Avalon (53 page)

For James, however, the funeral was but a momentary lull in his relentless mission to save the monarchy. He and the royal entourage watched the limousines out of sight, and then prepared to drive to Cardiff where he would address a conclave of Welsh National Party leaders and rank-and-file faithful who had offered to work their small but influential patch on his behalf.

As he was about to climb into the black Jaguar, he heard himself hailed from the church entrance, and turned to see the Archbishop signaling to him. Amid the shouts of reporters, the King stepped quickly back into the vestibule for a word with the churchman.

“Thank you for the good word, Your Grace,” James said. “It was certainly very kind.”

“Not at all,” the Archbishop replied quickly. “What I said today was the simple truth, and I meant every word of it. You see, over the years I have become a very good judge of character. I have been watching you very closely in the last few days, and I don’t mind telling you, I like what I see. I like it very much. So much, in fact, that it makes me a little afraid.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “If you can spare a minute, I’d like to talk to you. Please? It’ll only take a minute or two, and then you can be on your way.”

“Of course,” replied James, “it would be a pleasure.” He signaled to Rhys, who was waiting at the church door, and then joined the Archbishop; the two men moved a little further into the church, away from the cameras and microphones of the waiting journalists.

“You know,” said the Archbishop after a moment, “people assume a churchman’s life is dull as dishwater, that we glide blissfully from one placid appointment to the next with nothing more exciting than the occasional homily to liven our luxuriously empty days.”

“What?” James asked in feigned surprise. “You mean it’s not like that?”

“Not by a long shot,” Rippon declared with a flat chop of his hand. “I’m here to tell you it’s a snake pit — worse than that even. Most reptiles only strike in self-defense, but our variety bite for the sheer joy of inflicting pain. And the parishioners are almost as bad.” He paused, shaking his head, then said, “I love it. God knows I do.”

“You surprise me, Archbishop,” replied James, warming to the man by the moment.

“The much-trumpeted cut and thrust of party politics is mere child’s play compared to Church House administration. Believe me, most senior career politicians wouldn’t last a general synod.” He smiled with sudden animation. “It’s war, but without the blood and bombs. When I was a lad in Berkshire, I used to dream of one day commanding a fighting ship on the high seas. God certainly has a wicked sense of humor, because my ambition has been fulfilled in spades. The only difference between an archbishop and an admiral is that an admiral in the Royal Navy doesn’t have to engage in daily hand-to-hand combat with his own shipmates.”

James laughed at the thought of bishops tussling in their cassocks.

“I would have been wasted in the navy,” Archbishop Rippon continued. “Too docile, too pedestrian. Give me a laity missions conference any day.”

“The Admiralty’s loss is definitely the Church’s gain, I’d say,” James observed sincerely.

They arrived at the end of the aisle. The churchman stopped and turned to James, serious once more. “I said I was afraid just now,” he confided. “You see, Your Majesty, disappointment is something I’ve never taken very well.”

“You’re afraid of being disappointed by me, is that it?”

“Let us say I am afraid of hoping too much.” Addressing James squarely, he came at last to the heart of his concern. “It comes down to this: are you the man you say you are?”

“Contrary to what many seem to think,” James replied, “I did not ask to be King of Britain; it was not something I chased or coveted for myself. But it is something I believe in; and the more I see the need in this country, the more deeply I am convinced of the urgent, aching necessity for someone who stands above and beyond the continual, corrosive powermongering and compromising that is modern government.” He smiled. “Archbishop Rippon, I am that man.”

The Archbishop’s grin was wide and genuine. His clear blue eyes grew moist with emotion. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket. “It seems I grew up with the now-unfashionable notion that Britain was great because it was a nation that believed deeply in the sacred and reverenced the divine. That our little island held a special place in God’s heart because Britain held fast to the twin pillars of nationhood — the church and the monarchy — when the spiritual storms of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment raged through Europe and blew the rest away. To this day, I believe Britain endured and survived with our culture and heritage intact because our ancestors refused to sacrifice sovereignty to the gods of humanism and materialism.

