Avalon (30 page)

It was all James could do to keep from calling a press conference every few hours to correct the latest inaccuracies. Embries cautioned against this, and instead advised that they simply ride out the storm. “The more they convince themselves of your integrity,” Embries told him, “the less convincing we will have to do along the way.”

“I hope you’re right,” James replied, gloomily eyeing the day’s stack of newspapers.

“Hope,” snapped Embries, “is a precious commodity — save it for situations where it can help sway the outcome. Your kingship is a fact, and one which will be amply demonstrated to be true.”

He was, James suspected, thinking about Collins’ death. One man had given his life for this truth and, regardless of what Embries said, James honestly hoped he had not died in vain.

As the days went by, the evidence was shredded, ground, and sifted fine; nevertheless, the various experts at the College of Arms failed to uncover any impediments to James’ kingship. None of the serious media organizations managed to scrape together any sign of skullduggery, or flimflam, and no cogent objections appeared forthcoming. Thus, the end of the first week of his reign approached, and no genuine opposition had emerged to undermine the legitimacy of his claim to the throne of Britain.

Collins had done his work well, and it stood up to the most severe analysis and investigation possible. He had foreseen and disarmed every potential objection. In this, he had struck the first blow for Britain before the enemy had even been aware of the battle.

Meanwhile, James did his best to ignore the media storm and instead busied himself with organizing his household. For the first time he was resident in the castle in whose shadow he had lived most of his life. There were numerous adjustments to be made on the domestic side, as well as mountains of material to digest pertaining to his kingship. The latter was accomplished under Embries’ exacting tutelage; for hours each day, James was instructed and quizzed by his mentor on royal protocol, the British constitution, economics, European social history, statecraft, and diplomacy.

Meanwhile, the press had set up camp in the forecourt of Blair Morven and, like a besieging army, had virtually occupied little Braemar. A prisoner in his own house, James could not take so much as a single breath of fresh air outside without creating an instant stampede of cameramen and reporters. He did so once, and four journalists were injured in the resulting mêlée. Embries decided it was time to call in a professional.

“This is Shona McCrery,” he said, introducing a short, somewhat plump young woman the next day. “She is from St. Andrews, and has been living in London for the past four years, working for Page One, the media consultancy firm.”

“Good morning, everyone,” she said pleasantly. “Your Majesty.” She favored the King with a small bob of her head. “I hear you have paparazzi problems.” She smiled wickedly, and James detected a pugnacious soul who relished a good brawl. “Not anymore you don’t. From this moment, your media hassles are a thing of the past.”

“Welcome aboard,” said Cal, who had labored under the strain of having to deal with the reporters’ continual pestering presence.

“Call me a personal representative, call me a royal spokesperson — call me anything you like, but as of right now, today, all statements to journalists — print, radio, or television — go through me. It will greatly enhance our credibility, not to mention our quality of life, if we are heard to speak with a single, distinct voice. That voice will be mine.”

She served the same affable, no-nonsense notice to the newshounds huddled outside — many of whom she knew on a first-name basis. Reassured by her controlling presence, the press accepted the new regime without a grumble. She negotiated the boundaries, both geographical and professional, beyond which the media could not stray; she fixed the ground rules for press conferences and interviews, and instituted a rota system for controlling how many reporters were allowed on the estate at any one time.

Blair Morven proved itself a worthy base of operations for the fledgling sovereign and his staff. The traditional seat of the Morven dynasty was a huge, rambling pile of whitewashed stone, constructed in the grand old Highland style around a central hall with clusters of various rooms scattered on three floors, and four circular turrets, each of which had been converted into comfortable, self-contained apartments. In years past, the old Duke had spent a great deal of time and money upgrading the plumbing and fixtures, and had made the place, despite its size, quite livable and homey. The top floor contained mostly bedrooms, the middle floor was offices and workrooms, and the ground floor had seven reception rooms for guests. A 1950s addition housed an industrial-grade kitchen and storerooms. The ancient edifice was large enough to guarantee some privacy and at the same time enable the new King to keep his support staff handy — if not in the castle itself then in the nearby cottages surrounding the old stable yard, and elsewhere around the estate.

