Avalon (55 page)

He looked at her face in the headlights’ glare; she seemed to have lost consciousness. “Moira!” he said sharply, not daring to release his hold just yet. “I don’t know what you think you’re —”

All at once her body went rigid. Her eyes flew open. “
Exis velat morda
!” she screamed. “
Gorim exat fortis
!”

At the last word, James was blown bodily away and hurled onto his back a few yards distant. He landed hard against the rock upon which the overturned car rested. By the time he scrambled to his knees, Moira was already on her feet, and the gun was trained on him once more.

In the ravine behind them, the searchlight of the helicopter scoured the slope; the boom of the engine filled the glen with the sound of a great rushing cataract.

“I guess this is good-bye,” Moira said, her lips curling back over her teeth as she extended her arm and squeezed the trigger.

James’ fingers closed on the dagger in his sock. The
sgian dubh
was in the air before Moira knew he’d thrown it. The blade struck her above the right breast just as she fired the gun. The shot went wide, striking the back of the overturned car.

In the same instant, James felt rather than heard a whiffling rush — as if a missile were streaking toward him. There was a sudden shudder as the air convulsed, and he felt the heatflash bloom across his back.

Moira’s astonished face was illumined in the dirty yellow flare of the gasoline explosion. The blast threw him onto his face and filled his lungs with searing fumes.

When James came to, he was lying beside the freezing stream twenty meters from the burning car. His clothes were smoldering, and his bare legs were singed. His mouth tasted of petrol and smoke, and the cold air stung his lungs. He coughed and spat, each breath an agony in his throat — as if the inside of his windpipe were being flayed with knives.

He was aware of a small buzzing sound in his ears and he felt something snatching at him. He thought of crows picking his flesh — carrion birds stripping meat from corpses on the battlefield. He turned his head and lifted an arm to shoo the birds away. His sword — he must have dropped his sword — he had to find it before the Saecsens returned.

Pushing himself up on his hands, he looked across the black-watered burn. Behind him the fire still raged; he could feel the heat, and the dancing flames made his shadow quiver on the snow and rocks. He made to stand, but his legs would not obey. He was bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, but he could not remember being speared.

It had been an ambush. Cerdic and Hengist had been waiting in the glen, and he had ridden in unaware. He could remember nothing of the battle itself, and wondered what had become of the Dragon Flight. His warriors would never have left him for dead. He glanced around in the darkness, but the only sign of the fight was a single set of footprints in the snow — leading down the rocky bank to disappear in the black water of the swift-flowing Clunie stream.

Bedwyr! Where are you? Cai!

Perhaps they had pursued the enemy or maybe they had gone for help. Where was Myrddin? Where were Rhys and Gwalchavad?

No… not Cerdic… not Hengist or Horsa. This time it was dread Morgian, Queen of Air and Darkness. He gazed around the circle of firelight, but could see no sign of her; nor could he feel her stifling presence. She was gone.

Dragging his legs under him, he raised himself into a sitting position. Taking up handfuls of snow, he rubbed his raw legs. The cold felt good on his blistered skin. The buzzing sound had not abated; the only sound to break the unnatural silence, it seemed to be coming from somewhere high on the ridge above. He turned his head towards the noise and saw a bright light — like a dazzling star — hanging just over the ridge top. In this strange, intense starlight, he saw a figure moving down the sheer, rock-covered slope of the ravine. Someone was hurrying to his aid.

He looked down at himself. He was covered with filth and his clothes were rags. There was nothing he could do about that, but it was not meet that anyone should find him wallowing in the mire like a common swineherd. He was the High King of Britain. He would stand.

It took all his strength and determination, but he forced his unfeeling legs to his will, and climbed somehow onto his feet beside the rushing burn. He heard someone shouting; the sound was all but swallowed in the silent roar that filled his head. He looked up and saw a woman running over the slippery, uneven ground. Relief and apprehension mingled in her expression, and there were tears in her eyes.

