Avalon (26 page)

In the unlikely event that anyone missed the significance of the packet they had been given, a press release was also included, which spelled out precisely what the documents and declaration meant. Further, the release stated that a formal announcement would be made by the new monarch from his home, Blair Morven Castle, at six o’clock GMT.

The quick-witted among the news-gathering fraternity were instantly aware of the tremendous scoop which had been placed in their hands. Their slower, more cautious brethren, however, asked the couriers who had sent the packet, and was it genuine?

The couriers refused to say any more — other than to direct their questioners’ attention to various aspects of the packet: the notary’s seal, the gentleman’s service record, the Royal Heritage Society’s letterhead and stamp, and the photos. The green-blazer brigade then departed, leaving behind them the chaos of editors, publishers, and broadcasters in pursuit of a major story.

This quest quickly took the form of hasty telephone calls to the several primary institutions. Although the switchboards of the firms involved quickly jammed, those who were able to get through had their queries confirmed. They were assured that the information issued was accurate and authentic. Having ascertained the integrity of the documents, the chase moved to a more physical phase.

Where is this guy? they demanded.

The press release specifically mentioned an announcement to be made by the new monarch. Where was this Blair Morven Castle?

Within an hour of the close of King Edward’s funeral service, reporters and camera crews for the major news agencies were on the way to Scotland — most by way of private plane, several by helicopter. A considerable number were dispatched by rail, causing a shortage of seats on several services as camera crews, sound men, grips, and production supervisors jumped on any train heading to Scotland.

For a few lucky Northerners, the distance to be traveled was not great, and they arrived in plenty of time to set up their equipment in the best spots. The rest, however, had to make do with whatever they could find once they got there.

They quickly discovered that the new King was not in residence, but an agreeable chap who identified himself as the monarch’s representative — a stout, soft-spoken young man called Douglas Charmichael — was ready and waiting for the onslaught. He held an impromptu press conference on the castle lawn in which he disclosed the fact that the King was even now en route to his home, and was expected to arrive promptly at six o’clock that evening. This development was greeted with relief and dismay in equal parts by the newsmen and their crews. On the one hand, they were happy not to have missed out on the scoop, and had time now to establish a proper beachhead; on the other hand, the moment of revelation would not take place for several hours, during which time they had to wait outside in the cold.

With time to kill — and nothing but negative reports from the trains, planes, and coaches — the intrepid media mavens launched a search. Stringers were hurriedly pressed into service to cover all the smaller regional airports, coach stations, and train depots. Promised a sizable bounty for an early sighting, they eagerly worked the crowds, faxed photos in hand. Despite their diligence, all they managed to turn up was a handful of near misses. As the day wore on, the manhunters began to despair of sighting their quarry. Local roads were combed outward to the major highways, which were followed from Braemar. Reporters on the road used mobile phones to call in the registration numbers of the suspect vehicles — a task made much more difficult by the wintry darkness descending over the north. The number plates were swiftly checked against the police register of names and addresses for possible live candidates.

Thus, of the many vehicles that instantly fell prey to the media pack, almost all were just as rapidly eliminated from further investigation. Three however, were not so easily dismissed; because of reportorial “hunches” or the inability to obtain a number-plate match, these were singled out for special consideration. The first, a red Rolls-Royce near Banchory on the Aberdeen road, drew the greatest attention; but two others, a late-model brown Lexus, and a black Jaguar sedan — both sighted on the A93 north of Perth and the Spittal of Glenshee respectively — were also live possibilities.

When the Roller stopped for petrol in Aboyne, and the occupants were revealed as a retired banker by the name of Figgis and his wife and mother-in-law, the chase concentrated on the two remaining suspects.

Meanwhile, in the news studios of the major networks, newsreaders and commentators, who had been breaking into regularly scheduled programs almost hourly since noon to announce the latest wrinkle in the swiftly evolving story, now joined their colleagues in the field and asked them to describe what was happening at Blair Morven. They were told about the two automobiles even now making their way towards Braemar, and airborne cameras provided murky infrared images of cars on the highway.

