Avalon (7 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Speaker,” continued the Prime Minister when the shouting had abated. “I would merely add that arrangements are being made by this government for the remains of the King to be flown back to London for burial. We have obtained assurances from the Portuguese authorities that the body will be released at the earliest possible moment following the conclusion of their investigations. I hasten to assure the House that even now we are working closely with our foreign colleagues to bring about a swift and satisfactory resolution to what is for all concerned an extremely lamentable and sorrowful affair.”

The Prime Minister sat down abruptly, which was the signal for the Opposition benches to have at it. First on his feet and first to be recognized was Huw Griffith, the feisty, wirehaired leader of the Unified Alliance Party, the Government’s erstwhile opposition. The UAP was a coalition of five smaller parties which struggled year after year to mount a meaningful, coherent opposition to Waring’s British Republic Party juggernaut.

“Are we to understand, Mr. Speaker,” roared the amply padded MP, “that the death of our monarch is the subject of a continuing police investigation? Does this indicate foul play? If so, what are the circumstances? If not, what, in heaven’s name, does the Prime Minister mean? I would ask the Right Honorable Member for additional clarification, if it is not too much trouble.”

Griffith sat down, glaring across the table at his rival. Amid the shouts of friend and foe alike, the PM rose to his feet. “I would most happily provide clarification for the Honorable Gentleman, Mr. Speaker, if that were possible. Unfortunately, I can only say that inasmuch as King Edward was apparently alone in his residence, further details of the tragic event must await the results of the official investigation.”

The PM sat down, and the clamor resumed. “Mr. Speaker!” shouted Charles Graham, shadow home secretary, and leader of the New Conservatives, one of the coalition Opposition parties. “I am appalled, Mr. Speaker, that the death of our nation’s monarch should be treated in this callous and irreverent manner. Will the Government mount a full and thorough inquiry into this tragic affair immediately?”

The Prime Minister rose and returned to the dispatch box. “Allow me to reassure the Honorable Gentleman, Mr. Speaker, that this government is offering its complete support to those in charge of the investigation. A report is in the offing. If, after receiving that report, we feel further scrutiny is warranted, I can personally assure this House that a government inquiry will be conducted.”

The Speaker then recognized a backbencher whose name James didn’t catch, but who spoke in a loud voice with an accent that could cut crystal: “Mr. Speaker, will the Prime Minister please confirm that inasmuch as Edward the Ninth was the reigning monarch of Britain at the time of his death, that he will be accorded a State funeral — with all the honor and, may I say, pomp and prestige suitable to such an occasion — and further, will he confirm in unequivocal terms his understanding that insofar as Britain is still a monarchy, he will continue to fulfill his sworn obligation, as the King’s Prime Minister, namely, to uphold, defend, and serve the sovereignty of our nation?”

The double-barreled question seemed innocuous enough, but a hushed House waited as Waring slowly rose once more to the dispatch box.

He cleared his throat. “Mr. Speaker, the Honorable and Gallant Member from Glenrothes has raised an important constitutional point regarding the funeral, and one which is currently being assessed by the Home Office. Their recommendation will form the basis of this government’s decision, which will be announced at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, I most happily reiterate that as Prime Minister, it is not only my obligation, but my very great honor, to defend and serve the sovereignty of this nation.”

“Mr. Speaker,” the Fife backbencher continued, “should the PM be reminded that he is living in a dreamworld if he thinks he can bamboozle the great British public —”

“Order!” cried Carpenter from his thronelike seat. “The Honorable Gentleman will rephrase the question.”

“Thank you, Mr. Speaker,” replied the member from Glenrothes, and continued as smoothly unruffled as before, “I would merely ask whether it is the Prime Minister’s intention to deprive the nation of the opportunity to mourn their sovereign’s tragic death in a manner befitting the long and illustrious tradition of the monarchy of which Edward was the representative, or whether the Right Honorable Gentleman will choose instead to make a cheap political point at the expense of the British people?”

