Avalon (2 page)

Of course, every child entertains similar thoughts of grandeur. Growing up, however, dulls the secret insistence; life’s harsher lessons teach us we are
not
so special after all. Sooner or later, we arrive at the cold realization that we will never be the first astronaut to set foot on Mars; we will not be the doctor whose miracle cure rids the world of cancer; we will not win fame and fortune and the eternal adoration of the masses through the wondrous artistry of our writing, singing, or acting.

Despite this — despite
all
evidence to the contrary — James never outgrew his belief that something amazing would happen to him one day. Although he did come to understand the natural limitations of circumstance, and the extreme randomness of opportunity, deep in his inmost being the belief in his own particular destiny doggedly persisted. Like the
fiosachd
, he was born with it, and it never deserted him. He had always known his life would end in one of two ways: triumph or tragedy. One or the other, but nothing less.

This produced a curious bravado. Once, when as a freshly commissioned officer with the UN peacekeeping force in Afghanistan, Captain Stuart was leading his small company of men down one of the many shattered streets of Kabul, the
fiosachd
began jangling like crazy. He recognized this as its usual manifestation — a sharp tingling or squirming sensation on the back of his neck or down between his shoulder blades — and by it he knew, as the company approached a deserted intersection, that they would be ambushed by snipers. The flesh between his shoulder blades began twitching, and in his mind’s eye he saw, as if in the very room with them, six black-turbaned rebels crouching at the windows of a bombed-out apartment block across the street.

He halted the company, chose two men to help him reconnoiter, and the three of them circled around and came into the building from the back. They climbed three floors up a mangled fire escape and crept down a blackened hallway to the room where James knew he would find the rebels. Without the slightest hesitation, he put his hand to the doorknob, pushed open the door, and strode into the room, demanding their surrender.

The six snipers were so surprised, they threw down their rifles and gave themselves up without protest. James’ men were likewise amazed; afterwards they made out that he was the fearless hero — a latter-day John Wayne beating back a war party of bloodthirsty Apaches with bare hands and a rifle butt. He won a commendation for saving the lives of a dozen men that day and capturing a valuable rebel cell without firing a shot.

He was also given a citation for valor — a fine gesture but one James felt superfluous. Although, as a career officer, he recognized the tremendous risk — of all the possible outcomes of such an action, the one actually resulting was the least likely — he knew in his bones it was not courage that had sustained him but simple conviction: he knew what lay behind the door and, just as surely, he knew his life would not end in that room.

Even James — who understood better than anyone else the peculiarities of his special gift — accepted the extreme improbability of his childhood intimations of greatness ever coming to fruition. After all, it is one thing to pretend oneself a prince or a pirate; but who, in all sanity, could imagine — much less orchestrate — the extraordinary interplay of incident and accident, chance and serendipity, as well as the immense complexity of enterprise needed to make such a pretense possible in reality?

That this dream should become solid waking reality seemed no less incredible to James than it would have to anyone else. Although he experienced it daily, he did not pretend to fathom it. If pressed for an explanation, he would only shake his head and say that there were forces in this universe which even the most gifted among us apprehend but dimly… and the rest of us not at all.

Privately, however, deep in his secret heart, he thought that if there
was
a higher power at work in the world, shaping men to its purpose, then might we not apprehend it in action from time to time? And if so, might not that action look suspiciously like destiny?

Like everyone else in Britain, James learned of the King’s death from television. It was a cold Thursday night in November, and he was at the Pipe & Drum with Calum and Douglas, watching Hearts in action against Celtic on big-screen TV. Aberdeen was down by one and mounting an attack in the closing seconds of the first half when the picture blanked and a Stand By sign flashed on.

“Hey!” shouted Cal — and half the pub with him. “Bring back the football!”

While the pub crowd was moaning about the interruption, the face of newsreader Jonathan Trent suddenly appeared. “We interrupt this broadcast,” he said, “to bring you a special news bulletin.”

“Turn it up!” shouted someone from the back.

