Avalon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Yes, we’re definitely living in strange times,” James replied. “I was wondering if I might speak to Jenny for a moment.”

  Cal smiled. “You can thank me later,” he whispered, closing the door behind him.

  “Is she there, Agnes?” James said.

  “She’s here,” Agnes told him, “and I know she’d love to speak to you. I’ll get her.”

  There was a clunk as Agnes put the phone down, and James heard her calling for Jenny as she moved from the room. He flopped down in a nearby chair, shoving his feet out in front of him.

  “Yes?” The voice on the other end startled him. He sat up.

  “Jenny? Listen, I’m sorry for calling you like this,” he blurted, “but I want to see you. I think we should talk.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “I mean,” he rushed on, “whenever’s convenient. It doesn’t have to be right away. I just thought — the way things are… I mean, I was hoping we could —”

  “I already said okay,” Jenny broke in. “If you think we have something to talk about.”

  He caught the dark undercurrent of her tone, but sailed on. “How about tomorrow? Lunch, say? Thing is, you’ll have to come here. I can’t actually go anywhere just now without causing an international incident.”

  “Tomorrow lunch is fine,” she said, registering neither enthusiasm nor interest at the prospect.

  James hesitated. “Good… um, well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then….” He knew there was something more he should say, but could not think what it might be. “Good night, Jenny.”

  She rang off without saying good-bye, and James sat looking at the phone for a while, wondering why that had gone so badly. What could he have said that would have made a difference?

  She arrived the next day and was conducted straightaway to James’ apartment. He had taken over the old Duke’s rooms on the upper floor — a sitting room, small dining room, and a massive bedroom. The table in the dining room was set for two, and there was chilled white wine on the sideboard.

  “Good to see you, Jenny,” he said, welcoming her in with a circumspect kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.” He helped her from her coat. “I thought we’d eat up here — the dining room is so big and formal and all. Would you like something to drink? I’ve got —” He started towards the sideboard.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be King?” She stood in the center of the room facing him.

  “Well, it all happened pretty fast,” he said lightly. “It wasn’t anything I planned, exactly.”

  “You could have told me at least.”

  “I suppose I should have said something. But, truth is, I didn’t believe it myself at first.”

  He looked at her, uncertain what to say next. God, how I’ve missed her, he thought, drinking in the sight of her.

  “What?” she asked, growing suspicious. “Have I got mud on me?”

  He grinned. Mud was the occupational hazard of a potter, and she was always asking that. But her long brown sleeveless knitted tunic, deep burgundy skirt, and creamy silk blouse were spotless for a change. Fresh from the winter cold outside, she looked radiant.

  “No,” he told her. “You’re perfect.” Her long dark hair was pulled back into a thick braid; a few loose strands at the sides and forehead fell forward, framing her face like the feathers of a raven’s wing. “Better than perfect.”

  He poured two glasses of wine, and handed her one. She took it and sipped, watching him over the rim. He took a sip of wine to steady himself. “Marry me, Jenny,” he said, and watched the fire flare up in her eyes.

  “Marry you!” she snapped. She put her wineglass down with a thump. “Oh, that’s just great! Is this why you wanted to see me?”

  “Really, it just came to me. I wasn’t plan —” he began, but she wasn’t listening.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Jenny demanded. “Am I supposed to go all aflutter and melt into a pool of warm goo because you want to marry me? Oh, yes, Your Royal Highness, of course I’ll marry you! Is that what you think?”

  Her anger took him aback. “Well, I hadn’t actually —”

  “Forgive me if I seem slightly underwhelmed,” she continued. “But I waited years for you, James Stuart. And now this — just when I’ve made up my mind to get on with my life.”

  “You mean the pottery business? I’m not asking you to give up anything. You can still —”

  “You don’t get it, do you? It’s not just the pottery, it’s you, it’s Charles and me — it’s everything!”

  “Do you love this Charles?”

  Livid, she faced him, eyes blazing. “That’s beside the point.”

  “I thought it was the point. Do you love him?”

  “Don’t start,” she warned. Glaring at him, she crossed her arms over her breasts. He could feel the heat of her anger at ten paces.

  “You know, I always thought we would be together. I always thought we were meant for each other, and I thought you felt that way, too. But you decided to be a soldier, and went off and did your soldier bit. Meanwhile, I sat around and waited. I waited for you to come home and do the honorable thing, and when at last you did come home, I watched you get all wrapped up in this damned estate of yours.”

  He stared at her as if at a stranger. “I couldn’t ask you before. I had nothing. Everything depended on saving what I could of the estate — it was all I had to offer you. Don’t you see? If I’d lost that I’d have had nothing.”

  “You think I cared about that?” she said. “I didn’t give a damn about what you had to offer me. It was you I cared about, you idiot! I could have cared less if we lived in a cardboard box beside the highway. I didn’t want your miserable old cottage. I wanted you.”

  “Well,” James said, taking a step closer; he spread his hands towards her. “Now you can have it all.”

  “I don’t want it all!” Unable to look at him any longer, she turned away.

