Avalon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “That is correct,” replied the King. “We are not in contact with Downing Street at present. The truth is, the Government has thus far ignored all our attempts at communication. We’ve sent letters, faxes, telegrams — you name it. They won’t even return my phone calls.”

  Some of the journalists snickered at this. “Is this why you chose to make the announcement just now?” a woman in the front row asked. Shona gave her a dirty look, but the rest of the pack seemed content to listen to the answer.

  “I would have preferred to proceed through the proper channels,” James replied, “but one way or another, I will be heard. Once, not all that long ago, a subject would have lost his head for ignoring his monarch.”

  “Are you going to ask for Prime Minister Waring’s head?” someone shouted.

  James smiled. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Will you meet here at Blair Morven,” asked someone else, “or in London?”

  “If memory serves,” James answered, “the meeting traditionally takes place at the monarch’s principal residence. Since this is the only place I’ve got, I guess the audience will have to be here.”

  “What will you talk about,” called another journalist, “when, or maybe I should say, if the PM agrees to meet with you?”

  “The conversation has traditionally been privileged,” the King replied. “I see no reason why that should change. I can tell you, however, that I have no hidden agenda. We will talk about the governing of our nation, and how to do what is best for Britain.”

  This statement was instantly taken up. “Many people believe that what is best for Britain,” said the woman named Gillian, “is the abolition of the monarchy — an opinion Prime Minister Waring obviously shares. What do you say to that?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said James, “forgive me if I have not made myself clear on this point. I mean to reign as King of Britain. I believe the monarchy can be restored, and I hope that I will be given a chance to prove myself not only a worthy monarch but also to demonstrate the value of having a king on the throne.”

  There were more questions after that, and James found himself growing more at ease as his command of the situation increased. When Shona finally called for the last question, he was actually sorry to break it off. “What did you think of that?” he asked after rejoining Embries in the library. “You’d have been proud.”

  “You should have seen him,” Cal crowed. “Our boy was impressive. He had them eating out of his hand.”

  “I did see him,” remarked Embries tartly. “That was broadcast live. Very impressive.” He frowned. “Oh, well, the damage is done.”

  “What damage?” James demanded. “I told the truth and meant every word.”

  “The Prime Minister may not forgive you for calling him to account. You’ve forced his hand in a most public manner. He will resent being made to look foolish. He is certain to retaliate.”

  “Let him,” James declared. “I can handle it.”

  “Can you?” Embries regarded him with sharp disapproval. “We shall see.”

  The evening news broadcasts featured the King’s impromptu press conference in unstinting detail, showing his announcement in its entirety, replaying many of the questions he had answered and summarizing the rest, and then following the report with an expert analysis of what some commentators called an extraordinary development.

  “Extraordinary, my ass,” growled the Prime Minister. “A dog eats its own vomit, and they call it extraordinary.”

  “I hate to say it, Tom,” remarked Dennis Arnold, the Devolution Chairman, “but I think it was a mistake not to return his calls. He is the King, after all.”

  “I don’t care who the hell he is,” Waring fumed. He and his two top aides were having a drink and watching the news in the Prime Minister’s Downing Street apartment. “I will not be dictated to by some jumped-up pretty boy who fancies himself a latter-day Laird of the Isles.”

  “Sure,” said Arnold, “I can sympathize. But look where it’s got us. We’re going to have to talk to him. I’m not saying you have to like it.”

  Waring glared at his advisor, then turned his attention to his press secretary. “What do you think, Hutch?”

  “Dennis is right,” said Hutchens. “We should talk to the guy at least.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “Worst case? The press will say we fear a confrontation. They’ll say we’re running away from a showdown.”

  “So what?”

  “If we’re seen to be running away,” Hutchens continued, lacing his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair, imagining the ramifications of his worst-case scenario, “the press will smell fear. They’ll be on us just like that.”

  “We’ve weathered media storms before. We can ride this one out — if it comes to that.”

  “Oh, it will come to that all right,” the spin doctor warned. “They’ll hound us day and night. They’ll take it up as a cause, and worry us with it until we give in.”