“But now,” the Archbishop continued, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, “now the enemy seeks not just to replace the faith of the nation with a different faith, or many faiths, but to destroy faith completely. To accomplish this, the enemy attacks both the monarchy and the Church, ruthlessly, relentlessly, dismantling them piece by piece.”

Turning to James, he put out his hand in a gesture of appeal. “Alone, we’re finished, you and I. Together, we have a chance. What do you say, Your Majesty?” He smiled mischievously. “We may not win the battle, but we can sure give the devil a hell of a fight.”

“Archbishop Rippon,” James replied, “I’ve never dodged a fight in my life. You can count on me.”

Peter Rippon reached out and took the King’s hand in his own. “God bless you, Your Majesty. I will pray for you.”

“Thank you, Archbishop. I can use all the help I can get.”

“What is more,” added Rippon, “I will put feet to my prayers and do what I can to mobilize the Church in support of the monarchy. It may be that, come referendum day, we will have our own small part to play.”

“I would very much appreciate it,” James told him.

Then, taking hold of the cross which hung on the chain around his neck, the Archbishop raised it before the King, and said, “May the God who has called you bless you richly and prosper you in all things. And may He grant you the gifts of grace and wisdom to perform aright the duties which belong to the grave and sacred trust you have undertaken. And may the Lord of Peace, who raised our Lord Jesus from the dead so that we might know salvation, give you vision, courage, love, and strength to do His will. And may the blessing of the Almighty Creator be upon you and remain with you always. Amen.”

“Amen,” echoed James, his head bowed to receive the blessing. He thanked Rippon and, after promising to keep in touch regardless of the referendum’s outcome, rejoined Rhys at the door. Then, braving the crush of reporters, he dived into the back of the black Jaguar and drove on to Cardiff.

The next six days passed for James and his entourage in a dizzying swirl of meetings, addresses, assemblies, convocations, confrontations, and gatherings both formal and informal. In the end, there wasn’t a county from Land’s End to John o’ Groats that had not been invaded by the King and his rolling media circus. When, on the day before the referendum, he finally turned and headed north once more it was with the knowledge that he had done all that was humanly possible to get his message heard by the nation’s voters. By dint of tireless barnstorming, he had made direct contact with more of the country’s population than had the last five British monarchs combined, and his winsome personality had been displayed to stunning effect.

Whether the effort had been enough to sway the undecided masses was anyone’s guess. Most of the reputable polls maintained that it was too close to call. Shona and Gavin’s unofficial reading indicated more or less the same thing. James had given it his very best, and now it was up to the people to decide.

He arrived in Braemar just before noon, and went directly to Blair Morven, where Jenny was waiting. Shona and Gavin, who had joined the King in London the week before, fended off the reporters, while James went in for a well-deserved rest. He and Jenny settled down to the first peaceful, uninterrupted lunch the King had enjoyed since his campaign blitz began. In almost two weeks he had not taken a bite or had a drink in private, and the thought of a quiet meal with his beloved had become an obsession.

The moment he closed the door and Jenny came into his arms to welcome him home, however, all thoughts of food and drink evaporated in the heat of her passionate embrace. Instead, James found himself whispering, “Let’s get married.”

“Of course, my love. Set a date, and I’ll meet you at the church.” She kissed him. “Anytime.”

“How about right now?”

“Now?” She laughed. “Now you want to make an honest woman of me?”

“I mean it,” he insisted. “Right now. Today. This minute.”

“James,” she said, pushing back as his arms drew her tight, “we can’t possibly. It would take a month to plan at least, and then there’s —”

“We don’t have to plan a thing. We could run away. We could elope.”

“We can’t run away. You’re the King of Britain.”

“I am now, but by this time tomorrow, who knows? Jenny” — he took her hands in his — “look at me. Tomorrow is the referendum, and I have no idea how the vote will go. But whether I am King or not the day after tomorrow, I know I want to wake up next to you.” He kissed her and rested his forehead against hers. “Marry me. Now. Tonight.”

She stared at him, slowly shaking her head from side to side. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. But you — you’re serious about this.”

“I can’t do it anymore without you, Jen. I need you beside me.”

She swallowed. “You could give a girl a little notice.”

“Does that mean yes?”

She nodded.

