Avalon (25 page)

“Does that suggest anything to you?”

James shrugged; he felt like a slow-witted schoolboy trying to guess the answer to a dauntingly obvious mathematics problem. Embries turned his eyes to the arch above the altar. “A keystone?” said James.

“A keystone,” confirmed Embries. “By including this particular stone in this position, it is as if the master mason was saying that this chapel, which was to be the keystone of the English church, was itself founded on the keystone of an earlier church.”

James nodded. It was mildly interesting, but he did not see what it had to do with him.

“That stone,” Embries continued, “came from the doorway of London’s first genuine cathedral, founded inside the original city walls no great distance from here.”

As Embries spoke, James saw in his mind’s eye a narrow, cobblestoned street close crowded by buildings of Roman brick. The end of the street opened out into a small courtyard filled with heaps of quarried stone, where workmen wearing little more than dusty rags dragged sledges of rock towards a veritable forest of timber scaffolding.

“Well, Uther Pendragon had died, and Britain was rapidly descending into chaos. Each year the Saecsen, Picti, and Scoti grew increasingly bold and ruthless, and if that weren’t bad enough, the petty kings were at one another’s throats, laying waste the land. Bishop Urbanus called a council of kings to decide once and for all who should replace Uther and lead the war host of Britain against the barbarian invaders.”

At these words, James saw the torch-lit interior of the church and a room full of angry men wrapped in their long cloaks against a cold winter wind that gusted through the unfinished building. Each, with his own noblemen for support, faced another belligerently across the ring, while the Bishop stood in the center, hands out-thrust in supplication, ardently beseeching them to put aside their animosity.

The small kings paid him no attention; frustration was mounting, and tempers were boiling over; there were shouts and threats of violence. And then, there was Myrddin in their midst. Quiet, triumphant, towering in his confidence, hand upraised, clutching a sword — the great battle sword of Emperor Maximus, the Sword of Britain.

With the end of their shouts ringing in his ears, James looked at the keystone, and he saw the deep-cut cleft. It might have been made by the blow of a chisel, only this cut struck into the heart of the stone, far deeper than any mason’s tool. He saw the narrow crevice and knew what had caused it.

“The Sword of Macsen Wledig,” murmured James. “Myrddin did that.”

“He did indeed,” Embries replied with satisfaction. “I told you these old stones could talk.”

All at once the image shifted to another winter’s day, years later. As before, the kings were gathered in the church to debate who among them might ascend to the High King’s throne. As before, it was the evening before the Christ Mass; this time, however, a stranger had come to join the proceedings. A young man approached the altar uncertainly while Bishop Urbanus read out his long-winded prayer in a desperate attempt to forestall the acrimony and bitterness to which this council would soon descend. For years, the insane arrogance and absurd posturing had made a mockery of his good intentions. Still, he hoped, and so he prayed, and praying heard the soft footfall approaching. Urbanus glanced across the backs of the kneeling kings, first in annoyance at the interruption and then in amazement: the youth carried the Sword of Britain in his hands!

James felt his own hands grow tight with the clenched weight of cold steel, and suddenly he was there: he sees the bowed heads lift as the Bishop’s prayer falters. The sword! Astonishment on the faces around him quickly gives way to bristling anger. They are on their feet, their prayers forgotten. There is only the dry rustle of shoe leather on stone. No one speaks. It is the false calm before the storm.

Instantly, the violence breaks like thunder after the lightning’s sharp flash. Voices: irate, outraged, demanding, questioning. Hands: straining, grasping, making fists, reaching for weapons. Bodies: thrusting forward, crowding in. But he does not flinch. He grimly holds his ground as all hell breaks loose around him. The lords of Britain surround him now. They are shouting.
Usurper! Upstart
! Like scalded pigs they scream.

The holy sanctuary has become a bear pit. He stands bold and silent in the center, unmoved by the violent reaction his presence has provoked. He has become an effigy carved in stone, and the noblemen are savages writhing around him, rage and fear twisting their faces into masks of hatred.

Weapons glint in upraised fists.
Kill him! Kill the usurper
!

