Avalon (31 page)

Again, Gilchrist refused. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not going back.”

With great effort, Thompson, almost shaking with rage at having his authority so blatantly challenged, gave the young man an icy smile. “This is neither the time nor the place for one of your schoolboy tantrums,” he said, forcing the words out with exaggerated precision.

Ignoring his superior, the young man turned instead to James. He took a step nearer and went down on one knee before him. “Your Majesty,” he said, “it would be a very great honor to serve you in any way I can.”

Thompson, almost goggle-eyed with apoplexy, stared at the earnest young man on his knee before his king.

“Please, sir,” Gilchrist said, his voice steady and low. “If you accept me, I will do anything you ask. I swear it.”

Extending his hand to the young man, James laughed and said, “Rise, Sir Knight. I accept your pledge of fealty.”

Thompson gave his former associate one last withering glance, turned on his heel, and strode imperiously to the door, leaving Reuley to scuttle after him with the parchment and briefcase. No one bothered to see them out.

Gilchrist shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, looking both humble and relieved; now that his act of defiance was over, he appeared less confident than before. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Your Majesty. I’ll leave if you want me to.”

“You didn’t embarrass me,” James assured him. “As it happens, I have room for quick-thinking, able-bodied people like yourself. If you don’t mind pitching in on whatever job needs doing.”

“Anything,” the young man replied. “I don’t care. I’ll work for nothing.” He drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and declared, “I heard your speech that night, and it connected with me. You spoke of the Kingdom of Summer, and from that moment all I wanted was to serve you, and to serve Britain. I was never meant to work for a snake like Thompson. I’m glad someone finally stood up to him. He’s had it coming for a long time.”

“It would take more than him and his fancy paper to put the wind up James’ kilt,” Cal remarked. “Don’t give it a second thought.”

“You saw all those signatures?” the young fellow continued. “Some of those people were really very nice — true nobles, through and through — but he treated them like scum. He didn’t need to do that; it was pure meanness.” Gratitude and admiration mingled in his quick, infectious smile. “I’ve been waiting all my life for something like this. And I have friends, sir — men just like me who would give their right arm to be part of something worthy of their time and energy.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” replied James. “For now though, why don’t you go upstairs to the press office and ask for Shona. Tell her I said to put you to work. We’ll arrange pay and such later.”

“Gilchrist is a Scottish name,” Cal said. “Where are you from originally?”

“My family is from Inverness,” he explained, “and there’s a load of aunts and uncles up there still. But my dad worked for the Foreign Office, and we moved around a lot. I was born in France, but never felt it was home.” He smiled, and the color rose to his cheeks. “Now I feel as if I
have
come home.”

“What’s your first name?” James asked.

“Gavin, sir,” he replied, “a family name, apparently.”

“Welcome aboard, Gavin.” James grasped the young man’s hand, and a tingling sensation traveled up his arm and down his neck. The
fiosachd
came upon him, and he felt as if he were welcoming back a friend who had been absent for many years. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added.

Eager to begin, Gavin went off to find Shona and secure his place in the new regime. James and Cal went next door where Embries was waiting. He had his notebook open on the desk before him, and was writing furiously.

“Our boy was fantastic,” crowed Cal. “You would have enjoyed it.”

“Thompson looked a little too familiar,” Embries answered. “It is entirely possible our paths have crossed in the past, and he might have remembered me. So far, my presence has eluded detection. I would like to keep it that way a little longer.” He looked up from his notebook. “That aside, you are to be congratulated.”

“Why?”

“The simple fact of their showing up means that the Government has accepted the legitimacy of your claim. If they had any hope of discrediting or dismissing you outright, they certainly wouldn’t have bothered trying to get your signature.”

“I managed to squeeze a ‘Your Majesty’ out of him in the end.”

“Plus, we got a new recruit out of it,” put in Cal. “You should have seen them, Embries. I thought Thompson was going to bust a gusset.”

“What did they expect, coming here like that?” said James. “We can’t even get Downing Street to return our phone calls — did they really think I would sign that thing?”

“They had to find out how serious you are,” Embries suggested. “They have to know what they’re up against.”

“I’ll show them how serious I am,” said James. He turned and walked to the door. “Care to come along, Cal?”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“Suddenly, I feel like taking a walk in the garden.”

“James, wait,” said Embries, calling him back. “What are you going to do?”

“Things being the way they are,” came the reply, “you can probably see it on Newsnight.”

Stepping out onto the graveled yard, James was instantly besieged by cameramen and journalists. They clustered so tightly around him that Shona threatened several with expulsion if they did not give the King room to breathe. “Back off!” she warned. “There is plenty of room for everyone. Let’s all behave.”

“You are here at the King’s pleasure,” Cal reminded them sternly. “Don’t blow it.”

When they had established rough order among themselves, Shona announced, “The King has prepared a statement which he would like to share with you now. There will be time for questions immediately after.” Turning to James, she said, “His Majesty, the King of Britain.”

“Thank you, Shona,” he said, stepping forward. There was a last jostling for position among the assembled news people, as James began. “A few minutes ago I received a visit from representatives of the Special Committee for Royal Devolution — the so-called Magna Carta Two. I was invited to affix my signature to the document which has caused such anguish and controversy in our nation.” He paused, looking out at the eager faces of the reporters, enjoying the effect his appearance was having. “I declined.”

“Did they say what would happen if you didn’t sign?” shouted a woman a few rows back.

“Questions later, Gillian, please,” Shona reminded the journalist. “Thank you.”

“I refused to resign the sovereignty of Britain,” James continued, “and I want everyone to know that I will continue to resist any and all efforts to make me relinquish the crown. Further, it is my intention to reinstate the traditional weekly royal prime ministerial audience at once. From today, I will be expecting to receive the Prime Minister, and I urge his office to contact me at once to make arrangements.”

This, as James suspected, caused an instant uproar among the gathered media folk. They leaned in anxiously, thrusting their arms into the air to be recognized; those at the back shoved forward to get a better vantage point.

“Thank you,” James said. “I’d be happy to take your questions now.”

It took a few moments to quell the uproar and for Shona to introduce a modicum of order. “We’ll do it my way or not at all,” she said. “Today, the last shall be first.” Pointing to a tall cadaverous-looking man straining in the back row. “Gordon Granger, you’re on.”

“Gosh, thanks,” said Gordon, so delighted at his unprecedented good fortune that he promptly forgot why he’d been called upon.

“Could we have your question, Gordon?” asked Shona.

“Your Majesty,” said the journalist, “you used the word ‘urge’ a moment ago. Are we to take that to mean you are not now in contact with Downing Street?”

“That is correct,” replied the King. “We are not in contact with Downing Street at present. The truth is, the Government has thus far ignored all our attempts at communication. We’ve sent letters, faxes, telegrams — you name it. They won’t even return my phone calls.”

Some of the journalists snickered at this. “Is this why you chose to make the announcement just now?” a woman in the front row asked. Shona gave her a dirty look, but the rest of the pack seemed content to listen to the answer.

“I would have preferred to proceed through the proper channels,” James replied, “but one way or another, I will be heard. Once, not all that long ago, a subject would have lost his head for ignoring his monarch.”

“Are you going to ask for Prime Minister Waring’s head?” someone shouted.

James smiled. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Will you meet here at Blair Morven,” asked someone else, “or in London?”

“If memory serves,” James answered, “the meeting traditionally takes place at the monarch’s principal residence. Since this is the only place I’ve got, I guess the audience will have to be here.”

“What will you talk about,” called another journalist, “when, or maybe I should say,
if
the PM agrees to meet with you?”

“The conversation has traditionally been privileged,” the King replied. “I see no reason why that should change. I can tell you, however, that I have no hidden agenda. We will talk about the governing of our nation, and how to do what is best for Britain.”

