unwise as it may be,” Thompson replied with elaborate disdain. He turned stiffly and began refolding the parchment. “We can do nothing more,” he sniffed. “Mr. Stuart’s refusal is duly noted and will be reported. The matter is out of our hands.” Handing the parchment back to Reuley, he said, “Come along, gentlemen.”

  “No.” It was Gilchrist.

  Thompson stared at him. “We are leaving now. Go to the car at once.”

  Again, Gilchrist refused. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not going back.”

  With great effort, Thompson, almost shaking with rage at having his authority so blatantly challenged, gave the young man an icy smile. “This is neither the time nor the place for one of your schoolboy tantrums,” he said, forcing the words out with exaggerated precision.

  Ignoring his superior, the young man turned instead to James. He took a step nearer and went down on one knee before him. “Your Majesty,” he said, “it would be a very great honor to serve you in any way I can.”

  Thompson, almost goggle-eyed with apoplexy, stared at the earnest young man on his knee before his king.

  “Please, sir,” Gilchrist said, his voice steady and low. “If you accept me, I will do anything you ask. I swear it.”

  Extending his hand to the young man, James laughed and said, “Rise, Sir Knight. I accept your pledge of fealty.”

  Thompson gave his former associate one last withering glance, turned on his heel, and strode imperiously to the door, leaving Reuley to scuttle after him with the parchment and briefcase. No one bothered to see them out.

  Gilchrist shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, looking both humble and relieved; now that his act of defiance was over, he appeared less confident than before. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Your Majesty. I’ll leave if you want me to.”

  “You didn’t embarrass me,” James assured him. “As it happens, I have room for quick-thinking, able-bodied people like yourself. If you don’t mind pitching in on whatever job needs doing.”

  “Anything,” the young man replied. “I don’t care. I’ll work for nothing.” He drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and declared, “I heard your speech that night, and it connected with me. You spoke of the Kingdom of Summer, and from that moment all I wanted was to serve you, and to serve Britain. I was never meant to work for a snake like Thompson. I’m glad someone finally stood up to him. He’s had it coming for a long time.”

  “It would take more than him and his fancy paper to put the wind up James’ kilt,” Cal remarked. “Don’t give it a second thought.”

  “You saw all those signatures?” the young fellow continued. “Some of those people were really very nice — true nobles, through and through — but he treated them like scum. He didn’t need to do that; it was pure meanness.” Gratitude and admiration mingled in his quick, infectious smile. “I’ve been waiting all my life for something like this. And I have friends, sir — men just like me who would give their right arm to be part of something worthy of their time and energy.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” replied James. “For now though, why don’t you go upstairs to the press office and ask for Shona. Tell her I said to put you to work. We’ll arrange pay and such later.”

  “Gilchrist is a Scottish name,” Cal said. “Where are you from originally?”

  “My family is from Inverness,” he explained, “and there’s a load of aunts and uncles up there still. But my dad worked for the Foreign Office, and we moved around a lot. I was born in France, but never felt it was home.” He smiled, and the color rose to his cheeks. “Now I feel as if I have come home.”

  “What’s your first name?” James asked.

  “Gavin, sir,” he replied, “a family name, apparently.”

  “Welcome aboard, Gavin.” James grasped the young man’s hand, and a tingling sensation traveled up his arm and down his neck. The fiosachd came upon him, and he felt as if he were welcoming back a friend who had been absent for many years. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added.

  Eager to begin, Gavin went off to find Shona and secure his place in the new regime. James and Cal went next door where Embries was waiting. He had his notebook open on the desk before him, and was writing furiously.

  “Our boy was fantastic,” crowed Cal. “You would have enjoyed it.”

  “Thompson looked a little too familiar,” Embries answered. “It is entirely possible our paths have crossed in the past, and he might have remembered me. So far, my presence has eluded detection. I would like to keep it that way a little longer.” He looked up from his notebook. “That aside, you are to be congratulated.”

  “Why?”

  “The simple fact of their showing up means that the Government has accepted the legitimacy of your claim. If they had any hope of discrediting or dismissing you outright, they certainly wouldn’t have bothered trying to get your signature.”

  “I managed to squeeze a ‘Your Majesty’ out of him in the end.”

  “Plus, we got a new recruit out of it,” put in Cal. “You should have seen them, Embries. I thought Thompson was going to bust a gusset.”

  “What did they expect, coming here like that?” said James. “We can’t even get Downing Street to return our phone calls — did they really think I would sign that thing?”

  “They had to find out how serious you are,” Embries suggested. “They have to know what they’re up against.”

  “I’ll show them how serious I am,” said James. He turned and walked to the door. “Care to come along, Cal?”

  “Sure. Where are you going?”

  “Suddenly, I feel like taking a walk in the garden.”

  “James, wait,” said Embries, calling him back. “What are you going to do?”

  “Things being the way they are,” came the reply, “you can probably see it on Newsnight.”

  Twenty-six

  Stepping out onto the graveled yard, James was instantly besieged by cameramen and journalists. They clustered so tightly around him that Shona threatened several with expulsion if they did not give the King room to breathe. “Back off!” she warned. “There is plenty of room for everyone. Let’s all behave.”

  “You are here at the King’s pleasure,” Cal reminded them sternly. “Don’t blow it.”

  When they had established rough order among themselves, Shona announced, “The King has prepared a statement which he would like to share with you now. There will be time for questions immediately after.” Turning to James, she said, “His Majesty, the King of Britain.”

  “Thank you, Shona,” he said, stepping forward. There was a last jostling for position among the assembled news people, as James began. “A few minutes ago I received a visit from representatives of the Special Committee for Royal Devolution — the so-called Magna Carta Two. I was invited to affix my signature to the document which has caused such anguish and controversy in our nation.” He paused, looking out at the eager faces of the reporters, enjoying the effect his appearance was having. “I declined.”

  “Did they say what would happen if you didn’t sign?” shouted a woman a few rows back.

  “Questions later, Gillian, please,” Shona reminded the journalist. “Thank you.”

  “I refused to resign the
sovereignty of Britain,” James continued, “and I want everyone to know that I will continue to resist any and all efforts to make me relinquish the crown. Further, it is my intention to reinstate the traditional weekly royal prime ministerial audience at once. From today, I will be expecting to receive the Prime Minister, and I urge his office to contact me at once to make arrangements.”

  This, as James suspected, caused an instant uproar among the gathered media folk. They leaned in anxiously, thrusting their arms into the air to be recognized; those at the back shoved forward to get a better vantage point.

  “Thank you,” James said. “I’d be happy to take your questions now.”

  It took a few moments to quell the uproar and for Shona to introduce a modicum of order. “We’ll do it my way or not at all,” she said. “Today, the last shall be first.” Pointing to a tall cadaverous-looking man straining in the back row. “Gordon Granger, you’re on.”

  “Gosh, thanks,” said Gordon, so delighted at his unprecedented good fortune that he promptly forgot why he’d been called upon.

  “Could we have your question, Gordon?” asked Shona.

  “Your Majesty,” said the journalist, “you used the word ‘urge’ a moment ago. Are we to take that to mean you are not now in contact with Downing Street?”