Uninhabited for the last few years — the staff having been pensioned off by the Aussies — the castle needed attention. At James’ direction, Cal undertook to persuade a half dozen of the old Duke’s former retainers — including the cook, a vast, smiling, red-faced woman known only as Priddy; and her husband, Mr. Baxter, the head gardener — to return to their previous employment.

Furniture was taken out of storage, and rooms long abandoned, cleaned and rearranged for use. Everything from linen pillowcases to Edinburgh crystal decanters were unpacked, inventoried, and returned to use. Paint and wallpaper were chosen and ordered; and every square inch of the castle was dusted and vacuumed, and then dusted again. Arrangements were made with a firm in Aberdeen to upgrade security using the latest unobtrusive high-tech equipment. Priddy laid in a kitchenful of staples and contracted with local butchers, greengrocers, and bakers to supply the royal table. Mr. Baxter pored over garden catalogs and ordered his stock for the coming spring.

Blair Morven, which had been mostly a dusty museum, began to reassume the nature and function of a noble household. To James, it was as if a fine garment, which had long lain forgotten and neglected in mothballs, had been aired out and brought into the light of day once more. As more rooms were opened, Cal took up residence in the castle, and Shona had an apartment of her own — as did Embries, Rhys, and Priddy and Mr. Baxter. Within days, the estate began to vibrate with a level of activity that rivaled its earliest years as the seat of a ducal dynasty.

And still no word from the Waring government. James’ attempts to contact the Prime Minister were persistent, and all were ignored. His intention was to resume the traditional weekly meeting between the monarch and his PM — as he suggested in one unanswered fax, e-mail, telegram, and registered letter after another. Shona had also attempted to contact Waring’s personal private secretary to arrange a phone call, but to no avail.

“He can’t play hide ’n’ seek forever,” James observed one day. “I’m not going away. I’m like death and taxes. He’s going to have to face me sooner or later.”

Recognition of James’ declaration arrived in the form of three men in dark suits, who appeared without warning one bright December morning. Presenting themselves at the door, they identified themselves as officials working for the Committee for Royal Devolution, and they asked if they could have a word with Mr. James Stuart. At Embries’ direction, they were invited into the Duke’s library, and kept waiting for fifteen minutes while Embries briefed James on what to expect. “They have come unannounced, hoping to take you by surprise. Just remember what we’ve talked about, and you have nothing to worry about.”

“We’ll meet them together, right?”

“Cal will be with you,” he said. “It would be best if they did not see me just yet.”

When they joined their visitors in the library, James greeted them and asked the nature of their business. The spokesman of the group, a tidy middle-aged man of average height and impeccable grooming, smiled condescendingly as if he were a bailiff and James a quarrelsome tenant he had come to evict on behalf of the absentee landlord.

“I am Mr. Thompson,” he said, extending a well-manicured hand. Indicating the two with him — one bald-headed company man like himself, the other a younger fellow with light brown hair and the open guileless countenance of a chap who has yet to discover who his true enemies are — he said, “This is my assistant, Mr. Reuley, and” — he nodded to the youngster —” this is Mr. Gilchrist.”

James acknowledged them in turn, and then said, “Gentlemen, this is my chief of staff, Mr. McKay.” Cal, a frown of disapproval firmly in place, nodded.

“We would prefer to discuss our business in private,” Thompson sniffed disdainfully. “When you hear what we have to say, I think you will agree that it is the wisest course.”

“Your visit has been anticipated,” James told him, sitting down on the edge of the desk. He offered chairs to no one, so his visitors remained standing. “As you have neglected the common courtesy of arranging an appointment, I can only assume you must be either extremely busy or extremely rude.”

“As you might imagine,” Thompson said, ignoring the reproof, “your claim to the throne has caused a considerable flap.” He made it sound as if the sole purpose of James’ declaration had been to cause him trouble. “I am certain you can understand also that, in light of the proposed dissolution of the monarchy, your claim cannot be allowed to stand.”