  The Prime Minister rose from his place on the sofa and began pacing in front of the TV. “So this clown calls the tune and I’m supposed to dance — is that it? He whistles and I have to come running. To hell with that, and to hell with him!”

  Dennis shook his head. “We can’t simply ignore him. Look —” He put out his hand to the TV. “We tried that and it didn’t work.”

  Waring collapsed heavily into his chair. He knew his advisors were right, but it galled him to have to admit he’d underestimated this new King. It galled him more to have to meet with the conniving bastard. Still, even with defeat staring him in the face, he wasn’t ready to give in. “It’s getting late. We’ll take this up at the staff meeting tomorrow morning. Dennis, get on to Cecil Blackmoor and get a legal opinion. There may be a way out of this yet.”

  Dismissing his aides, the Prime Minister spent an unhappy evening with the remote control stuck in his fist. He slept poorly and rose early to survey the first of the day’s newspapers over breakfast — which put him off eating altogether — and arranged with the kitchen for rolls and coffee to be laid on for the staff meeting. At eight o’clock on the dot, the Prime Minister took his private lift down to the ground floor, greeted the day shift, and made his way to the conference room.

  Adrian Burton, Chancellor of the Exchequer, arrived first. “Good morning, Thomas. Touch of frost in the air. Winter could be early this year. We just might get that white Christmas everyone is so unaccountably fond of. I don’t suppose you’ve made any plans yet? You’re always welcome to share the festivities with Mildred and myself.”

  Typical, thought Waring; the man hasn’t a clue. “When I get around to making my plans, you’ll be the first to know,” he replied.

  Oblivious of his chief’s sour mood, Burton took his seat and helped himself to coffee and a croissant. “By the way, there’s a TV crew at the gates.”

  The Prime Minister looked pityingly at his minion. “There’s always a TV crew outside the gates, Adrian. They live there.”

  “Quite a large one.” Burton broke his croissant and dipped one end into his coffee. “Larger than usual, I should have thought. I say, is this going to be a long meeting, PM?”

  “Who wants to know?” said Waring.

  “Well,” replied Burton, “as it happens, I’m meeting Mildred and the directors of the Children in Need campaign for lunch. We’ve been asked to give out the CIN awards for distinguished service.”

  “Oh,” remarked Waring, “we’ll be finished by lunchtime — wouldn’t want to ruin your photo op.”

  “Quite,” agreed Burton, munching away happily.

  The Deputy Prime Minister arrived next, with a groggy Martin Hutchens in tow. “Good morning, Tom,” said Angela Telford-Sykes, throwing her briefcase onto the long table. “Saw Leonard outside. There’s bad news.”

  “What?” said Waring dully.

  “Alfred Norris had a heart attack yesterday,” Angela reported. “He’s in the IC unit at St. George’s. It d
oesn’t look good.”

  “Christ almighty,” muttered Waring darkly.

  “Excuse me,” said Burton, “who is Alfred Norris when he’s at home?”

  “For God’s sake, Adrian,” Waring growled. “He’s one of our loyal backbenchers.”

  “Bristol North,” put in Angela.

  “If he kicks it,” Waring said, “our majority is down to five.”

  “I see,” intoned Burton solemnly. “One would think you cared more about the majority than you did about poor old Norris.”

  Waring rolled his eyes. He was already at the end of his tether, and the meeting had not yet begun. “Keep me posted,” he said to Angela, then asked: “Anybody seen Dennis?”

  “Spoke to him ten minutes ago,” Telford-Sykes replied. “He may be late, but he’s on his way. Shah likewise.”

  Waring glanced at his watch, then looked down the table at his inner circle of advisors. He fastened on his press secretary. “Heavy date last night, Martin?”

  “Heavy enough,” replied Hutchens, already pouring his second cup of coffee. “Someone remind me never to go to Stringfellows again.”

  Dispensing with the small talk, Waring said, “I’m going to assume everyone saw the broadcast.”