The question was aired before the Speaker could cut it off, and the House shook with the uproar. Speaker Carpenter shouted something, which was lost in the furor. The BBC voice-over announcer pointed out that, as the question had been ruled unparliamentary, the PM was not required to answer — and he didn’t. Instead, another question was taken, and a member inquired whether Magna Carta II would be discontinued now that it had achieved its purpose.

This question, which could not have been far from many minds, silenced the House again. As Prime Minister Waring returned once more to his place, every eye was on him, every ear awaiting his explanation.

“This government, Mr. Speaker, has over the last few years endeavored to bring one of our nation’s most ancient and revered institutions into step with the realities of a modern democratic nation-state. Magna Carta Two, as it has been termed, was only one of several tools employed for that purpose. But, Mr. Speaker, the plain fact is that the voluntary abdications this government has acquired —”

The House burst into catcalls, whistles, and a blizzard of furiously waved order papers, cheers, and hisses. “Order!” Carpenter roared. “Order! Prime Minister!”

“Voluntary abdications,” Waring repeated, “acquired by this government, when combined with the unfortunate circumstance of King Edward’s death, however lamentable in itself, does bring to an end what might be mildly termed a ‘vexed and troubled reign,’ and would therefore seem to vindicate this government’s pursuit of disestablishment.”

There were whoops and jeers at this, but the Prime Minister coolly reached for his glass of water and waited while the Speaker restored order in the chamber.

“I make no apology, Mr. Speaker,” Waring resumed, “for the policy which this government has faithfully pursued for the systematic reduction of privilege for the rich and idle at the expense of the poor and hard-working. I make no apology for removing the burden of an onerously expensive monarchy from the public purse, nor for returning valuable lands and properties to public use, nor, indeed, for releasing royal treasures to the enjoyment of all this nation’s people. Further, I would remind this House that these initiatives have enjoyed broad-based support in the country, and cross-party support in this chamber!”

He glared defiantly across the table at the Opposition benches. “I am sure the House will agree with me that, while we may mourn the sad death of a man and the passing of an ancient institution, the actual benefits flowing from this government’s policy of royal devolution are incalculable, and must not be sacrificed to softheaded sentimentality.”

This drew another raucous flourish of jeers and catcalls which the Speaker of the House, with difficulty, silenced.

“If I may be allowed to finish, Mr. Speaker,” resumed the PM, apparently unperturbed by the outcry, “I will conclude by saying that in the absence of any remaining claimants to the throne, and in light of having achieved unqualified successes in accomplishing the goals set before it, this government now considers the work of the Special Committee for Royal Devolution to have entered its final phase. I will therefore take this opportunity to reaffirm our intention to adhere to the schedule ratified some months ago in this very chamber with regard to the referendum vote for the final Act of Dissolution of the monarchy.”

Prime Minister Waring paused and looked up from his notes. “This is an important point. Allow me to underscore it, if you will. In light of recent events, this government will hold the final public referendum on the fifteenth of February, as previously announced, thus securing the will of the nation as regards this timely issue.”

With that he stepped back and took his seat on the front bench to the chorused grunts of approval from his supporters and party members, and shouted japes and challenges from the opposition facing him across the room. Speaker Carpenter called the House to order, and passed on to other business, whereupon the PM, the cabinet, most of the visitors, and all of the journalists departed.

The coverage from the Commons ended, but the news broadcast continued; there were live reports from Madeira and outside Parliament, and from pundits gathered in the BBC studio to discuss the implications of the PM’s speech and read the tea leaves of political fortunes. James found his attention wandering, and after a few minutes Caroline returned, all apologies over a kitchen disaster of major proportions.

“Did I miss anything important?”

“It’s hard to say,” James told her. “The question of a State funeral was raised —”

“Excellent! Jolly good!” Caroline clapped her hands once for emphasis. “Oh, that’s very encouraging indeed. Well done!”

Baffled by her sudden excitement, James said, “I don’t think the matter was settled. Waring seemed to waffle.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Caroline countered. “Thin end of the wedge, eh, Calum?”

“Thin end of the wedge, absolutely,” Cal replied, regarding his hostess with a bemused expression.

Lady Rothes switched off the TV, and turned to her guests. “Now then, dinner is served.”