As she came into the light, he saw the long dark hair and, although her clothes were strange, he recognized his beloved, and his heart stirred. He squared his shoulders and sought to reassure her with a smile. “It is well,” he said, his voice sounding hopelessly small and distant inside his head. “I am alive.”

She came into his arms in a rush, and he allowed his bruised body to be gathered into her embrace. “I knew someone would find me,” he whispered, the air rasping harshly in his throat. “I did not know it would be you, my Queen.” He put his face against her hair. “Ahh, Gwen-hwyvar…” He sighed, feeling the immense weight of fatigue descending on him. “We have been apart far too long. I want to go home.”

James spent what little was left of his wedding night in the emergency room of the Pitlochry Infirmary. Embries had wanted him to be taken to the hospital in Aberdeen, but neither James nor Jenny would hear of it. “If we go there,” Jenny said, “there will be no way to keep it out of the news. This way, we have a chance.”

“Keeping it out of the news is the least of our concerns at the moment,” Embries said sharply.

“He wants it this way,” Jenny insisted. “Look, just find that woman — she’s got to be down there somewhere. Find her and get her out.”

“we will find her,” Embries replied. “Cal and I will see to police matters here, and follow along as soon as we can.” He gave Jenny’s hand a squeeze. “Go with God.”

She climbed into the back of the Tempest and settled in beside James, who was wrapped in a silver-foil survival blanket. At her instruction, the engine spun to life; Rhys adjusted the angle of the blades, and they lifted off a few seconds later.

The helicopter had arrived at Devil’s Elbow moments after the explosion. Rhys landed on the edge of the highway and trained the spotlight down the slope of the ravine. Jennifer was already halfway down to the burning wreck by the time he and Embries started down. The ambulance Jenny had called arrived two minutes later with Cal right behind.

The paramedics had quickly stabilized the King and, strapped to a rescue board, they had hauled him out of the ravine and secured him in the back of the helicopter for the short ride to Pitlochry. A police car dispatched from Braemar rolled up as the helicopter disappeared into the night. Embries dealt with them quickly and efficiently; he gave them Jenny’s description of the woman she and James had been trying to help, and directed them to comb the area for her body. He then joined Cal for the anxious ride to the infirmary.

“A hell of a way to celebrate your wedding night,” Cal observed, nosing the car around the turn and heading down toward the Spittal of Glenshee.

“Better a hospital than a morgue,” Embries remarked.

“Oh, aye,” Cal agreed. “What on earth happened down there? I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Strange women, and cars off the road, and who knows what all. Jenny was pretty rattled.”

“The relevant facts have yet to be established.” Embries turned to regard his traveling companion. “But we might as well start with you.”

“Me?” Cal glanced sideways at his passenger. “Man, I know less than you do about this.”

“Indeed. Is that so?” inquired Embries pointedly. “Then I suppose it’s no use asking
you
who arranged for the King to sneak off unattended?”

“Well, that —” Cal blustered. “It was his wedding night. Even the King is entitled to a little privacy on his honeymoon. I couldn’t very well allow the newlyweds to be hounded by a pack of wild paparazzi, could I?”

“It was a foolhardy risk.”

“Come on,” pleaded Cal. “It’s his honeymoon. Anyway, James knows his way around. They were only heading down the road a wee way. It wasn’t like they were going off to war, or anything.”

“That,” Embries snapped, “is where you are naïve — and wrong!”

Cal turned his head and looked at Embries, his face hard in the dim light of the dashboard. “Just what
do
you think happened down there?”

Embries was silent for a moment before answering. “I think,” he said at last, “the only person who knows for certain what happened is James. We will have to wait until he feels like talking to ask him.”

It was several hours before they were finally able to see James. He was sitting up in bed, but his eyes were closed and he seemed to be asleep. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, and one side of his head and neck glistened with ointment for his burns.

Jenny was in a chair beside him holding his hand, and in a much more tranquil frame of mind. She smiled as they came into the room. “He’s going to be all right,” she told them. “One bullet passed through his shoulder below the clavicle — muscle damage, but it missed the bone and major vessels — and the other one just grazed his hip. The struggle opened up his knife wound, though, and that’s not so good.” She turned to look at her husband, rubbing his hand. “All in all, he’s very lucky.”

