Avalon (45 page)

Pandemonium instantly returned, and the Speaker’s efforts to restore order went unheeded.

“Yes!” Donald sank back into his chair. It was official: the Wall of Steel had been breached.

Across the divide, Waring and his cabinet sat immobile with shock. Not so Huw Griffith, who was on his feet instantly, waving his order paper and shouting above the joyful clamor of his colleagues to be recognized.

The Speaker finally succeeded in calling the chamber to order and granted the Honorable Member’s request to speak. “In light of the vote just taken, Mr. Speaker,” Griffith said, “it would seem that the Government in power has lost the ability to put through its legislation. Therefore, as leader of the Opposition, I beg to move that this House has no confidence in His Majesty’s Government.”

The chamber roared, each side shrieking its position so thunderously that it took the Speaker a full five minutes to quiet the noise sufficiently to recognize the leader of the Opposition’s motion.

Waring was on his feet before the Speaker finished. He launched into an impassioned speech which amounted to a plea for party unity — laced with subtle threats for those who failed to fall in behind their elected leader. Then, unexpectedly, he sat down, yielding the floor to his enemies.

Perhaps it was a show of confidence; then again, perhaps, fearing full-scale revolt, he chose to forestall debate before the waverers and floaters had a chance to think things through and turn a simple defection into a rout.

Once more there arose a mighty din, and when at last the clamor subsided, Speaker Carpenter said, “It would seem the Honorable Member’s motion has been debated with admirable brevity. Unless the Opposition have a further point to make, I will entertain a call to put the question.”

“Mr. Speaker,” said Charles Graham, rising to play his part, “I move that the question be now put.”

Again, the commotion was so loud that the Speaker, despairing of restoring order, instead ordered the Clerk to sound the division bell. Eight more minutes elapsed before the vote; but this time the atmosphere was raucous with jibes and challenges across the divide. And then the moment of truth: codes were dutifully entered, and votes electronically cast.

It was all Donald could do to force himself to sit still and listen to the Clerk’s tally. Even so, what with the turmoil all around, and the loud thumping of his own heart, it was several seconds before the Clerk’s announcement made sense.

“…three hundred and forty-five… and for the noes, three hundred and forty-two. Honorable Members of the House, the ayes have carried the motion.”

At first Donald did not believe he had heard correctly. The tally didn’t add up — fewer members had voted this time than last time. But, as the Speaker repeated the tally, Donald realized what had happened: three Government MPs — three of Waring’s floaters — had abstained. The no-confidence motion had passed.

Donald gazed around him as the Opposition benches erupted in ecstatic jubilation. MPs threw their order papers in the air and cheered, dancing and hugging and kissing one another. Meanwhile, Waring and his cabinet slumped on the front bench like train-wreck casualties, staring in numb disbelief at their jubilant counterparts on the other side of the chamber.

In time, the rejoicing quieted sufficiently for the Speaker to be heard. “The Chair has duly noted the motion’s passage,” Olmstead Carpenter said, sounding like the voice of God, “and on the evidence of the vote it would seem that His Majesty’s Government is no longer in a position to conduct the ordinary business of this House. Therefore, I request and do hereby declare this Parliament to be suspended until such time as it shall be reconvened by His Majesty the King.”

Rising from his great, thronelike chair, he said, “This House is adjourned.” With that, he stepped down from his chair and left the chamber.

Donald breathed a silent prayer of thanks, then rose and walked down the steps to congratulate Huw Griffith on their joint victory. “It was your call, Donald,” Huw said, clapping him soundly on the back. “Well done. Are you still going to announce your new party tonight?”

“As soon as possible,” he said, elation beginning to swell inside him. “Care to come along?”

“No, you earned your moment in the limelight,” Huw replied, his red face radiant with joy. “Take your bow, Donald; you deserve it. Join us for a drink in the Commons bar afterward. We have a general election to discuss.”

The Opposition leader was pulled away just then, and Donald went in search of his co-conspirators to welcome them into his new party and, more important, reassure them. It was no mean feat to help bring down a sitting government, and he suspected they might be feeling fretful and forlorn.

