“Not by a long shot,” Rippon declared with a flat chop of his hand. “I’m here to tell you it’s a snake pit — worse than that even. Most reptiles only strike in self-defense, but our variety bite for the sheer joy of inflicting pain. And the parishioners are almost as bad.” He paused, shaking his head, then said, “I love it. God knows I do.”
“You surprise me, Archbishop,” replied James, warming to the man by the moment.
“The much-trumpeted cut and thrust of party politics is mere child’s play compared to Church House administration. Believe me, most senior career politicians wouldn’t last a general synod.” He smiled with sudden animation. “It’s war, but without the blood and bombs. When I was a lad in Berkshire, I used to dream of one day commanding a fighting ship on the high seas. God certainly has a wicked sense of humor, because my ambition has been fulfilled in spades. The only difference between an archbishop and an admiral is that an admiral in the Royal Navy doesn’t have to engage in daily hand-to-hand combat with his own shipmates.”
James laughed at the thought of bishops tussling in their cassocks.
“I would have been wasted in the navy,” Archbishop Rippon continued. “Too docile, too pedestrian. Give me a laity missions conference any day.”
“The Admiralty’s loss is definitely the Church’s gain, I’d say,” James observed sincerely.
They arrived at the end of the aisle. The churchman stopped and turned to James, serious once more. “I said I was afraid just now,” he confided. “You see, Your Majesty, disappointment is something I’ve never taken very well.”
“You’re afraid of being disappointed by me, is that it?”
“Let us say I am afraid of hoping too much.” Addressing James squarely, he came at last to the heart of his concern. “It comes down to this: are you the man you say you are?”
“Contrary to what many seem to think,” James replied, “I did not ask to be King of Britain; it was not something I chased or coveted for myself. But it is something I believe in; and the more I see the need in this country, the more deeply I am convinced of the urgent, aching necessity for someone who stands above and beyond the continual, corrosive powermongering and compromising that is modern government.” He smiled. “Archbishop Rippon, I am that man.”
The Archbishop’s grin was wide and genuine. His clear blue eyes grew moist with emotion. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket. “It seems I grew up with the now-unfashionable notion that Britain was great because it was a nation that believed deeply in the sacred and reverenced the divine. That our little island held a special place in God’s heart because Britain held fast to the twin pillars of nationhood — the church and the monarchy — when the spiritual storms of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment raged through Europe and blew the rest away. To this day, I believe Britain endured and survived with our culture and heritage intact because our ancestors refused to sacrifice sovereignty to the gods of humanism and materialism.
“But now,” the Archbishop continued, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, “now the enemy seeks not just to replace the faith of the nation with a different faith, or many faiths, but to destroy faith completely. To accomplish this, the enemy attacks both the monarchy and the Church, ruthlessly, relentlessly, dismantling them piece by piece.”
Turning to James, he put out his hand in a gesture of appeal. “Alone, we’re finished, you and I. Together, we have a chance. What do you say, Your Majesty?” He smiled mischievously. “We may not win the battle, but we can sure give the devil a hell of a fight.”
“Archbishop Rippon,” James replied, “I’ve never dodged a fight in my life. You can count on me.”
Peter Rippon reached out and took the King’s hand in his own. “God bless you, Your Majesty. I will pray for you.”
“Thank you, Archbishop. I can use all the help I can get.”
“What is more,” added Rippon, “I will put feet to my prayers and do what I can to mobilize the Church in support of the monarchy. It may be that, come referendum day, we will have our own small part to play.”
“I would very much appreciate it,” James told him.