  “Listen to me,” he said, stepping behind her, “I’m sorry. It’s true, I don’t understand what you’re feeling right now. But can’t we sit down and at least try to figure it out?” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I love you, Jenny. I always have. And I need you — now more than ever. I think I have it in me to be a good king; at least I want to try. But I can’t do it without you, Jenny. I need you beside me.”

  He felt her shoulders stiffen under his touch. “Is that why you want to get married all of a sudden?” she demanded, whirling around to face him. “Because you need a queen to help you pull off this pantomime of yours?”

  “No,” James replied quietly, as understanding began to dawn in him at last, “I want you to marry me because you are the most wonderful woman I have ever met, and I would be lost without you.”

  Taking her hand in his, he said, “I want you to marry me because from the first moment I ever laid eyes on you, I knew we were meant to be together forever. I want you to marry me because I am a better person when you are with me. I want you to marry me because I love you, Jenny, and I cannot imagine a future without you in it.”

  Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it, and said, “I have always loved you, Jenny, and I always will.”

  She regarded him doubtfully.

  He kissed her hand again, and sensed her softening towards him. “Will you marry me?”

  “No, not like this,” she replied, withdrawing her hand. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “That’s not what I was hoping to hear.”

  “No? Tough, because that’s what you get.” She turned and picked up her coat. “And that’s a whole lot more than you’ve got coming.” She walked quickly to the door.

  “Don’t go, Jenny. Stay and have lunch at least.”

  She looked back as she stepped through the door. “I can’t.”

  Twenty-eight

  Prime Minister Waring was not at all the grayish, bland drudge so often portrayed by satirists and comedians — a fact which surprised James. He ha
d prepared himself to meet a colorless bureaucrat, and instead found himself face-to-face with a man who had the charismatic presence of a stage celebrity. His compact, spare form was trim, and his manner sharp as the cut of his expensive Savile Row suit. For someone who reputedly did not get out much, the PM appeared extremely fit.

  Waring arrived in a convoy of three large black cars — two of them full of security men — and was accompanied by two aides, one of whom carried the official red dispatch box. He stepped from the car in a glare of camera flashes and TV spotlights.

  As Shona had promised, the assembled media were ready and waiting to capture the historic moment; she even allowed the crews to set up their cameras right outside the front door. James made a show of greeting the Prime Minister on the steps, and welcoming him and his small entourage. They paused for photos and TV footage, and James took a few questions from the assembled journalists before going inside.

  As soon as they were beyond range of the microphones, Waring dropped his neighborly politician mask, becoming businesslike to the point of brusqueness. “Your Highness,” he said, grinding the words out between his teeth as if they were chips of flint. “I would very much appreciate it if we could cut the crap and get this charade over with.”

  “We thought you might be tired from your journey,” James responded. “Would you care for a drink?”

  Waring’s smile was as stiff and nasty as his reply. “No, thank you. I have no wish to prolong this farce a moment longer than necessary. I am needed back in London — I have a country to run.”

  “No rest for the wicked — eh, Prime Minister?” said Cal.

  The skin around Waring’s eyes tightened with intense animosity. “May we begin?”

  “Of course,” James replied, trying to maintain his good humor. “Please, come this way.”

  He led the PM, his two aides, and a handful of security men to the throne room — the old Duke’s trophy room next to the main hall — where Waring promptly commandeered the carved wooden chair at the head of the table, placing his aides on either side. James allowed them to get settled, and then said, “As this is a highly significant occasion, I thought we would invite a few photographers in to capture the moment.”

  Waring opened his mouth to overrule this suggestion, but Shona had already cued the photographers, who trooped in and began snapping away at the PM and his minions sitting alone at the head of the table, like reluctant, dyspeptic honorees at a much-loathed feast.

  “Why don’t we pose before the fireplace?” James suggested, taking his place at the hearth.

  The photographers immediately began snapping away, saying things like, “Brilliant, Your Majesty,” and, “Very tasty, Your Highness.”

  Stone-faced, the PM rose and joined his host, keeping his hands firmly clasped before him so he would not have to be photographed shaking hands with the King. After a few dozen more pictures for the press, Gavin moved the photographers on, and Waring returned to the table.

  “I have asked my personal advisor to join us,” James announced, walking past the table to a grouping of more comfortable chairs. “Perhaps you would like to take a seat, Prime Minister Waring, while I summon him.”

  “It was expected,” Waring said, “that these meetings should be strictly private and confidential.”

  “Confidential, certainly,” James affirmed. “But as you have brought your aides, I see no reason to exclude mine. It won’t take a moment.”

  He stepped to the door and signaled Gavin, who was shooing the press out the castle door. Returning to the comfy chairs, the King chose a chair opposite the PM. Embries, who had been waiting outside, entered and, after a brief encounter with the security men at the door, walked quickly to join the others.

  “Prime Minister,” he said, holding out his hand in welcome, “it is a pleasure to meet you. I have been looking forward to this for a very long time. My name is Embries.”

  The PM shook hands diffidently; something about the tall gentleman seemed familiar. “Enchanted,” he muttered. Then, turning his attention to the business at hand, he said, “If there are no more photo opportunities, or advisors to summon, might we get on with it?” He glanced at his watch.