He located the two ex-Government MPs, and moved them smoothly and swiftly out of the chamber and into the corridor, away from potentially hostile colleagues. He thanked his co-conspirators for their support and expressed his admiration for their courage, saying that he hoped the thought of a glorious future with the new party would take some of the sting out of the flogging they were sure to receive from their former party bosses. “You’ve done the right thing,” he told them. “I’m going to announce the Royal Reform Party now. Come along, and stand with me.”

While His Majesty’s loyal Opposition decamped to the House of Commons lounge for celebratory drinks, Donald steered the first members of his new party through the crush of well-wishers, and hurried down the long corridor towards the Commons entrance. Pausing briefly before opening the door, he said, “Ready? Here we go!”

Emerging from the building, the three of them were instantly mobbed by the waiting reporters — Donald’s first spontaneous press conference in all his years of government work. “Lord Rothes! A statement, Lord Rothes!” they called, showing a marked respect heretofore absent in his dealings with the media. And then someone from the rear of the pack shouted, “Donald, where’s yer troosers?” and he knew he had finally arrived.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, speaking into the glare of television lights, “I have a prepared announcement I would like to read, and then I’ll take questions.”

Withdrawing the paper from his jacket pocket, he unfolded it and began to read. “‘It gives me great pleasure to stand before you today and proclaim the formation of a new political party, the Royal Reform Party. I would sincerely like to extend membership to any who wish to help preserve the inestimable benefits of the constitutional monarchy for ourselves, for our children, and for posterity.’”

There came a flutter of questions at this declaration. Ignoring the commotion, Donald continued, “‘Towards that end, as leader of the Royal Reform Party, I hereby declare our principal aim and political ambition shall be the defeat of the referendum for the Act of Dissolution of the Monarchy. That campaign begins here and now, and I cordially invite any like-minded individuals to join us in the struggle.’” He looked up from his paper. “My colleagues and I thank you for your kind attention.”

The closest journalist thrust a microphone into his face and said, “Rumor has it that you and Huw Griffith orchestrated the collapse of the Waring government — would you care to comment?”

Before Donald could answer, someone else called out, “The King’s a rat!”

There were raucous shouts of “Down with the King!” and “Stop the rat!”

A reporter in the front row shoved forward. “In light of recent revelations,” he said, “it would seem the monarchy is finished.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Donald remarked.

“Seriously,” insisted the reporter, “why beat a dead horse?”

Donald, half-blinded by the TV lights and camera flashes, hesitated, choosing his words carefully. During the ensuing pause, a third reporter called out, “Did the King put you up to this? How much did he pay you?”

The question sparked an instant reaction inside him. He leaned forward into the banked microphones and replied, “You know, you’ve just reminded me that when I began my political career in the House of Lords, I wore my title proudly. Yet, when that lofty — and, to be honest, outmoded — institution was dismantled to make way for the coming devolution, I could not have cared less, because, like a lot of people in this country, I had long since lost any sense of honor or respect I might have had in my title.

“After all, what is nobility worth when it is debased daily in the eyes of the watching world by a randy old profligate who cannot bring himself to reside in the land that gave him birth, to live among the people who nurtured and sustained him in his youth, and furnished him with his position, wealth, and purpose in life? What is nobility, then, when it becomes a byword for indulgence and excess, a laughing-stock for the professional comedians of the world, and an embarrassment to those who still possess a sense of moral indignation?

“Like many of my countrymen, I felt that the crown of Britain had become both source and symbol of all that is sordid, shabby, and salacious. In consequence, I held my own title lightly; I considered it a thing to be despised and, when the third referendum dissolved the House of Lords, I welcomed it. Instead of railing against the injustice of a shortsighted, unthinking government — as did many of my ermine-wearing colleagues — I went on the campaign trail and got myself elected to Parliament where I thought I might do some good.

“Now, you might well ask me why I started a political party with the sole purpose of restoring and preserving the monarchy. Why try to revive that dead horse? I’ll tell you this: I did it because our nation desperately needs a champion to rescue it from the creeping pessimism and distrust of our age. Our country, our world, needs the inspiration of true nobility, the example of a sovereign king who can redeem our highest hopes and aspirations.