As the clock ticked down to six o’clock the BBC went on the air with live pictures in split screen of the two vehicles, and asked the question: could one of these cars contain the next King of Great Britain? If so, which one?

News presenter, the “highly respected Jonathan Trent,” informed an intensely fascinated nation that any moment they would be bringing live coverage of the historic announcement as it happened by way of their crews on location. He then went directly to Kevin Clark, who had been flown back from Madeira some days earlier, asking him to describe the situation at Blair Morven.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” said a frozen Kevin, his breath puffing in the cold northern air. “The atmosphere here could not be more keenly anticipatory. As you can see behind me, the television and radio crews of every major news organization in the country are here, and we are eagerly awaiting the arrival of the new King.

“What a truly amazing day this has been! This revelation could not have been better timed or organized to garner maximum attention. Our own crew has been instrumental in —”

The screen switched back to the studio, and Jonathan Trent said, “We’ll come back to you in a moment, Kevin, but it has just been confirmed that one of the two vehicles currently under investigation — the brown Lexus… yes, that is confirmed — the Lexus has turned off the road at Bridge of Cally and is currently heading towards Pitlochry. That leaves the Jaguar, which is now just outside Braemar.” The screen showed the fuzzy grayish infrared picture of the top of a dark car moving along a dark road. “It would appear that the next King of Britain is nearing his destination.”

Jonathan came back onscreen then, and said, “While we are waiting, we will go now to Gina Thompson for this special report.”

The screen switched to an office, and the camera zoomed in on a desk on which had been spread several pieces of paper. The silky voice of Gina Thompson announced, “At twelve o’clock sharp this afternoon, an envelope containing these documents was delivered to the office of the King of Arms, at the College of Arms in London. Identical parcels were simultaneously delivered to, at last count, two hundred and fifty-four other news agencies and offices in the capital and throughout Great Britain. Each parcel contained documents identifying this man” — the screen shifted to a close-up photograph of a young officer in military uniform — “by the name of James Stuart, as the next reigning King of Britain.”

Dark-haired Gina then appeared on screen. “Fantastic as it might seem to some,” she announced solemnly, “that claim is being regarded as genuine. Our own investigation has so far corroborated the evidence contained in the mysterious parcel. It is not known at this hour who is responsible for disseminating this information, or how this remarkable claim was uncovered. But, as these documents suggest, although a king may have been buried today, the monarchy is far from dead.” She smiled grimly at her witticism, and then said, “Back to you in the studio, Jonathan.”

“Thank you, Gina.” The newsreader turned to an owlish man sitting nervously across the desk from him. “With me in the studio now is Thurgood Pilling, the Norroy and Ulster King of Arms at the College of Arms. Tell us, Mr. Pilling, is this claim likely to stand up in a court of law, or wherever these cases are heard?”

The round-faced man smiled timidly, and cleared his throat. “Please, allow me to clear up a few misconceptions. While it is true the College of Arms is the final authority on all matters pertaining to nobility in this country, we do not deal with questions of Scottish royalty. Neither do we adjudicate such matters.”

Jonathan looked surprised. “No? But I thought the Norroy and Ulster King oversaw
all
of the north, including Northern Ireland.”

“Yes,” allowed Pilling, “that is correct.”

Now the news presenter appeared bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“All of the north,” said Pilling, “of
England
. I’m afraid you must have the wrong impression. Scotland has its own college of arms, if you will — the Lyon King of Arms. This body, roughly analogous to our own, is responsible for all matters arising in and pertaining to Scotland.”

“I see.” Trent appeared deflated by this pronouncement.

“However,” the owlish Pilling continued, and Jonathan Trent’s hopes revived, “I can tell you that from what I have seen, the claim — were it to be made in our jurisdiction, so to speak — would have no difficulty being proved. In other words, while I cannot speak for my Scottish colleagues, I will venture the opinion that, where their criteria and requirements are similar to ours, the documents I have seen are more than adequate to the task at hand.”