“Go on,” James said. “I’m listening.”

“Allow me to come directly to the point,” the man said, gesturing to his accomplice, who opened a briefcase and brought out a thick square of parchment. It was wrapped in a wide red satin ribbon, which he proceeded to untie. “May I?” he asked, indicating the library table.

“By all means,” James said.

He placed the parchment on the table and unfolded it. James stepped to the table and found himself looking at the infamous Magna Carta II. It was interesting, he thought, that they had actually drawn the thing up roughly on the order of the original Magna Carta — red ink on a great square of sheepskin. Clearly, they meant this second document to be fully as historical as the first, and were striving for some sense of inevitability through symmetry.

Beneath the block of text headed “
Declaration of Abdication
,” were lines for no fewer than fifty-eight signatures. Every member of the royal succession had signed — dukes and duchesses, princes and princesses — and now only the top signature was missing. This was the space poor old Teddy was meant to have filled in.

“As you can see,” Thompson said, “only one remains.” He produced a fountain pen, which he handed to James. “If you would be so kind as to sign here” — he pointed to the top line — “we will gladly be on our way.”

James placed the pen on the table. “I have no intention of signing this document.”

“It is merely a formality,” Thompson replied smoothly. “Your refusal will not change anything. The Act of Dissolution will proceed — with or without your signature.”

“In that case,” James observed placidly, “it makes no difference whether I sign or not. Does it?”

A sly smirk appeared on young Gilchrist’s face. He suppressed a chuckle, and James knew he had an ally.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Thompson tutted. “I had hoped we would be able to reason together. You see, the devolution will go ahead as planned. The necessary legislation is already in place, and the last referendum is — as you
must
be aware — only a matter of weeks away.” Taking up the pen, he extended it towards James once more.

“I fail to see why that should influence my decision.”

Thompson gave a disappointed shake of his head, and turned to Cal, as if he might be the cause of James’ reluctance. The grimly silent Mr. Reuley spoke up. “Perhaps Mr. McKay might persuade His Majesty to avoid the unnecessary unpleasantness which is certain to derive from a too-hasty decision.”

By way of reply, Cal reached out and snatched the pen from Thompson’s hand. “You heard the King. He’s not going to sign your piddling paper.”

This was too much for Gilchrist; he gave a little snort of laughter and swiftly clamped his mouth shut. Thompson glared at his underling with murderous intent.

“Forgive me,” said Reuley with icy insolence. “I intended no disrespect.”

“No doubt this was the sort of unnecessary unpleasantness you were alluding to just now,” Cal replied.

Gilchrist could not stifle his laugh this time; he burst out with a hearty guffaw which caused his boss to glare daggers at him.

“You must excuse my young colleague,” Thompson said, his voice dripping with poisonous derision. “He seems to be having difficulty keeping his mind on his work today.”

“Or perhaps,” James suggested lightly, “he simply finds flogging this dead horse a waste of his valuable time and talents.”

“I am indeed sorry you have chosen to take this attitude,” Thompson tutted. “I had hoped I might prevail upon you to do the honorable thing.” He fished another pen from his coat pocket, and made a show of unscrewing the cap and offering it to James. “I will ask you one last time. Your signature, if you please.”

“Don’t sign it, Your Majesty,” said Gilchrist, speaking up at last. “You don’t have to, and they can’t make you.”

“Leave us,” Thompson said through clenched teeth. “That is an order.” He nodded to Reuley, who took a step towards the young man.

James raised his hand and stopped him. “As I have already said, I have no intention of signing this document, and I will not be harassed or otherwise intimidated into doing so. If obtaining my signature was the sole item on your agenda, then our business is concluded.”

“That is your decision, unwise as it may be,” Thompson replied with elaborate disdain. He turned stiffly and began refolding the parchment. “We can do nothing more,” he sniffed. “Mr. Stuart’s refusal is duly noted and will be reported. The matter is out of our hands.” Handing the parchment back to Reuley, he said, “Come along, gentlemen.”

“No.” It was Gilchrist.

Thompson stared at him. “We are leaving now. Go to the car at once.”