James gathered her in his arms and kissed her. “We’ll ring up Reverend Orr, and get him to come over and perform the ceremony right here. It won’t be the first wedding to take place in the castle. We can have —”

“Hold it right there, boyo,” Jenny said bluntly. “I’m having a proper church wedding and honeymoon, or nothing doing.” Taking him by the hand, she led him to the table and sat him down. “Have a sandwich and collect yourself. I’ve got a wedding to plan.”

She swept from the room and, as James took a bite of his ham sandwich, he heard her in the corridor beyond, calling for Shona to get her mother on the phone.

Strings were pulled, mountains moved, and favors called in — Archbishop Rippon cheerfully granted a Special License for the wedding, and the Banchory florist contributed her entire stock of cut flowers — and by six o’clock that evening, everything was ready. Despite the fiendishly short notice, there was standing room only in the church. The Glen Dee grapevine had performed its usual service — every seat in every pew was full, and the back of the church packed with friends, relations, and well-wishers. The sanctuary was lit entirely by candles, which imparted a cozy glow and also served to hide the lack of decoration; nevertheless, James thought the little church had rarely looked lovelier. Reverend Orr was in fine fettle as he began the service.

Taking his place at the front of the church, James, splendid in his dress kilt — complete with a genuine badger-skin sporran, and his father’s dagger tucked into the top of one tall sock for good luck — waited nervously through the organ prelude. And then, there she was, standing in the center of the aisle, his bride, looking radiant and lovely in the candlelight. Two of her workers from the pottery joined her as bridesmaids and, at their appearance, the “Wedding March” commenced.

James gazed with pleasure at Jenny’s lovely face, so calm and composed, feminine and beautiful, her blue eyes shining with love and delight as she walked down the aisle. She paused to allow her father to step beside her and take her arm. Instantly, James was put in mind of his parents, and how much his mother would have loved to have seen Jennifer come down the aisle, gorgeous in her snow-white froth of lace and satin. He had no idea how or where she had found the dress, but he knew his father would have been proud to have welcomed such a beautiful daughter-in-law into the family. He thought about his and Jenny’s future together, and wondered what kind of future it would be.

He became so engrossed in his thoughts that the next thing James knew, Reverend Orr was leading them in their vows. He heard himself saying “I do,” and the preacher asking for the ring; he fumbled in his jacket pocket before Calum, his best man, placed it squarely in his hand. Next came the stirring pronouncement of “man and wife” and a thundering swell of organ music. The happy couple kissed, and the congregation erupted in wild applause. Most of Braemar, James realized, had probably been anticipating this particular wedding for years, and the long-suffering townsfolk were relieved to see it accomplished at last.

Embries and Gavin, working with Agnes and Owen, had laid on a slap-up reception at the Invercauld Arms Hotel just around the corner from the church. The ballroom was festooned with appropriate splendor, and the meal a genuine highland feast. There was music and dancing — Douglas, swiftly pressed into duty, had arranged for the Deeside Drifters to play — and champagne, silly speeches, and round after round of wedding toasts to the new couple.

Most of the town was there, which made it good fun. After so many days on the road, James relished the easy conviviality of the reception, and almost felt it a shame when at last the time came for the newlywed couple to leave. But leave they did, or else they would have had no honeymoon at all.

With Cal and Douglas’ help, they enacted a simple ruse to draw the ever-present paparazzi away. Dougie and some of the band members had decorated Embries’ Jaguar — filling it with balloons and tying crepe streamers to the rear bumper and door handles. At the prearranged signal, the car pulled up to the hotel entrance. There was a sudden flourish at the door, as people rushed out throwing confetti and shouting as the black car sped away; the newshounds gave chase, and in the confusion, no one noticed the battered blue Land Rover quietly leaving from the back of the hotel.

The couple drove out onto the Pitlochry road and headed for the Spittal of Glenshee, where Cal had booked them the bridal suite at Dalmunzie House. The night was cold and clear, with only a few broken clouds passing over the bright starfield. Once away from the town, the snow-covered tops of the hills glowed ghostly white in the dark. The road was deserted and fairly dry, with only a few patches of rough ice along the shoulders and center line.