Avalon (14 page)

“King of Britain,” Collins repeated, growing enthusiastic again. “I know it has presented something of a shock to you. Yet, it is not so far-fetched as it sounds. The Duke of Morven is, after all, one of several legitimate claimants to the throne. There is not, nor has there ever been, any question about that whatsoever.”

“
I
never heard of it.” James glared from one to the other, unable to accept what they were telling him.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Collins said, leaping back to his much-abused brown bag. “The problem, from a Scottish point of view, is simply that the Stuart line chose to back the wrong church. They persisted in remaining Catholics when Britain demanded Protestants. Catholic James the Second had been chased to France — unofficially deposed, if you like — and his daughter Mary had taken the throne jointly with her Protestant husband, William the Third. They had the bad luck to die without issue, thereby passing the crown to Mary’s sister, Anne.” He paused and licked his lips. “Are you getting this?”

“It’s mother’s milk to a Scotsman,” muttered Cal, repossessing his voice at last. “Tell us something we
don’t
know.”

“Anne was a pleasant enough woman,” Collins continued, “what with her card playing and tea parties; unfortunately, she was also a supremely unlucky mother. One would have thought that giving birth to thirteen babies would have secured the hereditary line for generations to come. Poor Anne, however, outlived every one of her children. With no heirs in the offing, so to speak, Parliament became nervous and took matters into its own bungling, incompetent hands.”

There followed a lengthy lecture on the more obscure points of peerage law, some of which James followed, most of which he allowed to wash over him. After a while, the words all ran together to form a mucky soup, made all the more incomprehensible by the blizzard of paper which accompanied the lecture.

Collins produced page after page, file after file, one scribbled note after another, citing obscure and recondite references, while James’ eyes slowly glazed over. The learned monarchist talked about the Treaty of Union 1706 which joined Scotland and England, and the Act of Settlement which prohibited Catholics from ever taking the throne in Britain again. “You’re not a Catholic, are you, Mr. Stuart?” the man from the Royal Heritage Preservation Society asked, and James was sorely tempted to say yes, just to end the deluge of historical facts and oddities of chance and the manifold caprices of Parliament.

They heard about the Old Pretender and the Young Pretender; they heard about Sophia, Electress of Hanover, and her overbearing son George I, who fought Parliament tooth and nail, openly despised the British, refused to learn more than a few words of English, and visited the country only when absolutely necessary. For a time, James imagined he was back in grammar school once more, poring over a turgid textbook in Mrs. Arbuckle’s class, reciting the names of long-dead kings and queens, trying to keep them all straight.

Collins told them about papist plots and deathbed confessions — and more than a little about amorous liaisons, and the inevitable proliferation of royal bastards; he spoke of Anglicans and recusants, Royalists and Republicans, Roundheads and Cavaliers, and Hanoverians and Stuarts and Windsors and Tudors and Lancastrians and Yorkists.

Eventually, James grew numb; it was all the stuff of musty old history books, and nothing he heard made him think it had anything to do with him. When he had heard enough, he stood. Weary and hungry, his head ached, his feet hurt, and he wanted to go home.

“Come on, Cal. Let’s get out of here,” James said, rising abruptly.

Collins, who had been soaring high in seventh heaven, came to a juddering halt. “We haven’t covered the unresolved question of female primogeniture yet,” he said, blinking at his unwilling audience.

“You’ll have to cover it without us, I’m afraid,” said James. “We’re going home.” Cal had his jacket on and was opening the door.

Embries rose, too. “Very well, then. We will leave it there for the time being. It is a tremendous amount of material to get through in one sitting. We can continue our discussions tomorrow.”

“
You
continue them tomorrow,” James told him. “Cal and I will be on a train heading north.”

Embries gazed at James with some dismay. “Don’t give up, James. Give it a chance to sink in properly.”

“I’m not giving up,” James replied sharply. “I’m leaving. I’ve had enough. I’m going home, that’s all. Mr. Collins” — he put out his hand to the historian who was wearing the expression of a puppy unfairly disciplined — “I thank you for a highly entertaining afternoon.”

