Avalon (37 page)

There were people everywhere, clomping through the anteroom and swarming the hall, each intent and busy. No one actually took any notice of James, until — as the seconds ticked down towards the evil hour — a blue-jeaned young woman with a clipboard and a stopwatch approached. With a gesture that almost looked like a curtsey, she said, “Your Royal Highness, five minutes, please.” She held out a small, bulbous object with a long pigtail of stiff black wire. “Could we mike you now, sir?”

Once the tiny microphone was duly attached and hidden, the young woman with the clipboard led him away. “I’ll take you in now. By the way, I’m Julie. Mind the cables underfoot.”

She opened the door and ushered James into the great hall, now awash in brilliant white light. It was a great deal quieter here, the activity less fraught if no less intent. Four men were standing beside a portable sound desk, drinking something pale out of clear plastic cups. James, his mouth suddenly dry and his throat parched, wished he had a shot of whatever they were having.

Julie threaded her way carefully among the lighting trees, aluminum flight cases, and various other bits of electronic gadgetry and onto the cleared space which formed the set. Three large video cameras on wheeled carriages stood at the ready. A small sofa had been plucked from one of the rooms and brought to sit at an angle to the fireplace in which a roaring blaze had been prepared. On a low table before the sofa sat a crystal carafe of water and two crystal goblets; a large, overstuffed armchair faced the sofa.

“Is it going to be this
hot
the whole time?” James asked, taking his place on the sofa. Julie expertly straightened his jacket and tugged his collar into place.

“You’ll get used to it, Your Majesty,” Julie said, taking up her clipboard and stopwatch from the coffee table. “One minute!” she shouted. The men gathered at the sound desk snapped to attention — one on the desk, the others to the cameras. “Where is Jonathan?”

When no one replied, the production assistant shouted again, “Has anyone seen Jonathan?”

A call went out for Jonathan, and Julie asked the King to test his microphone. She consulted her clipboard and stopwatch once more. “Thirty seconds!” she cried. “Where are you, Jonathan? The whole world is waiting.”

“Here’s Jonathan!” someone called, and a tall, distinguished man in a dark suit stepped swiftly onto the set. James recognized him at once as the fellow he had seen countless times, sitting behind his desk at BBC studios, reporting the day’s events and interviewing guests. Taller than he imagined, a little younger, and better looking, he carried a leather notebook in one hand and his lapel mike in the other.

With practiced efficiency, he clipped the mike to his tie and, smiling warmly, put out his hand. “Your Majesty,” he said with a slight bow. “Very pleased to meet you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jonathan Trent.”

Before James could reply, Julie shouted, “Ten seconds!”

“Quiet now, everyone!” called the director from somewhere near the sound desk. “We’re live in five… four… three….”

The assistant producer, holding two fingers in the air, backed away from the set. She pointed directly at Trent, mouthing the word “
Go
!”

James felt a rush of nervous excitement jolt through him, and they were on the air.

Smiling warmly into camera one, the suave presenter leaned forward casually over his notebook and said, “Good afternoon, this is Jonathan Trent, and we are broadcasting live from Castle Morven near Braemar in Scotland, the home of our nation’s new monarch who, for the next sixty minutes, will be allowing us a rare and exclusive insight into his life, his aims, and his hopes for Britain on this festive day.”

He paused, arranging his posture in the chair, as if readying himself for serious business. “We hope the next hour will prove stimulating, thought-provoking, and enlightening as we attempt to gain the measure of the individual whom some have termed ‘The Man Who Would Be King.’”

Turning to James, he smiled again, saying, “Your Royal Highness, best wishes and happy Christmas. First of all, let me thank you for graciously allowing us into your home on Christmas Day, and for agreeing to this interview.”

“You are most welcome, Jonathan,” James replied, fighting the urge to clear his throat. “It is my pleasure.”

Trent glanced at his notebook, folded his hands, then looked at the King and said, “One month ago, no one had the slightest inkling Britain would have a new monarch. Yet here we are: your claim to the throne has been recognized and, against all the odds, your reign has begun. How does that make you feel?”