  “The whole world saw the broadcast.” Hutchens sat back, sipped his coffee, and looked at his boss with red eyes. “I think George Bush said it best: ‘We’re in deep doo-doo, guys.’”

  “Excuse me,” said Burton. “I feel I’m missing something here. Which broadcast are we talking about exactly?”

  Waring glanced at the Deputy PM, who replied, “The King’s press conference. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it, Adrian.”

  “The King’s thingy? Course I saw it,” Burton said. “Most of it, anyway.”

  “Jesus, Adrian,” Hutchens said, “didn’t it strike you as essential viewing?”

  “Actually, no. It didn’t. Don’t watch telly during mealtimes as a rule,” declared Burton indignantly. He glanced around, looking for support for his domestic policy. “I did, however, videotape it for later consumption. Bit of a flap, what?”

  At Waring’s behest, Telford-Sykes began a summary description of the broadcast’s salient points, during which the absent Patricia Shah and Leonard DeVries appeared and took their places, followed by Dennis Arnold, carrying a manila folder bursting with bits of scribbled paper.

  “Thank you, Angela,” said Waring when his deputy finished. Turning to the latecomers, he said, “Welcome, comrades, glad you could favor us with a few moments of your precious time. The subject of this morning’s tête-à-tête, as you will no doubt have guessed, is last evening’s royal press conference. We’re here to decide what to do about it. Any questions?”

  “Can he really do it?” wondered Patricia Shah, fingering the rim of her coffee cup. “That is the pertinent question, certainly.”

  “It’s part of the royal prerogative,” replied Dennis Arnold, Royal Devolution Committee Chairman. “And, yes, he can do it.” Addressing the PM, he said, “I rang Cecil Blackmoor as you requested.” Glancing at the others, he said, “Cecil’s the Royal Branch Subcommittee legal eagle. I’ve been working quite closely with him on the legislation for royal devolution —”

  “Yes, yes,” snapped Waring impatiently. “We all know who he is. Get on with it, Dennis, for God’s sake. What did he say?”

  “Basically,” Arnold announced grimly, “we’re screwed.”

  “Damn!”

  “There goes damage control,” remarked Hutchens. “Shot to bloody hell.” Taking the top page from his folder, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it across the room.

  “Are you saying,” inquired Patricia Shah, “we have no constitutional recourse?”

  “We ain’t got recourse. We ain’t got squat, Jack,” quipped Hutchens. “The King’s got us by the short and curlies, and he knows it. Who is advising this guy anyway?”

  “The problem seems to be,” Arnold continued, ignoring the press secretary’s outburst, “that, despite having lapsed under the previous monarch, the ministerial meetings remain entirely —”

  “I know what the problem seems to be,” growled Waring. “Bloody Christ! I have to meet with the King, and be seen to meet with the King. He’s got the fawning attention of the whole world, and the next thing they’re going to see is me, hat in hand, bowing and scraping at his front door.” He glared furiously at the ceiling. “I won’t do it, by God. I won’t.”

  “He seems likely to make an issue of it, Tom,” pointed out the Deputy Prime Minister, “if you fail to honor his request.”

  “Let him,” replied Waring. “Let him try, the bastard. We’ll fight him every inch of the way.” The PM glanced at the faces around the table, gauging his support for the fight. He saw Dennis Arnold’s frown, and said, “What now?”

  “At the very least it might provoke a constitutional crisis.”

  Before Waring could reply, the Deputy PM jumped in, “Think about it, Tom. We could easily end up winning the battle and losing the war. I say, why risk it?”

  “Who is advising this guy?” wondered Hutchens again.

  “I don’t see we have any choice,” Arnold said, “but to comply.”

  “We comply,” continued his deputy, “and bide our time. In a few weeks it’ll be over and forgotten.”

  “I won’t forget,” muttered Waring. He hated losing. He hated grinning for the cameras and making lame excuses when things went wrong. Most of all, he hated the monarchy — now more than ever.

  “The King found a loophole,” Angela suggested. “Big deal. It gains him nothing in the end. He’s on his way out.”