Then, taking hold of the cross which hung on the chain around his neck, the Archbishop raised it before the King, and said, “May the God who has called you bless you richly and prosper you in all things. And may He grant you the gifts of grace and wisdom to perform aright the duties which belong to the grave and sacred trust you have undertaken. And may the Lord of Peace, who raised our Lord Jesus from the dead so that we might know salvation, give you vision, courage, love, and strength to do His will. And may the blessing of the Almighty Creator be upon you and remain with you always. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed James, his head bowed to receive the blessing. He thanked Rippon and, after promising to keep in touch regardless of the referendum’s outcome, rejoined Rhys at the door. Then, braving the crush of reporters, he dived into the back of the black Jaguar and drove on to Cardiff.
Forty-three
The next six days passed for James and his entourage in a dizzying swirl of meetings, addresses, assemblies, convocations, confrontations, and gatherings both formal and informal. In the end, there wasn’t a county from Land’s End to John o’ Groats that had not been invaded by the King and his rolling media circus. When, on the day before the referendum, he finally turned and headed north once more it was with the knowledge that he had done all that was humanly possible to get his message heard by the nation’s voters. By dint of tireless barnstorming, he had made direct contact with more of the country’s population than had the last five British monarchs combined, and his winsome personality had been displayed to stunning effect.
Whether the effort had been enough to sway the undecided masses was anyone’s guess. Most of the reputable polls maintained that it was too close to call. Shona and Gavin’s unofficial reading indicated more or less the same thing. James had given it his very best, and now it was up to the people to decide.
He arrived in Braemar just before noon, and went directly to Blair Morven, where Jenny was waiting. Shona and Gavin, who had joined the King in London the week before, fended off the reporters, while James went in for a well-deserved rest. He and Jenny settled down to the first peaceful, uninterrupted lunch the King had enjoyed since his campaign blitz began. In almost two weeks he had not taken a bite or had a drink in private, and the thought of a quiet meal with his beloved had become an obsession.
The moment he closed the door and Jenny came into his arms to welcome him home, however, all thoughts of food and drink evaporated in the heat of her passionate embrace. Instead, James found himself whispering, “Let’s get married.”
“Of course, my love. Set a date, and I’ll meet you at the church.” She kissed him. “Anytime.”
“How about right now?”
“Now?” She laughed. “Now you want to make an honest woman of me?”
“I mean it,” he insisted. “Right now. Today. This minute.”
“James,” she said, pushing back as his arms drew her tight, “we can’t possibly. It would take a month to plan at least, and then there’s —”
“We don’t have to plan a thing. We could run away. We could elope.”
“We can’t run away. You’re the King of Britain.”
“I am now, but by this time tomorrow, who knows? Jenny” — he took her hands in his — “look at me. Tomorrow is the referendum, and I have no idea how the vote will go. But whether I am King or not the day after tomorrow, I know I want to wake up next to you.” He kissed her and rested his forehead against hers. “Marry me. Now. Tonight.”
She stared at him, slowly shaking her head from side to side. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. But you — you’re serious about this.”
“I can’t do it anymore without you, Jen. I need you beside me.”
She swallowed. “You could give a girl a little notice.”
“Does that mean yes?”
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She nodded.
James gathered her in his arms and kissed her. “We’ll ring up Reverend Orr, and get him to come over and perform the ceremony right here. It won’t be the first wedding to take place in the castle. We can have —”
“Hold it right there, boyo,” Jenny said bluntly. “I’m having a proper church wedding and honeymoon, or nothing doing.” Taking him by the hand, she led him to the table and sat him down. “Have a sandwich and collect yourself. I’ve got a wedding to plan.”
She swept from the room and, as James took a bite of his ham sandwich, he heard her in the corridor beyond, calling for Shona to get her mother on the phone.
Strings were pulled, mountains moved, and favors called in — Archbishop Rippon cheerfully granted a Special License for the wedding, and the Banchory florist contributed her entire stock of cut flowers — and by six o’clock that evening, everything was ready. Despite the fiendishly short notice, there was standing room only in the church. The Glen Dee grapevine had performed its usual service — every seat in every pew was full, and the back of the church packed with friends, relations, and well-wishers. The sanctuary was lit entirely by candles, which imparted a cozy glow and also served to hide the lack of decoration; nevertheless, James thought the little church had rarely looked lovelier. Reverend Orr was in fine fettle as he began the service.