Urbanus struggles forward. Arms above his head, hands waving, face as white as death, he calls for peace and order. No one hears him; the Bishop’s words are lost in the whirling maelstrom of hatred. A hand snakes out and the Bishop falls to the floor, blood spurting from his broken nose.

Kill him! Kill the usurper!

The din is deafening. The crowd crushes nearer.

Kill him!… Kill him!… Kill him
! they cry. It is a death chant.

Arthur lowers his head and tightens his grip on the sword.

And then, above the clamor, there is heard the sound of a tempest, the blast of a mighty gale. The petty kings fall back. They cover their heads and their eyes strain upward into the darkness above. Is the roof falling? The sky?

When they look again, the Wise Emrys is with him, standing beside him. They cry trickery, sorcery, and demand to see the proof that even now their eyes will not accept. Shoving, jostling, they push their way out of the church and into the yard where the forlorn keystone stands in the snow. Their torches flicker over the naked stone; the sword is not there….

James, rapt in his strange, vivid reverie, leaned towards the stone. He reached out a hand and, like Doubting Thomas putting his fingers into the sacrificial wound, touched the cleft in the stone and believed. What he had seen was true.

“You said for me to get myself another boy,” Embries said. “There
is
no other boy, James. There wasn’t then, and there isn’t now. You are the only one.”

“That’s why you brought me here. You knew I would remember.”

“I hoped you would recall something of what had to be faced long ago, and find it within you to shoulder the burden once more.”

James gazed at the keystone and tried to imagine the awful span of years between that winter’s day long, long ago and this one. Although he could remember it in a curious, dreamlike way, he could not make the required leap. Yet, as solid as the stone before him, and as certain as the cleft striking deep into its heart, he had faced the enraged nobility of Britain as they shouted for his blood. He remembered, and felt the weight of conviction settle upon him. Very well. He had done it once, he could do it again.

Rising slowly, James turned to the man beside him. Myrddin Emrys, faithful through all things; he had stood with him on that fateful day, and would stand with him now. “Bring it on,” James said softly. “I’m ready.”

Embries smiled. “Then let us begin. There is much to be done before your announcement.” He made to turn away, but James put out his hand and stopped him.

“Not so fast,” James said. “If there’s going to be a battle, I want to fight it on my own turf — at Blair Morven. That’s where we make the announcement.”

At the same moment the contingent of Coldstream Guards were removing Edward’s casket from the Picture Gallery and placing it in the back of an undertaker’s hearse, a young man in a dark green blazer, black trousers, white shirt, and blue-and-yellow-striped tie, was arriving at the Whitehall offices of the Chairman for the Special Committee for Royal Devolution. He carried a thin black-leather briefcase and an appointment card.

After presenting himself in the lobby, he passed through a metal detector, and an armed guard searched his briefcase; he was then admitted, signed in, and conducted along the corridor to a red door and ushered into a suite of offices decorated with very modern, very expensive, Italian titanium-and-leather furniture, handmade Swedish wallpaper, and French abstract paintings. The young man was greeted by the office administrator, who took his appointment card and waved him to one of the low, polished-leather seats.

He had just settled himself comfortably when the administrator, replacing her phone, announced, “Mr. Arnold’s assistant can see you now.” She indicated a door marked with the name D. Toley, and said, “It’s right through there, if you’d like to go in.”

The fellow in the green blazer thanked the woman but declined, saying that he preferred to wait until the appointed time. The woman drew his attention to the clock on the wall and observed that it was an hour and fifteen minutes until twelve o’clock.

“You are very kind,” the young man replied politely. “But I have my instructions. I would prefer to wait.”

This same scene, with numerous variations, was enacted at the offices of every major newspaper, radio, and television station in the city of London, as well as the metropolitan areas of Wales and Scotland. In all, 277 couriers — young men and women dressed in identical dark green blazers and striped ties — arrived at their various destinations carrying identical black-leather briefcases.

Each declined to see or speak to those with whom they had made their appointments until twelve o’clock. All waited patiently, the briefcases on their knees. Several of them, because employees of the offices they were visiting were also watching, were able to view the televised coverage of King Edward’s funeral.