“Shut up, and you’ll hear it!”

“Listen!” hissed the crowd.

“The King is dead,” intoned Jonathan Trent. “I repeat: Edward the Ninth, King of England, is dead. Turning to our correspondent, Kevin Clark, on the Portuguese island of Madeira, we bring you this report.”

The announcement sent a rumble through the room. “Well, I’ll be… Did you hear that?” asked Calum.

“I can’t hear a thing,” James complained.

Instantly, the scene changed to a fresh-faced Kevin Clark, holding a microphone and pressing his left palm against his ear. He was standing in front of a large, modern-looking building in the dark, and he was saying, “I am here outside the Hospital Assunção, the medical facility where the body of the King was taken earlier this evening — about eight o’clock unofficially — by ambulance from his villa in Funchal. Initial reports, yet to be confirmed, indicate that the King suffered gunshot wounds and was pronounced dead on arrival in the trauma room.”

“I’ll be…“ whispered Douglas. “The old bastard really is dead.”

“It is not known at this hour,” continued the foreign correspondent, “the circumstances surrounding the incident. I am told the Portuguese authorities have mounted a preliminary investigation, and we expect to be issued a report within the hour.”

The scene switched back to Jonathan Trent in the London studio. “Thank you, Kevin. Can you tell us the reaction of the British Consul in Madeira?”

“I can indeed, Jonathan,” replied Kevin with suitable gravity. “The consulate staff is, of course, well aware of the implications of this tragic event, and are extending their full cooperation to the authorities to aid in the investigation. I have been told that the Consul has been in contact with Number Ten, and that a statement will be issued by the Prime Minister. We have not been privy to the —”

“I’ll have to stop you there, Kevin,” said Jonathan Trent, breaking in, “but it looks like that statement is about to be made. We go now to Ronald Metcalf at Number Ten Downing Street.”

The screen changed to a man in a trench coat with his collar up, standing hunch-shouldered outside a rain-streaked Georgian town house. Television lights lit up the night, glaring off the familiar black-enameled door. Policemen formed a cordon behind the press and television reporters, all of whom were jostling for better position.

“We have just received word that the Prime Minister is about to make a statement,” Ronald Metcalf informed the viewers.

“Tell us something we don’t bloody know already!” shouted someone from the back of the pub — who was in turn shouted down by those around him.

James found himself leaning forward to hear what was being said.

“It could be any moment…. We are waiting for… there — it looks as if the Prime Minister is coming out now.”

The picture shifted to the front entrance as the shiny black door opened and Prime Minister Thomas Waring emerged, looking distinctly grave and concerned, his compact, athletic form severe in a close-tailored black suit and deep blue tie. Accompanied by a swarm of aides, one of whom held an umbrella over his boss’s head, the Prime Minister paused to allow the pressmen a photo opportunity. Then, disdaining the offered umbrella, he braved the drizzle and walked quickly towards the bank of microphones to the staccato click of camera shutters and the strobelike bursts of their flashes.

Stepping before the massed mikes, he looked at the paper in his hand, waiting for the buzz to quiet down. When he sensed the moment was right, he raised his head and, in solemn, subdued tones, said, “I have prepared a brief announcement.”

He paused, swallowed, and began reading. “A little over an hour ago, the Home Office confirmed the report that the King of England was found grievously wounded at his villa in Madeira and rushed to hospital where he was pronounced dead at eight twenty-seven Greenwich Mean Time. Official cause of death is yet to be determined, but preliminary reports indicate that Edward succumbed to a head wound caused by gunshots.”

The Prime Minister raised his head slowly. “As Prime Minister, I wish, on behalf of the nation, to extend condolences to the members of the monarch’s surviving family, his many friends, and well-wishers the world over. Obviously, our thoughts and sympathies are with them in this time of grief. I have nothing more to say.” He made to step away from the microphones.

At this, the journalists unleashed a volley of questions at the retreating politician. “Mr. Waring! One question, Prime Minister!” shouted someone over the rest of the pack. “You said
gunshots
— was it murder or suicide?”