Taking his place at the front of the church, James, splendid in his dress kilt — complete with a genuine badger-skin sporran, and his father’s dagger tucked into the top of one tall sock for good luck — waited nervously through the organ prelude. And then, there she was, standing in the center of the aisle, his bride, looking radiant and lovely in the candlelight. Two of her workers from the pottery joined her as bridesmaids and, at their appearance, the “Wedding March” commenced.
James gazed with pleasure at Jenny’s lovely face, so calm and composed, feminine and beautiful, her blue eyes shining with love and delight as she walked down the aisle. She paused to allow her father to step beside her and take her arm. Instantly, James was put in mind of his parents, and how much his mother would have loved to have seen Jennifer come down the aisle, gorgeous in her snow-white froth of lace and satin. He had no idea how or where she had found the dress, but he knew his father would have been proud to have welcomed such a beautiful daughter-in-law into the family. He thought about his and Jenny’s future together, and wondered what kind of future it would be.
He became so engrossed in his thoughts that the next thing James knew, Reverend Orr was leading them in their vows. He heard himself saying “I do,” and the preacher asking for the ring; he fumbled in his jacket pocket before Calum, his best man, placed it squarely in his hand. Next came the stirring pronouncement of “man and wife” and a thundering swell of organ music. The happy couple kissed, and the congregation erupted in wild applause. Most of Braemar, James realized, had probably been anticipating this particular wedding for years, and the long-suffering townsfolk were relieved to see it accomplished at last.
Embries and Gavin, working with Agnes and Owen, had laid on a slap-up reception at the Invercauld Arms Hotel just around the corner from the church. The ballroom was festooned with appropriate splendor, and the meal a genuine highland feast. There was music and dancing — Douglas, swiftly pressed into duty, had arranged for the Deeside Drifters to play — and champagne, silly speeches, and round after round of wedding toasts to the new couple.
Most of the town was there, which made it good fun. After so many days on the road, James relished the easy conviviality of the reception, and almost felt it a shame when at last the time came for the newlywed couple to leave. But leave they did, or else they would have had no honeymoon at all.
With Cal and Douglas’ help, they enacted a simple ruse to draw the ever-present paparazzi away. Dougie and some of the band members had decorated Embries’ Jaguar — filling it with balloons and tying crepe streamers to the rear bumper and door handles. At the prearranged signal, the car pulled up to the hotel entrance. There was a sudden flourish at the door, as people rushed out throwing confetti and shouting as the black car sped away; the newshounds gave chase, and in the confusion, no one noticed the battered blue Land Rover quietly leaving from the back of the hotel.
The couple drove out onto the Pitlochry road and headed for the Spittal of Glenshee, where Cal had booked them the bridal suite at Dalmunzie House. The night was cold and clear, with only a few broken clouds passing over the bright starfield. Once away from the town, the snow-covered tops of the hills glowed ghostly white in the dark. The road was deserted and fairly dry, with only a few patches of rough ice along the shoulders and center line.
They came into Glen Clunie and started up the long rise towards the Cairnwell Ski Center. They could see the glittering lights of the ski lodge at the top of the hill, and Jenny said she thought it looked like the night skiing crowd was having a bash. Yet, when they reached the ski center, the parking lot was virtually empty; the restaurant was dark, and the only interior light they saw came from the pub.
“The chairlifts must be out of commission,” remarked James as they drove past. “That’s a tough break. The snow looks perfect.”
They crested the hill and started the steep descent into Glen Beag. The patchy clouds had parted enough to let a bright crescent moon spread a pale sheen of silver on the ice and snow. The road narrowed as it coursed down the shoulder of the mountain, bounded by a steep rock bank to the right, and an abruptly angled drop into total darkness to the left. A low ridge of dirty snow left by the plow marked the edge of the highway.