  “Duty does weigh more heavily on some than others,” Embries replied ambiguously.

  The PM looked at him again — as if trying to decide if this was someone he ought to recognize. Unable to place the face, he turned to James. “You may as well know up front that I deeply resent your intrusion into the affairs of my government. I cannot imagine what you hope to accomplish with whatever game you’re playing at. But you are sadly mistaken if you actually think it will get you anywhere.”

  “You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension, Mr. Waring,” James replied amiably. “It is no game. As I am the King, it is my right to concern myself with matters of State — a right, I might add, which is older than Parliament itself.”

  Waring drew breath to challenge this statement, but James was not finished. “Furthermore,” he said, “you exceed yourself, Prime Minister. Certainly, it is my government which you direct, not your own. In spite of the considerable constitutional changes you have advanced, I would remind you that you serve at the monarch’s behest. When you sit in your cabinet meetings, it is the King you represent. In fact, Mr. Waring, you are my Prime Minister, and hold your office at my pleasure. Therefore, I will meddle with my government to my heart’s content.”

  Waring glared with cold-eyed hatred. “What do you want?” he asked after a moment.

  “Since you ask, I’ll tell you,” James replied. “I want to discuss with you, weekly, your programs, policies, and progress on social reforms which I mean to propose. I want to remain apprised of the legislation you intend to introduce, and which I will be asked to pass into law beneath my signature and seal. I want to know of all ministerial appointments, resignations, and reshuffles before they happen. In short, I want to know precisely how my government is functioning in all its many parts.”

  “Finished?” Waring sneered. “I will tell you what I want, shall I?” His voice was tight and thick with loathing. “I want to see you exposed for the scheming little turd you are. I want to see you, and all the clapped-out aristocrats like you, consigned to a well-deserved oblivion, and your self-serving system of inherited privilege eradicated forever. In short, I want to see you, and everything you stand for, destroyed utterly and completely.”

  James eyed his visitor dispassionately — resisting the powerful urge to smack Waring’s smug face with his first. “Inherited privilege, did you say? Since you raise the issue, let us see what I have inherited, shall we?”

  “Must we?” Animosity streamed from Waring like a volatile vapor.

  Ignoring the gibe, James said, “On his succession a king in an earlier time would have become the head of the Church of England, but not anymore. Under the Acts of Dissolution, the first referendum not only separated the Church from the State but from the monarchy as well, so I inherit nothing of ecclesiastical authority.

  “The second referendum dissolved the Commonwealth, thereby removing the monarch as titular head of Britain’s former colonies and protectorates. In short, I do not even get my picture on so much as a two-penny stamp. The third referendum dissolved the House of Lords, and revoked all hereditary titles, replacing them with a life-peerage system which will ensure that no one beyond the present generation passes on the legacy of nobility.”

  Waring listened to the account of his multipart scheme to dismantle and abolish the monarchy as if mentally ticking off items on a checklist to see if James left out anything.

  “Referendum number four licensed the government appropriation of all royal lands, nationalized the royal residences, and extended punitive back-tax liability to the royal family. The royal art collections, libraries, and furnishings of the stately homes and palaces have been nationalized and all items of value placed in trust for the British people.”

  “And not before time, too,” Waring said. “It shou
ld have been done long ago, but no one had the guts to do it.”

  “As sovereign of Britain,” James continued, “I inherited no residences, no art collections, no priceless treasures of any description, no limousines, no cars or carriages, no horses, no royal yacht. I have no royal retinue — no chamberlains, no equerries, stewards, dressers, yeomen, footmen, coachmen, pages, gentlemen-at-arms, or lords-in-waiting. I have received nothing from the public purse, or at the public’s expense.

  “In fact, if you care to look around you, Mr. Waring, you will see the total of my inheritance. I have this house, this estate, and that is all. After the death duties have been paid, it is doubtful I shall even have this. In the meantime, I pay for the upkeep of the house and staff myself. There is no civil list, and no British taxpayer has been asked to stump up a penny for me. I am not complaining — indeed, I prefer it this way. I don’t think anyone should be owned by his possessions, Mr. Waring, not even monarchs.

  “As for privilege — well, let us say I had the privilege of attending the woefully underfunded local comprehensive school; nevertheless, I had the privilege of encountering some dedicated and overworked teachers and was fortunate to go on to university at Dundee — not Oxford or Cambridge. After graduation, I had the privilege of serving my country in the armed forces — where I was further accorded the privilege of two tours of duty in Afghanistan, one in Kazakhstan, and one in the Sudan. For the past several years I have been privileged to scrape a living as foreman of this estate. In a very good year, I might realistically hope to clear sixteen thousand pounds, out of which I could expect to pay five thousand or so in taxes of various sorts. While becoming King has multiplied my expenses astronomically, it has not increased my income appreciably.

  “So now, I ask you, Mr. Waring: which part of my upbringing speaks of privilege to you?”

  The Prime Minister stared dully ahead, but offered no reply.

  “Put another way, Mr. Waring,” James said, “if my life is in any way an example of the inherited privilege you hope to stamp out, then God help us all.