“Why did I do it, you ask? I did it
not
because I desire the reclamation of a shallow, self-interested monarchy, but because I crave the restoration of our better selves.”

Donald finished in silence. The reporters had caught the edgy enthusiasm of his tone, and were much affected by it in spite of themselves. He had not intended to say all that, yet when pressed to respond, a lifetime of yearning had boiled up and overflowed.

The moment passed, and the press pack recovered its voice. They began clamoring and shouting more questions, but Donald merely replied, “I have nothing more to say right now. Thank you very much for listening.” Turning to the members with him, he said, “I’ll turn you over to my colleagues now. Perhaps you have some questions for them.”

With that, he pushed on into the crowd, which gave way grudgingly to let him by. They continued flinging questions at him as he passed, and no doubt would have pursued him from the parking lot if they had not been distracted by the appearance of Huw Griffith and Charles Graham, who emerged from the House of Commons just then. The mob abruptly abandoned Donald, and raced to gather sound bites from the major players in the day’s monumental drama.

Donald found himself quickly alone, and hurried towards the Commons taxi rank, hailing a cab as he went. The day’s result had exceeded his wildest imaginings, and he was anxious to share his moment of triumph with Caroline. Also, he had promised to call James and Embries with a full report as soon as practically possible.

As the black cab drew up, he opened the rear door, bending forward to tell the driver his destination through the half-open window. As he did so, a young woman appeared and quickly slipped into the cab through the open door.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, “this cab is taken. I’m sure there will be another along shortly.”

“I heard what you said just now,” answered the young woman, “and I want to talk to you about it.” She slid further into the cab, and patted the seat beside her. “Come on, don’t be afraid. I won’t bite.”

“It’s not that,” Donald protested. “Look, it’s been rather an eventful day, and I’m exhausted. I’d really just like to get home, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind in the least. We can talk on the way.” She opened the bag at her side, and withdrew a microphone which was attached to a tape recorder inside. “Please? It would make my editor a very happy man, and I would be forever in your debt.”

“I’ve said all I intend to say at the moment,” Donald informed her.

The taxi behind them, having picked up a fare, gave a sharp blast on the horn to move them along. “What’s it going to be, mate?” called the driver, losing patience. “Going, or staying — make up your mind.”

“No detours — I only want as much as you can tell me on the shortest route to your place,” the reporter promised cheerfully. “Please?”

“Oh, all right. Just this once.” Donald put his foot into the cab, then hesitated. “Let me see some identification first,” he said to the woman. “Simple precaution. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. One cannot be too careful these days.” She put down the microphone and rummaged in the black bag. “Here it is,” she said, withdrawing a plastic-laminated ID card.

Satisfied, Donald handed the card back and climbed into the cab. “Is this a common method of securing your interviews,” he asked, as the taxi pulled away, “kidnapping your subjects, Miss Morgan?”

She put back her head and laughed, her voice rich and throaty and seductive. “Not at all,” she replied. “I take whatever opportunity presents itself. I work purely by instinct, and my instincts tell me that you are a very complicated man, Lord Rothes.”

“You must be careful,” he warned lightly. “Flattery can be construed in some political circles as a bribe.”

“I’m merely stating a fact.” She smiled warmly, sliding a long silver pen from her bag. “My sources tell me you’re one of the chief architects of the royalist revival —”

“Hoped-for revival,” corrected Donald.

“Quite.” She withdrew the cap from the pen. “I thought we might talk about the resurgence of the royalist sentiment.”

“Very well, Miss Morgan,” said Donald, easing back in his seat, “for the next ten minutes, you have my undivided attention. How can I help with your story?”

The body of Donald Rothes was found floating in the waters of St. Katharine’s Dock at half past eleven on the night of his great parliamentary triumph. He was discovered by a young couple who, emerging from the Dickens Inn on that particularly crisp, clear January night, had paused on a wooden footbridge to look at the lights of Tower Bridge reflected in the water.