Approaching the treacherous switchback turn of the Devil’s Elbow, the skin on the back of James’ neck began to twitch. An instant later, Jenny cried, “James! Look! There’s someone down there.”
James was already slowing the Land Rover as, just beyond the beam of the headlights, he glimpsed movement at the side of the road: a figure was toiling up the steep slope.
He slammed on the brakes and pulled over sharply as a woman staggered onto the highway. Dressed in a long, dark coat, she hastened towards them, hands outstretched, her face white in the headlights, half running, half limping; her mouth was open, and she was calling to them.
James threw open the door and started towards her, with Jenny a step behind.
“Help me!” wailed the woman hysterically. “My boyfriend! My boyfriend’s down there. Help me! He’s hurt! Please!”
“What’s happened?” asked James, running to meet her.
“He’s dying!” the young woman shrieked. She was bleeding from a split lip and from a small cut above her eye. “You’ve got to help me save him.”
“We’ll help you,” said Jenny, trying to calm her. “Tell us what’s happened.”
Stepping quickly to the side of the road, James looked over the edge into the ravine below. There was a car near the bottom of the deep gorge; the lights were still on, bathing a narrow slice of the rocky hillside and the black, ice-bordered stream in pale yellow light.
“She’s gone off the road,” said James. “Take her to the ski lodge and call an ambulance.”
“No!” said the woman, clutching wildly at James. “There’s no time. I have to save my boyfriend! Both of you — this way! Hurry!” She turned and fled back down the slope.
Jenny made to follow, but James held her back. “I’ll go down. You go to the lodge and call for help.”
“I’ve got my mobile in my purse,” said Jenny, already darting away.
“There are flares in the box under the rear seat,” he called after her, then turned and started down into the ravine after the woman.
The snow was not deep and served merely to disguise the rocks as James stumbled and slid down the sharp, boulder-strewn slope. It was darker in the shadow of the hillside, and James could barely make out the woman as the flitted down the slope ahead of him, heedless of the ice-slick rocks. “She’ll break her neck,” he murmured, and called for her to take it easy.
As far as he coul
d tell, the car had come off the highway at the turn and plowed straight down the incline. From what he could see in the darkness, the vehicle was on its side at the base of a huge boulder that was perched above the stream a short distance below.
Sliding and sprawling, his dress shoes slipping with every skidding step, James plunged down the sheer slope of the ravine, bashing knees and hands against the half-covered stones. His short jacket split at the seams, and his kilt flew around his legs as he stumbled on. The young woman, with an agility born of desperation, fairly flew over the craggy terrain, reaching the car well ahead of him.
“Hurry!” she screamed, floundering, falling, picking herself up and dashing on.
James, the fiosachd tingling and squirming, followed, trying to discern the nature of the warning he was receiving. And then, as he drew near the car, he smelled it: gasoline.
The car’s petrol tank had ruptured, spilling fuel down the hillside. One spark and the car would explode, taking everyone with it.
“Wait!” he shouted. “Stop right where you are!”
Heedless of the danger, the young woman ran on, disappearing around the side of the overturned car. James caught up with her a few seconds later as, standing on a nearby rock, she tried to pry open the caved-in rear door with her fingers.
The stink of petrol fumes was almost overwhelming. No sound came from inside the car.
“Calm down, now,” James said softly. He came to where she was standing and took her arm. “You’d better let me do that.”
He helped her down from her slippery perch, and moved her aside, saying, “The petrol tank is leaking. We’ve got to be very careful, or we’re in for a nasty surprise.” He held her hands, speaking slowly and earnestly. “Now, you just stand here, and let me have a look inside. All right?”
He made to step away, but she clutched at him, holding him back. “Don’t leave me!”
“I’m not going to leave you,” James assured her, gently removing her hands. “I’m just going over here and see if I can get your boyfriend out of the car. All right? Now you stay right here.”
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