  “Then you go shake hands with the son of a bitch,” said Waring. “Damn it!” He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Why didn’t we revoke royal prerogative first?”

  “In hindsight,” agreed Arnold, “perhaps we should have. At the time, you will recall, it wasn’t remotely an issue. Bit of bad luck, is all — hardly fatal.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” murmured the Prime Minister.

  “We’ll just have to make the best of a bad situation,” observed Chancellor Burton. “Take it on the chin. Roll with the punches. I’m sure it will all work out for the best.”

  Unable to stomach any more of Burton’s blithe clichés, Waring stood abruptly. “Meeting adjourned.”

  The Government’s best and brightest rose slowly, closing their notebooks and talking among themselves. “Hutch,” ordered the PM as the Press Secretary shoved back his chair, “I want a draft response to the King’s demand on my desk before lunch. Get on it.”

  “Just a thought,” said Hutchens, moving towards his boss, “on how we go about this.” He slid into the chair next to the PM’s. “What if we don’t say anything — just do as he wants, and not make any fuss. These meetings are supposed to be confidential, right? Well, we just go along — no fanfare, no statements, no photos or film, right? We just turn up, fulfill our obligation, and, wham, it’s over and done. Like Angela said, no big deal.”

  Waring considered the idea. “Downplay it, you mean.”

  “I mean,” said Hutchens, warming to his own plan, “if we go crying and carrying on like it’s the end of the world, everybody’s bound to sit up and take notice. On the other hand, if we keep mum, act like it’s just business as usual, they’ll soon lose interest. No smoke, no fire.”

  “He could be right,” said Arnold, joining them. “If we don’t issue a statement, the papers have nothing to print.”

  Hutchens shrugged. “I figure it’s worth a shot. Either way, we’re no worse off than before.”

  “All right,” agreed the Prime Minister, making up his mind at once. “That’s how we’ll play it. No statement. And” — he pointed his index finger at his Press Secretary — “when the media phone up to ask what response we’re going to make, you tell them quite simply that of course we are planning to comply. We’re His Majesty’s loyal subjects; we wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

&
nbsp; “You got it, PM,” replied Martin Hutchens, smiling at the wonderful duplicity of it. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Waring. “On your way out, tell DeVries to set up the meeting for the day after tomorrow.”

  “so soon?” asked Angela. “Is that wise?”

  “I want to keep the bastard on the hop. He’s going to learn very quickly who’s calling the shots.”

  Twenty-seven

  “Call her,” urged Cal. “What good is it being King of Britain if you can’t call up a girl when you feel like it?”

  “Thanks, Cal,” muttered James. “You’ve certainly put the problem into proper perspective.”

  “Go on. Talk to her.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that it’s because I’m King that I can’t talk to her? It wouldn’t be the same now.”

  Cal stared at him as if he had begun speaking gibberish. “The same as what? It’s Jenny we’re talking about, not Alice in Wonderland. Jenny! Remember?” He shook his head at James’ stubborn reluctance. “Look, if you don’t call her, I will — and I’ll tell her how you’ve got your knickers in a twist over this.”

  “All right,” James conceded. “Point made.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s too late now — I’ll call her in the morning.”

  “In the morning is too late. Call her now.”

  “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I’m meeting with the Prime Minister the day after tomorrow. I’ve got preparations to make. I can’t —”

  “That’s not until the evening.” Cal walked to the phone on the table in the corner of the room, and started dialing. He listened for a moment, and extended the receiver to James. “It’s ringing.”

  James crossed the room in two strides and snatched the phone out of Cal’s hand as a voice answered on the other end. “Hello?”

  “Ah, hello. Is that Agnes?” James said, glaring furiously at Cal, who was moving towards the door.

  “Oh, my heavens!” came the reply. “James — I mean, Your Majesty — how good of you to call.”

  “I know it’s late, Agnes, and I’m sorry for disturbing you like this —”

  “Not at all! We’ve just been watching you on the telly. Just think, you King, and the Prime Minister — coming all the way up here to little Braemar. Whatever next?”