Trent smiled, encouraging James to take the plunge.

“Quite honestly, it has been something of a shock,” James told him, trying, in the most unnatural of circumstances, to sound natural and spontaneous. “Unlike virtually every one of my predecessors, I did not grow up in a royal household; I was not raised with any notion, however remote, that I might be king one day. I am the first to admit that if not for a rather singular chain of events, no one would ever have heard of me and, of course, I would not be speaking to you now.”

“It reminds me of the old adage, ‘Some aspire to greatness, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’ You have certainly had greatness thrust upon you. But tell me, did you also aspire to greatness?”

“My aspirations have always been very simple,” James replied. “To be a good man, a good husband, and a good friend. My father was such a man, and I have always tried to be like him.”

Trent swooped. “You mention your father. May we talk about your family for a moment? Even by today’s fairly relaxed standards, your early life must have been, shall we say, somewhat confused?”

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” James protested mildly. “You are referring to the recent discovery of my true parentage. The man I knew as my father, John Stuart, raised me and loved me as a son, and —”

“Yet,” interrupted Trent, “although your mother was legally married to the Marquess of Morven, she was living with John Stuart at the time of your birth — a relationship which was to continue for many years. Isn’t this so?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Then if, by your own admission,” he continued quickly, “your parents were living an elaborate lie, how can your childhood be considered ‘normal’ in any sense of the word?”

“Simply because it was,” James insisted gently. “You see, my parents loved each other very much, and they loved me. It was out of that love that sacrifices were made which people today may not understand. One of those sacrifices was to give me a solid, normal upbringing in a stable, happy home. In this, they succeeded admirably, and I have always been grateful — all the more, now that I know the truth.”

“I see,” replied Trent, adopting a tone which implied that he was far from convinced. “Moving on, let us turn to the upbringing you mentioned just now. You grew up here, in a small Scottish town, an uncomplicated rural town, a town that depends almost totally on tourism for its continued survival. It is in many ways as far from cosmopolitan life as possible — very far from the world of politics and government, diplomacy, trade and commerce, and the complex affairs of the great nation-states which make up the world we inhabit today. How, I am wondering, could your upbringing have possibly prepared you for the rôle you are about to play?”

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Cal standing behind camera two, face ashen, shaking his head in misery. He realized, too late, that it was going to be a hatchet job — blood and butchery transmitted worldwide, the new King of Britain cut down to size by the BBC’s most trusted and admired interviewer.

Steeling himself for the onslaught, James looked Trent in the eye, and replied, “Your question appears designed to imply that I somehow lack the proper qualifications to be King of Britain because I did not grow up insulated from life by a cloak of royal privilege.”

Trent waved aside the observation. “Not at all,” he said genially. “I was merely trying to determine how it is that you see yourself fulfilling a very demanding rôle on the international stage when, by your own admission, you have had no proper training or upbringing?”

“Mr. Trent,” James countered, “did
you
know at the age of five, or twenty-five, that we would be having this conversation today?”

James paused so Trent could murmur, “Of course not.” Then he continued, “None of us ever knows what life will throw in our path. There is no way to be completely prepared for every possibility. That being the case, it is my belief that people do best in life when given a good, solid base on which to build. So, the question becomes: What makes for the best base, the best foundation?

“Now, then, I would have thought that children raised in stable, safe communities, surrounded by caring and competent adults, and granted the freedom of their environment — not forgetting plenty of fresh air and exercise, and time to think and learn their own hearts, and develop their own particular skills — I would have thought that children raised like this are best equipped to meet the challenges of life in an unpredictable world.”

Trent made as if to break in, but James had begun to find his rhythm, and wasn’t to be put off his stride.