James opened his eyes. “Can you get me out of here?” he asked, the words slightly mushy in his mouth. “All things considered, I’d really rather be at Blair Morven.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Cal replied. “The doctors want to keep you around awhile. They say you’re not out of the woods yet and, unless you start showing some improvement, they may send you to Aberdeen.”

“Some honeymoon,” James said. Raising Jenny’s hand, he brushed her fingers with his lips. “Sorry.”

“This isn’t the honeymoon,” she replied. “We’re still on the way
to
the honeymoon.” She squeezed his hand. “We’ll get there yet.”

“What time is it?” asked James, sinking back against the pillows.

Cal glanced at his watch. “Twelve minutes after one. Look at that — the polls open in just five hours.”

“Don’t forget to vote, Cal,” James said. His voice cracked with fatigue. “I’m counting on you.”

Jonathan Trent gazed with ardent solemnity into the camera and began his broadcast with these words: “Tonight, a major political battle rages for the heart and soul of a nation. Tonight, the future and fate of Great Britain’s monarchy hangs in the balance.”

He paused, tapped his sheaf of papers expertly on the desk, and continued. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. All day long, Britain’s voters have been deciding the fate of the monarchy. With a little under two hours until polls close around the country, we can tell you that voting has been exceeding all expectations, with many polling places registering record highs in voter turnout.” Turning to the monitor built into the desk beside him, he said, “To bring you more on this story, we go now to Kevin Clark in Glasgow. Tell us, Kevin, how is the turnout in your area?”

The picture switched to young Kevin Clark standing before what appeared to be a school building in a district that had seen better days. Light drizzle beaded up on his raincoat. “Yes, Jonathan,” replied Kevin enthusiastically, “well, what can I say? Voter turnout here — in this large residential district, dominated by the Kirkallan Council Estate — has already reached an unprecedented seventy-three percent of registered voters, and there are still queues of people waiting patiently in the rain. Officials are forecasting a final figure in the seventy-eight to eighty percent range — and this for a precinct not known for its, shall we say, democratic enthusiasm. In fact, polls may close before everyone has had a chance to cast his ballot — a development which has caught the election commissioners on the hop. Rumor has it that there is a time extension in the works; we should have a decision on that shortly.”

“Remarkable, Kevin,” observed Jonathan, beaming with obvious delight.

“Other precincts have been likewise affected by heavy voter turnout,” Kevin Clark said. “I’m told that this same pattern is being repeated all over Scotland generally.” He smiled and nodded. “Back to you, Jonathan.”

“Thank you, Kevin,” replied Trent affably. “Continuing this report, we go now to Deirdre Mulhaney in Birmingham.”

The screen switched to a dark-haired young woman in a green coat standing inside a civic hall. Behind her were ranks of yellow canvas polling booths, before which election officials with stacks of registration printouts were seated at folding tables; long line of voters picked up their ballots and shuffled from table to booth.

“Records are tumbling tonight,” Deirdre intoned solemnly. “Election officials in this mainly working-class suburb expected a high turnout, but today’s voting has exceeded all expectations. The old record — an astonishing seventy percent of registered voters — achieved in the defeat of the European common currency referendum — fell early this afternoon, and it looks like this tight-knit working community might just carry away top honors again.”

“Incredible, Deirdre.” Trent shook his head in studied disbelief. “To what are they attributing this extraordinary showing?”

“Most people I’ve talked to say they feel this is an important decision in our country’s history, and they wish to make their opinion known. I’m certain that is the case, but there is another, rather intriguing, possibility. Early this afternoon, we began hearing reports about the involvement of the Church. I’ve been checking this out, and the rumor does indeed seem to be true. In fact, a fairly high proportion of the voters I’ve spoken to indicate that their local parish church has organized transportation for their members.”

“Yes, Deirdre,” agreed Jonathan. “We have been getting similar reports from other regions of the country. In general, it would seem that a great many of the nation’s churches — from the Church of England, to Roman Catholic, Methodist, