Avalon (51 page)

The child, terrified now, wailed.

“Catch!” James shouted, lofting the toddler laterally to Cal. She sailed a short distance in the air before falling safely into Cal’s hands. Wrapping Hannah in his arms, he spun on his heel and shot away.

There came a strangled snarl, and James felt a pain in his leg. The pit bull, denied its prize, had attacked him instead. Missing his groin, it had fastened its teeth in his upper thigh. Lacing his fingers together, he brought both hands down hard on the back of its thick neck at the base of its odious skull. The dog yelped and fell onto its side.

James had no time to finish it off, for the second dog was on him in the same moment. This one made a leap and caught him just above the wrist, almost yanking him off his feet. He felt the teeth penetrate the cloth of his suit coat and sink into his flesh.

The pain was fierce, the grip of the animal’s jaws tremendous. Pulling up with all his strength, James lifted the dog’s forelegs off the ground. At the same time, he withdrew his free arm from the sleeve of his jacket, jerking the coat over his shoulder and down his arm, covering the dog’s head.

Unable to see, the creature loosened its hold for an instant. James pulled his arm free. Shaking furiously, the pit bull tried to shed the coat. James seized the struggling beast and drop-kicked it across the clearing, only to realize he now had five more skinheads to deal with.

They rushed him all at once. James succeeded in dodging one and eluding another, but a third launched himself with a feetfirst football tackle, sweeping James’ feet out from under him. He hit the street, landing heavily on his hip. There was a flash of silver in the air, and James twisted away as a chain struck the pavement, dashing sparks before his eyes.

As the hooligan raised it to swing again, James reached out and grabbed the end of the chain. The thug reared back, trying to jerk it from James’ hand, but James held on. The skinhead pulled harder… and James let go. The ruffian reeled away, and the King rolled to his feet as the fourth skinhead took a swing at his head with a cricket bat.

Seizing the thug’s arm, James pulled him forward, planting his knee in his groin. His face turned blue, and he sank to his knees. James had a glimpse of him vomiting in the street before the fifth attacker was on him.

James turned to meet him, and caught the glint of metal in his hand as he dived. Throwing himself to the side, James heard, rather than felt, the ripping of shirt fabric as a knife carved a gash along his ribs. James hit the pavement beside the retching skinhead and snatched up the cricket bat he had dropped.

Twisting on his knees, he swung the bat around his head, driving the knife-wielding thug back. The skinhead dived at him again. James parried his thrust with the side of the bat, then gave him a solid thwack on the leg with the follow-through stroke. The thug gave out a yelp and a curse, shoving the knife at James’ face. Knocking the knife hand away, James drove the bat end-first into his attacker’s solar plexus. Once, and again. The killer went down gasping for breath.

James struggled to his feet as Cal appeared with half a dozen policemen, who commenced sorting out the attackers. The two toughs James had eluded decided to leg it while they had a chance, and several officers raced in pursuit.

“Where were you?” James gasped, as Cal skidded to a halt beside him.

“Baby-sitting,” he replied, wiping sweat from his face. Glancing at the squirming pit bull with its head stuck in the sleeve of James’ suit coat, Cal said, “It looks like your furry friend still wants to play.”

Just then the dog managed to shake off its restraint; growling and snarling, the creature dashed stiff-legged to the attack. Taking the cricket bat from James’ hand, Cal cocked the bat. “Get behind me,” he instructed.

The dog leapt, jaws snapping, and Cal smashed the venerable willow into the side of the animal’s head with a near-perfect double-handed swing. The creature’s hind legs kept churning, but its front legs folded under it like the broken landing gear of an ugly brown airplane. The beast drove forward, its snout dragging on the street. Cal swung again, and the thing rolled onto its back with a groaning whimper.

Another contingent of uniformed policemen came running to surround the King. “We’ll take over here, Your Majesty,” the sergeant said, eyeing the cricket bat dubiously.

“Welcome to the party,” James said. “We were beginning to think you’d mislaid your invitations.”

The policeman stiffened. “Dreadfully sorry, sir. The crowds have impeded our efficiency to an unacceptable extent. My apologies, Your Majesty. I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

“Impede yourself,” sniffed Cal. Taking James by the arm, he began leading him away. “Come on, Jimmy, let’s get you fixed up.”

Cal and two constables led the King back through the gathering crowd. By this time, police cars were arriving in swarms, sirens wailing, and the first of several ambulances was making its way up the pavement towards the arch. People were milling aimlessly about, some looking distinctly shell-shocked; police were trying to impose an orderly evacuation of the area, and were being largely ignored.

They reached the place where Cal had left little Hannah with her mother and Jenny. The child still had tears on her chubby cheeks, but she had stopped crying, and was fascinated by Jenny’s long black hair. She had a handful of it and was separating it out by strands. “You saved my Hannah’s life,” the mother gushed. She drew herself up and kissed James on the cheek. “Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you so much.”

“I’m glad she’s safe,” James replied as a television crew shoved towards them.

“Your Majesty! Excuse me!” the reporter cried. “Excuse me! Could we have a statement, please?”

“Sorry,” James said. “No statements.” The police, anxious to get the King out of harm’s way, started moving him along.

James reached out to Jenny and, as he made to put his arm around her shoulders, the movement caused a sudden cascade of pain down his side. He put his hand to his ribs and discovered the side of his shirt was soaked with blood. “James!” gasped Jenny, taking hold of his arm. “You’re injured.”

“Get the camera on that!” shouted the reporter. “The King is wounded. Hey, wait a tic. We just want —”

James turned away, and the reporter shoved a microphone into the mother’s face instead. Cal stepped beside him and Jenny slipped her arm around his waist, and the police conducted them quickly to the nearest ambulance. Cal hailed the attendants as they stepped up to the open doors of the vehicle, and two veteran paramedics snapped to attention.

The sight of the King receiving medical attention for wounds received in a street fight proved too much to resist; cameramen flocked to the ambulance like gulls to a trawler. They started pushing and shouting questions over the top of one another.

Embries, stepping quickly to the rear of the ambulance, joined Jenny and Cal. He saw the crease in James’ side, and said, “We’re taking you to the hospital.”

“Not until I finish my speech,” James told him, stepping up into the ambulance. “You wouldn’t want me to disappoint all my fans, would you?”

“Go on then,” said Embries. “Get yourself bandaged up, and I’ll have Rhys see to the car. We’re off to casualty as soon as you’re finished.”

A reporter plowed forward, holding out a microphone. “A statement, Your Highness!” he shouted, as the police muscled him back. “Give us a statement!”

This started a scuffle among the cameramen jockeying for position. Instead of calming down, the atmosphere was, if anything, growing more chaotic as onlookers pressed in to see what was happening. As James was out of reach inside the van, the cameras went for Cal and Jenny. Some of the photographers were calling for her to give them a smile; others were shouting questions. “Are you the King’s girlfriend? Were you afraid for your life? What was going through your mind when you saw the King struck down? Did you think he would be killed?”

“Cal,” said Embries, “let’s get these doors closed and give them some privacy.” He helped Jenny into the ambulance as the medic lifted James’ shirt and began cleansing the knife wound.

Cal closed the ambulance doors, and stood guard outside while the medics bandaged James. They cleaned the stab wound and attached butterfly tapes to hold the cut closed, then wrapped gauze around his middle. They treated the bites on his thigh and wrist, cleansing them and applying disinfectant, gave him a tetanus jab and extracted a promise to see a doctor right away.

James thanked them and rapped on the door for Cal to let him out. Under a hastily arranged police escort — fifteen officers with riot shields and truncheons at the ready — they returned to the speaker’s platform where they were met by the officer in charge of the police detail for the event. “With all respect, Your Majesty, I do think it would be best for all concerned if you would desist from speaking,” he said. “It would allow us to move everyone along, sir.”

“You are right to be concerned, Sergeant,” James replied. “But the disturbance was meant to silence me. If I don’t finish what I started, the skinheads and those who undoubtedly hired them will have won. We can’t allow that to happen at Speaker’s Corner, can we?”

The police officer frowned, clearly unhappy with this line of reasoning. The breakdown of security and crowd control had shaken his confidence in their ability to maintain order. “We cannot take the respon —” he began.

“The King is right,” said Jenny quickly. “If they win this one, you will have let a bunch of thugs dictate terms. No one wants to see that happen.”

The officer relented. “I suppose not, miss.” To his constables, he said, “Right, boys and girls, you heard the King. Let’s see it doesn’t get out of hand this time, shall we?”

James mounted the soapbox once again. There was a smattering of applause, and he began to speak about what had just taken place.

“My friends,” he began simply, “there are forces in the world which do not love goodness, do not love compassion. There are forces of darkness, which do not love charity, or mercy, or justice, and which will not rest until these virtues are extinguished by all-encompassing night. Whenever any good or worthy thing is contemplated, the agents of evil seek first to destroy it; failing that, they seek the destruction of any who champion virtue and right. We saw that here today.

“But I tell you that as long as I am King, those whose minds are bent on hate and destruction have a foe who will not retreat. In the King of Britain, the agents of evil have roused an adversary who will take the battle to the grave. I will not be bowed. I will not give in. I will not surrender to the forces of night.”

He finished by saying that in the final days before the referendum he would be taking his vision of Britain directly to the nation. He asked those listening to think about what he had said, and if they found themselves agreeing, then he asked for their support. “Britain was exalted once, and it can be again,” he said. “Join me in the fight. Together, we can make Britain the place it was always meant to be. We can make the dream of Avalon into reality.”

That night Prime Minister Waring, along with several million other viewers, sat transfixed before the Six O’Clock Report and watched the gallant young King snatch a toddling child from the jaws of ravening attack dogs, and then take on not only savage pit bulls but a gang of rabid neo-Nazi hoodlums as well.

Had the attack been painstakingly planned and rehearsed, it could not have been better stage-managed. The scandal had made the monarch the center of attention; the impromptu Speaker’s Corner appearance had guaranteed sufficient media involvement; the attack, so sudden and brutal and wanton, had made him an instant hero.

The trouble, from Waring’s point of view, was that it hadn’t been an act. The pipes and chains were real, the dogs frighteningly real, and so was the courage that had faced them down. In media terms, it was an unassailable demonstration of the King’s personal integrity, an unanswerable argument for his character.

Next day, the nation’s Sunday newspapers displayed magnificent full-color photos of the valiant King cradling young Hannah in his arms, heedless of the leaping pit bull. Nearly every front page of every newspaper in the land extolled the King in banner headlines. Several seasoned paparazzi captured the precise moment the airborne toddler fell into the safety of Cal’s arms, thereby making Calum McKay a secondary hero in the drama.

The Sun
, heretofore the monarch’s biggest detractor, ran a seven-page photo supplement on the attack — which they called a “mob riot” — complete with diagrams and a minute-by-minute timeline. Two pages were devoted to the role played by the King’s mysterious fiancée; the main photo showed Jennifer comforting a frightened Hannah, their faces nose to nose, tears still glistening on the child’s round face, her tiny hand tangled in Jenny’s long black hair. An intensely intimate moment, that single picture did more to endear the heretofore unknown woman to the nation than any number of silky soft-focus glamour portraits so adored by previous royals.

Not to be outdone, the
Observer
proclaimed ARTHUR LIVES! The headline was run above a photo of the unarmed King in hand-to-hand combat with a gang of marauding, chain-swinging, pipe-wielding skinheads. The reporter, also an eyewitness, fell all over himself praising the King, and declared with solemn sincerity, “In our brave new King, Britain’s ancient code of chivalry is revived.” He ended the piece proclaiming, “The spirit of Arthur lives again!”

Clips of the attack were run and rerun on news programs for the next few days. Waring couldn’t turn on the television without seeing yet another replay of some aspect of the Hyde Park incident. Every man, woman, child, and tourist within a mile of the place must have had their video cameras grinding away, because there seemed to be no end of fuzzy, poorly lit, herky-jerky footage of Good King James beating the living snot out of the bad guys for the glory of Great Britain. Eyewitness interviews seemed to have included half the population of greater metropolitan London, and the other half was phoning up radio talk shows to discuss it in depth.