This statement was instantly taken up. “Many people believe that what is best for Britain,” said the woman named Gillian, “is the abolition of the monarchy — an opinion Prime Minister Waring obviously shares. What do you say to that?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said James, “forgive me if I have not made myself clear on this point. I mean to reign as King of Britain. I believe the monarchy can be restored, and I hope that I will be given a chance to prove myself not only a worthy monarch but also to demonstrate the value of having a king on the throne.”

There were more questions after that, and James found himself growing more at ease as his command of the situation increased. When Shona finally called for the last question, he was actually sorry to break it off. “What did you think of that?” he asked after rejoining Embries in the library. “You’d have been proud.”

“You should have seen him,” Cal crowed. “Our boy was impressive. He had them eating out of his hand.”

“I did see him,” remarked Embries tartly. “That was broadcast live. Very impressive.” He frowned. “Oh, well, the damage is done.”

“What damage?” James demanded. “I told the truth and meant every word.”

“The Prime Minister may not forgive you for calling him to account. You’ve forced his hand in a most public manner. He will resent being made to look foolish. He is certain to retaliate.”

“Let him,” James declared. “I can handle it.”

“Can you?” Embries regarded him with sharp disapproval. “We shall see.”

The evening news broadcasts featured the King’s impromptu press conference in unstinting detail, showing his announcement in its entirety, replaying many of the questions he had answered and summarizing the rest, and then following the report with an expert analysis of what some commentators called an extraordinary development.

“Extraordinary, my ass,” growled the Prime Minister. “A dog eats its own vomit, and they call it extraordinary.”

“I hate to say it, Tom,” remarked Dennis Arnold, the Devolution Chairman, “but I think it was a mistake not to return his calls. He is the King, after all.”

“I don’t care who the hell he is,” Waring fumed. He and his two top aides were having a drink and watching the news in the Prime Minister’s Downing Street apartment. “I will
not
be dictated to by some jumped-up pretty boy who fancies himself a latter-day Laird of the Isles.”

“Sure,” said Arnold, “I can sympathize. But look where it’s got us. We’re going to have to talk to him. I’m not saying you have to like it.”

Waring glared at his advisor, then turned his attention to his press secretary. “What do you think, Hutch?”

“Dennis is right,” said Hutchens. “We should talk to the guy at least.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Worst case? The press will say we fear a confrontation. They’ll say we’re running away from a showdown.”

“So what?”

“If we’re seen to be running away,” Hutchens continued, lacing his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair, imagining the ramifications of his worst-case scenario, “the press will smell fear. They’ll be on us just like that.”

“We’ve weathered media storms before. We can ride this one out —
if
it comes to that.”

“Oh, it
will
come to that all right,” the spin doctor warned. “They’ll hound us day and night. They’ll take it up as a cause, and worry us with it until we give in.”

The Prime Minister rose from his place on the sofa and began pacing in front of the TV. “So this clown calls the tune and I’m supposed to dance — is that it? He whistles and I have to come running. To hell with that, and to hell with him!”

Dennis shook his head. “We can’t simply ignore him. Look —” He put out his hand to the TV. “We tried that and it didn’t work.”

Waring collapsed heavily into his chair. He knew his advisors were right, but it galled him to have to admit he’d underestimated this new King. It galled him more to have to meet with the conniving bastard. Still, even with defeat staring him in the face, he wasn’t ready to give in. “It’s getting late. We’ll take this up at the staff meeting tomorrow morning. Dennis, get on to Cecil Blackmoor and get a legal opinion. There may be a way out of this yet.”

Dismissing his aides, the Prime Minister spent an unhappy evening with the remote control stuck in his fist. He slept poorly and rose early to survey the first of the day’s newspapers over breakfast — which put him off eating altogether — and arranged with the kitchen for rolls and coffee to be laid on for the staff meeting. At eight o’clock on the dot, the Prime Minister took his private lift down to the ground floor, greeted the day shift, and made his way to the conference room.

Adrian Burton, Chancellor of the Exchequer, arrived first. “Good morning, Thomas. Touch of frost in the air. Winter could be early this year. We just might get that white Christmas everyone is so unaccountably fond of. I don’t suppose you’ve made any plans yet? You’re always welcome to share the festivities with Mildred and myself.”