“Further, I think that the world you speak of, this world of high finance, global trade, international politics — in short, the world of money and power — is only part of a larger reality, and most likely not even the most important part. After all, the various activities and occupations of government, trade, and diplomacy can be mastered by almost anyone who has the least inclination to do so — indeed, we see it happening all the time. Then again, I’ve always wondered, if the world of money and power is so overwhelmingly important, why are all the stockbrokers and politicians buying up country retreats and moving their families to small, rural communities far away from the heady affairs of the great nation-states on the international stage?

“The point is, give a child a good, solid foundation on which to build — that is, a mind that can think, a heart that can feel, a conscience that knows right from wrong — and there is no limit to what that individual can do in life.”

James leaned back, trying to control his breathing. Wrapped up in his argument, he was in danger of hyperventilating. Trent reacted by adopting a patronizing smile, augmented by the slightest shake of his head in dismissal. “You make it sound almost utopian,” he said, as if the word were self-evidently damning.

“Perhaps,” James allowed, feeling his blood warm to the cut and thrust of argument, “someone deprived of the simple benefits I have described might seek to discount them out of ignorance, envy, or spite. Nevertheless, this great country of ours has worked very hard for a very long time to make precisely these things possible for its citizens. Call it utopian if you like, but there are millions of people who, like myself, were raised in just this way and have moved on to lives as secure, happy, productive citizens.”

“All the same,” refuted Trent, “these millions of otherwise well-adjusted citizens are not asking anyone to accept them as reigning monarchs.”

“I believe it comes down to leadership in the end,” James replied. “Leadership, as my old sergeant used to say, is not so much where you come from but where you’re going. Character, in other words, not circumstance. As King, I ask no one to accept me by the circumstances of my birth. I ask only to be judged by the quality and integrity of my character.”

Jonathan Trent pursed his lips and glanced down at the notebook in his lap. James could not tell whether he had scored any direct hits with that answer, but the adrenaline was flowing now; he could feel the buzz of conflict, and was eager to meet it.
Bring it on, Trent
, he thought.
Show me what you’ve got
.

“Setting questions of integrity aside for the moment,” Trent said, nicely parrying James’ attack, “you must read the papers. You must realize that in less than five weeks’ time this nation will go to the ballot box in a referendum vote to abolish Britain’s monarchy forever. That is to say, in a few weeks you will be out of a job. What are your feelings about this?”

James smiled; this question had been foreseen. “As an army officer, one of my first assignments was to the British contingent of the UN Peacekeeping Force in Afghanistan, where I led a company of young soldiers just like myself. One night, after patrol, about eight of us were sitting around the fire, talking. Several of the men had reached the end of their tour of duty and were due to head home in a few days’ time; they were telling us all the things they were going to do the minute they got back.

“One of these soldiers, a Glaswegian called Gus, announced, ‘I’m going to buy my girl an engagement ring and ask her to marry me.’ The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there came a whir in the air. Someone shouted, ‘Mortar!’ and we all hit the dirt. The shell exploded right where we were standing.

“When the smoke cleared there were only three of us left. Five young men were blown to bloody bits, and I found myself lying next to Gus, who had lost his right arm and most of his chest.”

Trent regarded James with sympathetic dispassion, his professional cool very much in place; he gave away nothing.

“That night I learned the true nature of existence,” James explained. “Life is fragile, and it is short. None of us knows what the next moment will bring — let alone the next five weeks. I could go under a bus tomorrow, and that would be that.

“The point is, I can’t say whether I will be King after the referendum. All I know is that I am King now, at this moment. And while I have this moment, I intend to be the very best monarch I can. I intend to reign to the best of my ability — whether that reign is five hours, five weeks, or fifty years.”

Trent pressed his lips together and nodded appreciatively. “Clearly, you seem to believe there is a place for a king in a modern democracy. But, truthfully, isn’t the monarchy a dead institution — an outmoded throwback to an era best forgotten?”

“I used to think so,” James confessed. “Like most people in this country, I heard that opinion expressed so often that I swallowed it without ever thinking about it. But recently I have been forced to come to grips with what sovereignty means — and, more important, what it must mean for our country.”