What they, and anyone else tuning in, saw was a small convoy of black vehicles — a hearse and three limousines — making its way slowly along empty streets through a drab, drizzly November morning. No horse-drawn caisson or carriage decked in royal livery, no floral tributes heaped high on the coffin, no teary-eyed, mournful masses. In fact, very few people lined the streets, and most of these had not braved the damp weather to watch the procession with their grieving fellows, but were unwary pedestrians united only in the misfortune of having their progress arrested by the police cordon. Unable to continue with their errands, they had no choice but to wait until the cortège passed and the barriers were cleared.

When the hearse arrived at Westminster Abbey, the casket was carried in and placed on a low stand before the outer quire screen. The massive nave was brightly lit by the lights of the TV crews, and the turnout was decidedly more respectful. The few friends and relatives of the deceased, augmented by ranks of government and ex-royal functionaries, filled the limited seating, presenting a suitably somber yet tidy contingent of mourners. Prime Minister Waring and his deputy, the Home Secretary, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, along with spouses and various family members, held the front rank of seats; opposition party MPs, led by Huw Griffith, filled two rows behind them.

After a brief voice-over description of the ancient chapel, the ceremony commenced. A single large candle at the head of the black-draped coffin was lit by the Dean of Westminster, signaling the organ to play a dutifully solemn hymn. Ladbrokes, the betting agents, received several phone calls during the piece from people willing to wager good money on whether or not the last hymn Teddy ever heard was also the first. The bet was declined, not because it was unlikely but only because insofar as the King was dead the result could not be authenticated.

After the hymn, the Dean read out a passage from Psalms, and led the congregation in a prayer — in which the Almighty’s clemency and mercy were invoked in large measure, and the deceased’s worthiness glossed over entirely. Following the prayer, a soprano with the English National Opera sang Cantaloube’s
Baïlèro
which was widely and erroneously reported to have been one of Edward’s lifelong favorites.

There followed a lengthy homily by the Canon of St. Paul’s, the Right Reverend Perceval Preston-Giles, who seemed quite concerned that a tone of harmonious equanimity should be struck. While, by earthly standards, Edward, by any account, was not a particularly godly man, he said, by heavenly standards he was really no worse than any other unregenerate sinner. Suspecting that he may have overtipped the balance somewhat, he tried to correct himself by asking the congregation to look deep within themselves and see how well they measured up against God’s yardstick. The proof of a life, he said, was not how well it was lived, but how well it was loved. The Canon surmised — nay, was fairly certain — that Edward had been loved. Wisely declining to name names, he let it go at that, and quickly moved on to his closing point which was that death, the Great Leveler, was no respecter of persons, and that it would therefore behoove every person in the land to look long and hard into his soul and determine to put his house in order, because no one, whether prince or pauper, knew when he might be called before the throne of God and the Final Accounting demanded.

The service then concluded with another prayer and a hymn, whereupon the organ played while the Coldstream Guards removed the coffin to the hearse for its slow drive to King’s Cross where a special train was waiting to convey the coffin to Scotland for its burial in the family cemetery at Balmoral Castle. As the funeral procession left the chapel, the bells began to ring and, simultaneously, in 277 offices across the British Isles, couriers in dark green blazers stood and presented themselves and delivered their packets to their designated recipients.

Each packet was labeled with the words TIME-SENSITIVE DOCUMENTS, OPEN IMMEDIATELY. Below the label was a small, unmistakable royal insignia, but one which had not been seen in England for over a thousand years: a blood-red dragon, similar to that adorning the flag of Wales. The dragon was emblazoned on a shield surmounted by a cross, over which floated a crown.

Instantly intrigued, most of the recipients opened their packets on the spot. What they found inside was a collection of photocopied documents pertaining to the noble lineage of one James Arthur Stuart. Each individual copy was itself duly witnessed and notarized to establish its authenticity, and two glossy color photos of young Mr. Stuart included; one showed him in full dress military uniform, the other in a more informal pose. Lastly, the packet contained a rather stiffly worded declaration by an officer of the Royal Heritage Preservation Society confirming the legitimacy of Stuart’s claim to the sovereignty of Britain. Taken altogether, the items led inexorably to the startling conclusion that, whether anyone knew it or not, the country had a new king.