James and Cal followed her back through the mahogany doors, across the grand foyer, and into a large formal dining room dominated by a massive crystal chandelier and a floor-to-ceiling gilt mirror covering most of one wall. Cal let out a silent whistle as he took in the elegant sideboard laden with silver tureens and platters; the precious, if slightly threadbare, Persian carpet on the parquet floor; and a heroic Sheraton dining table that could have served as a Thames bridge. A dozen matching chairs surrounded the table, and more stood against the walls at various places around the room.

“Here we are,” Caroline said. “I’ve put you at this end. I hope you won’t feel like you’re dining in an airplane hangar.”

“Not at all,” James assured her. “But I see only two places. You’re not joining us?”

“I had a light supper earlier. But you two tuck in, and I’ll just potter around. I might be persuaded to join you for pudding, if you twisted my arm.”

“Consider it twisted,” Cal said, pulling out his chair.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she acquiesced nicely. “
Bon appétit
!” She buzzed from the room, disappearing through a door all but hidden behind the sideboard.

“Sterling,” murmured Cal, picking up a fork and hefting it in his hand. On the plates before them was a cold prawn salad prepared with freshly made garlic mayonnaise, and no fewer than four stemmed goblets were arranged before each plate. Cal tapped the largest goblet with a tine of his fork, sounding a clear, resonant note. “Lead crystal.”

The bell-like tone brought an immediate response, for a door opened across the room, and a young woman entered carrying an ice bucket on a stand. Although she was dressed like a man in black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt, and her dark, straight hair was cut short as any schoolboy’s, her long-limbed figure argued otherwise.

“Hi,” she greeted the diners cheerily. “I’m Isobel.” Placing the ice bucket beside the table, she withdrew a corkscrew from her pocket and proceeded to open the bottle of white wine in the bucket.

“Hello, Isobel,” Cal said appreciatively.

“This,” she said, indicating the bottle between her hands, “is a
good
South African Chardonnay.” She pulled the cork with a practiced twist of a slender wrist, and poured two glasses. “I think you’re going to love it.”

“I love it already.” Cal smiled, adjusting his collar, obviously pleased he’d worn his new shirt.

She winked at him. “Enjoy!”

Isobel disappeared as abruptly as she’d arrived, leaving a gaping hole in the room. The two men fell silent, eating their prawns and sipping wine which, as promised, was very good. No sooner had they laid the fish forks aside, than Caroline entered with two steaming plates of soup.

“It’s plum and parsnip,” she informed them. “I know it sounds hideous, but do try it. Donald would have it every day, but we ration him to Christmas.”

Like the wine, the soup was exceptional. After a perfunctory sniff and an exploratory taste, Calum tilted his plate and scooped away. It was all James could do to keep him from licking the shallow bowl clean.

Next, it was Isobel’s turn to reappear, bringing with her a bottle of red wine, already opened. “I
know
you’re going to like this one. It’s one of my favorites — not terrifically well known but really solid. It’s an eastern Australian Shiraz. And it” — she began pouring — “is” — she filled Cal’s glass — “smashing.”

She filled James’ glass, and then removed the half-empty white wine goblets. “Enjoy!”

“Is this all you do?” Cal asked her.

“I cook as well,” she confided. “Starters, salads, and desserts — which are my specialty.”

“Will you marry me?” asked Cal.

She gave him a dazzling smile. “Why don’t we wait until pudding? In case you change your mind.”

With that, she was gone again. Caroline arrived a moment later with a tray of steaming plates. “These are hot,” she warned, placing a plate before each of her guests. The air was suddenly filled with a heavenly aroma.

“Lamb and potatoes.” Cal sighed happily. “They must be able to read my mind.”

“Everyone can read your mind, Cal,” James remarked. “Whatever you’re thinking is on your face before you open your mouth. Enjoy!” Raising his glass, he took a deliberately large sip. The red, in James’ estimation, was even better than the white. Although partial to reds, he knew nothing whatsoever about wine — except to stay far, far away from that nasty Khazak stuff the Afghans served the UN troops. What the soldiers didn’t drink, they used to clean their rifles; it stripped away old grease and did not leave a sticky residue.