The Prime Minister hesitated, then returned to the microphone. “The Portuguese authorities are conducting an investigation. To offer any speculation now would be highly inappropriate. Thank you.”

He turned away and started back to Number Ten.

“Where does this leave your Magna Carta scheme?” another journalist shouted.

The Prime Minister turned his face towards the camera but kept walking. “Not now,” Waring replied. “I have said all I have to say this evening. I will be making an announcement in Parliament tomorrow. Thank you.” He disappeared through the crush of his aides and bodyguards; the door opened before him, and he ducked quickly inside.

A rare silence descended upon the Pipe & Drum — a spontaneous reverence for the passing of the nation’s monarch. Not so much the man, James thought, as for the monarchy itself. Ready Teddy had not been a particularly sparkling example of modern sovereignty.

In common with some few of his predecessors, Edward IX was a wastrel and a womanizer, as often as not dragging his reign through the muck with his lascivious shenanigans. Twice he had been named corespondent in scandalous divorces, and he had once come within a hair’s breadth of being indicted for embezzling funds from a business venture in which he was a partner. His driving license was in a permanent state of revocation, and he owed huge sums of money to the banks of several countries. He spent far more time at his various properties abroad than he ever did at home — although he still opened Parliament and the racing season, and he was widely quoted as saying he wished he had inherited the crown of Spain because the food was better and weather did not impede one’s golf game.

Magna Carta II made all this more or less irrelevant. A misnomer, to be sure, the term was a journalistic tag attached to the movement to dissolve the monarchy of Britain. Whereas the original Great Charter established the rule of law and curtailed the power of the monarch, Magna Carta II aimed to abolish both sovereign and sovereignty altogether.

The scheme featured a series of closely orchestrated phases, each linking a referendum to the necessary legislation. Four times the Government had consulted the people and, four times, passed laws that moved the country ever closer to the final Act of Dissolution.

Introduced by Parliament several years ago, the devolution process had been quietly and systematically working its way through its various stages, beginning with a few slight changes in the British Constitution and a moderate government reorganization which, among other things, abolished the House of Lords. Social reform eliminated all honors, titles, and other lingering vestiges of inherited privilege, while long-anticipated tax reform brought royal lands under the heavy thumb of the Inland Revenue, thereby producing the desired effect of pricing the nobility out of the market.

No government could have pursued such drastic, sweeping measures without the sanction of the British people. Years of wretched excess and royal disgrace had soured public opinion to the point that no one cared anymore. Whatever legacy of loyalty the House of Windsor had built up over the years had been squandered by the latest run of rakish incumbents. Not to put too fine a point on it, the weak-willed, petty-minded monarchs had brought about their own demise. Thus, when Magna Carta II was launched, most people thought it was high time to dump the whole stinking lot.

James never learned who won the football game that night, for the normal schedule of programs was abandoned and there followed a rambling, catch-as-catch-can obituarial documentary on the sad life of the sorry King, interspersed with continuous late-breaking bulletins which added nothing to the fact already evidenced: that the King was dead indeed.

“Oh, come on,” growled Cal after a while. “It’s not like he’s going to be missed. The man was no Mother Teresa.”

James had known Calum McKay since the day his family moved onto the Blair Morven estate. Cal’s father had been hired as gamekeeper to help James’ father, who was managing more and more of the estate, and suddenly James had a new friend. Two wild young bucks, they had gone through school together, skipping classes at every opportunity to ride ponies and go hunting and fishing. Loyal, irritating, diverting, and exasperating — Cal was the brother James’ parents never got around to giving him.

Douglas Charmichael was also a long-time friend, and the three of them, bachelors all, often met of an evening at the Pipe & Drum for a pint and a little football. Like everyone else that night, they sat and absorbed the shocking news. For, whatever a person might think of Edward the man, and in spite of the inevitability of Magna Carta II, the nation was confronted that night with the end of a long history of monarchical rule, and that was something that could not be digested in the space of a sound bite.