Rhys dropped them off at Kenzie House, and Embries repeated his admonition for James to give himself a chance to let things sink in. “Have a drink and relax. You’ve had a trying day. We will pick you up tomorrow morning.”

James bade them good night, and walked quickly to the door. Once inside, he went straight to his room and dialed Jenny’s number from the phone beside the bed.

It rang a few times, and a woman answered; she was laughing and saying something to someone else as she picked up the receiver, so James couldn’t tell at first who it might be. “Hello,” he said, “could I speak to Jenny, please?”

“James? Is that you?” The warmth of her voice, even over the phone, comforted him. “You sound terrible. What’s happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just been one of those days.” He took a deep breath, and felt the knots begin to unwind a little. “You wouldn’t believe the half of it.”

“Where are you?”

“London. Cal is with me. It looks like we’re going to be another day or so, at least.”

“I see,” she replied; her tone implied she hadn’t the slightest idea why he had called. “Well, you two have fun.” She paused. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Sure. I’m fine.”

“Thanks for calling,” she said. “I’d love to talk, but I’ve got someone here, so I’d better run. Bye.”

After he hung up, James sat staring at the phone for a time, considering whether to ring her back or not. He picked up the receiver and dialed the train station instead.

Next, he went downstairs to the lounge where Cal was fixing drinks with Isobel. “Hi, James,” she called, jumping up, ravishing in a tight red tunic top and black slacks. “Gosh, you look like a guy who could use one of these.” She handed him a glass of dark red wine.

He accepted the glass, but did not drink.

“Are you okay, James?” Cal asked. “You look all in.”

“We’re leaving, Cal,” James said quietly. “Get your things.”

“What about dinner?” Isobel said. “I’ve got a roast gammon in the oven, and a wonderful chocolate soufflé for dessert.”

“Uh… maybe another time,” Cal told her reluctantly. “Something’s come up.”

James returned to his room, rang for a taxi, threw his few things into his bag, then went back downstairs to wait. Cal joined him a few moments later, with Isobel in tow. “Please, thank your mother and father for us,” he said. “Whatever we owe you for rooms and meals, I’d be much obliged if you’d send a bill.”

“Don’t be silly,” Isobel scolded nicely. “They’ll be sorry to have missed you.” She was disappointed, James could tell, but was putting a brave face on it. “No doubt we’ll see you next time you’re in London.”

“Don’t forget about the Christmas trip,” Cal said. “I’ll call you.”

The taxi honked outside; James said good-bye and Isobel kissed Cal on the cheek. “Travel safely,” she said as they stepped out the door.

So, now, here they were, driving home early Sunday morning. The sun came up as they came around the Spittal of Glenshee, and it occurred to James that, if Embries was to be believed, somewhere on this stretch of road his father, the Marquess, had met his death. As the highway rose to meet Cairnwell Hill and the ski lifts, James found himself wondering where the crash had taken place.

The road turned sharply and began the steep climb to the pass known as Devil’s Elbow — a long, straight haul to the top of the Morven hills. Once through the gap, they passed the Ardblair Ski Centre & Resort, and started down into Glen Clunie where the highway merged with the old military road leading down into Braemar.

Typically, for a Sunday morning, the streets were deserted. James paused before the stoplight at the town’s main intersection. Driven by both summer and winter tourism, little Braemar had expanded mightily in the last few years. The town now had a swank, executive apartment complex, a new police station, and a three-way stoplight — not to mention a solicitor’s office.

James yawned, and rubbed his eyes, thinking how good it would feel to crawl into bed in a few minutes’ time. But even as he sat waiting for the light to change, the clouds parted and a shaft of morning sunlight struck the steeple of the church up the street, causing the painted cross on the pinnacle to gleam and flare with a golden burst of light. It seemed a sign from Heaven. All thoughts of sleep vanished. James glanced at his watch; it was just after nine o’clock. He could still make the service if he hurried.

The cargo jet taxied slowly across the rain-wet tarmac before coming to a halt in front of the waiting vehicles: three limousines and a Rolls-Royce hearse. Prime Minister Thomas Waring stood holding an umbrella over his head, wincing at the sound of the jet engines and squinting in the glare of the overbright lights on a dull, windswept morning. Only five television crews had been allowed to record the arrival of the King’s coffin.