“For our viewers,” put in Trent quickly, “by documents you mean, of course, the birth certificate, the Royal Heritage Society affidavit, and so forth.”

“Indeed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pilling,” he said, dismissing his guest and turning to face the camera once more. “There you have it: were the claim to be mooted in England, it could be proved.” He glanced at a sheet of paper on the desk before him, and said, “There has been no official statement from Downing Street as yet. We are hoping to have a word with the Prime Minister following the official announcement, which we are, like the rest of the nation, awaiting with bated breath.”

He paused and arranged his papers. “This is the BBC, bringing you special coverage on our Six O’Clock Report.”

Trent’s face was replaced by a graphic of the dragon symbol adapted from the one found on the press packet. Beneath the dragon were the words “
Monarchy: End of an Era… Beginning of a Reign
?”

When he came back on, Trent said, “Now let us take you to Westminster Abbey, the scene earlier today of King Edward’s funeral, Ronald Metcalf reporting.”

The image shifted to Westminster, garish yellow-orange in the floodlights, and Ronald Metcalf standing before the closed chapel door with a microphone in his hand. “Dour, grim, almost brutal in its brevity — these are words which would seem to sum up the funeral service for the last reigning monarch of our country. Certainly, no expense appeared too small for what may — or may
not
— be the last royal funeral in Britain. For the select few gathered here, as well as those who viewed at home —”

“Thank you, Ronald,” interrupted Trent. “We’ll have to come back to you on that story. We have just received confirmation that the self-proclaimed King has been sighted — that is, the car containing what looks to be the next King of Britain has been sighted in Braemar. What can you tell us, Kevin Clark?”

Kevin, his voice quivering with cold and excitement, announced, “That’s right, Jonathan. The car has left Braemar and is proceeding towards Blair Morven. I can hear the helicopters — they seem to be just beyond those trees to the south of us here — which would indicate that the vehicle is very near, perhaps — yes, it must be — on the estate even as we speak.

“The mood here has intensified in the last few minutes. We are, as anyone can imagine, keenly interested to get our first look at this man. Is he a poser, an imposter? Or is he the genuine article? We hope to have those questions answered before long.”

The windblown reporter paused, pressed his fingertips to his right ear, and then said, “The car is on the estate. Stuart is expected to arrive shortly, and now…”

There came the thrumming of helicopter engines, and the camera shifted to a view of the expansive castle lawn. There were so many television crews encamped on the grass, the scene resembled a carnival all lit up for business. Lights large and small, many with reflector umbrellas attached, bathed the lawn and drive in a wash of brilliant white, while journalists and their crews huddled around their heaps of gear — cameras, boom mikes, parabolic sound reflectors, battery packs, and coils of cord and wire. There was a surge of bodies around Clark as reporters and their cameramen went after the shot of the arriving car.

“Yes, I can see the vehicle now,” Kevin Clark continued, trying to remain calmly objective. “Yes, it is a late-model black Jaguar… I cannot see inside it at the moment… It is now coming up the drive towards the house where I am now standing. There is only the single vehicle — no parades, no processions, no entourage…”

The screen showed the car as it rolled slowly to a halt on the gravel yard in front of the house. The lights glittered on the paintwork and tinted glass. Instantly, the car was surrounded, inundated by the waiting crowd as they jostled for prime position. And then everything went still.

The driver’s door opened and a young man in a smart black suit stepped out to the chorused click and whir of the cameras. Ignoring the media attention, he turned and opened the rear passenger door. For an instant, the entire television world held its collective breath. There was a movement at the open door, and the next King of Britain emerged.

From one end of the country to the other, a television audience numbering close to thirty million saw a sandy-haired young man with the physique and easy grace of an athlete, standing straight and tall in a severe dark suit. They saw him take in the ranks of media folk gathered around him and smile. The smile went a long way towards earning him the right to be heard, for it was a confident yet genuinely appreciative smile, not the practiced grimace of the professional politician or the plastic rictus of the Hollywood huckster. It was the friendly, unaffected grin of one who is truly pleased and honored by the occasion.