Behind the PM stood a small sampling of civil servants, dignitaries, and grandees whose presence had been particularly requested. In a roped-off section a few dozen yards away were a few of Teddy’s long-suffering friends and relatives. All were there to observe protocol — that is, to be seen observing protocol so that the Opposition could not manufacture any political ammunition out of the slightest perceived lapse on the part of the Government.

Waring was cold and wanted nothing more than to be done with the play-acting. But he knew the importance of presentation, and here he was presenting the image of a stalwart yet sensitive leader. He could sympathize; he could feel — oh yes, he was not afraid to be seen feeling — but what kind of leader would he be if he allowed personal sentiment to thwart a greater public good? What kind of weak, vacillating pilot would he be if he allowed the ship of state to flounder in the first stiff waves encountered? Rough water or no, he would guide the nation through the storm. Britain was in safe hands.

More and more, he felt he needed to project this very image. After all, Thomas Waring had not risen to the top of the political heap on the strength of personal charisma and ruthless calculation alone; he also had a built-in barometer of such supreme sensitivity that he could detect mood swings, media reactions, and opposition storms while they were still just clouds on the political horizon. Indeed, he had correctly predicted the outcome of no fewer than thirty-nine of the last forty-five public opinion polls on schemes floated by his government.

Waring’s early-warning system had allowed him and his government to weather every political cyclone so far, and he trusted it far more than he did any member of his staff. Now, in the wake of the King’s suicide, it told him that there was heavy weather on the way, and he was determined to divert it if at all possible.

So he stood with his umbrella, buffeted by the wind and rain, staring stolidly ahead as the great bronze coffin emerged from the hold of the plane. There was no military band, no fanfare to welcome the dead monarch home. Waring wanted as little ceremony as possible.

And then Waring saw the huge, handsome coffin, gleaming in the TV lights. “Good God,” he muttered, “where did they get that?”

“The Portuguese would not allow him to be shipped in the military casket we sent,” explained Dennis Arnold, known to the media as Waring’s stooge, attack dog, nursemaid, or intimate confidant — depending on one’s perspective. “The Ambassador was afraid people would think
he
chose the casket. He complained that it made his country look cheap.”

“This one makes the dead bastard look like Napoleon, for Chrissakes,” fumed Waring under his breath. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“There wasn’t time. They sprang the substitute at the last minute. President Rulevo personally arranged for something more suitable.”

“Remind me to
thank
Rulevo when all this is over,” grumbled Waring through his teeth, “personally.”

The hydraulic platform lowered the coffin to the ground, where it was met by a phalanx of ten soldiers wearing long black raincoats over their uniforms — another Waring touch. He did not want the sight of a military uniforms to awaken any latent sympathy in the populace. They were soldiers, but they looked more like ordinary undertakers’ assistants. Protocol observed… image carefully manipulated.

The soldiers muscled the heavy coffin from the platform and proceeded slowly towards the waiting hearse. From the open door of the aircraft, the figures of three passengers emerged at the top of the gangway. One was an underling of the British Ambassador, Waring knew, and the other an official of the Portuguese government. The third, however, was a woman dressed in black, her face hidden beneath a black lace veil. The Prime Minister saw her start down the steps and muttered under his breath, “Who the hell is that?”

Dennis Arnold shrugged, and pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “Damned if I know,” he said. “She’s not on the passenger list. Maybe she’s with the Ambassador’s party.”

“What party?” Waring demanded sourly. “There wasn’t supposed to
be
any party.”

They watched as the woman reached the bottom of the gangway and stood beside the two officials as the casket was loaded into the back of the hearse. As soon as the rear door closed and the soldiers backed away, the woman turned and started towards the Prime Minister and his colleagues.

“You don’t suppose she’s Teddy’s mistress, do you?”

As she drew closer, Waring recognized the shapely curves ill-concealed beneath the tight black skirt and short jacket. “My God, what’s she doing here?”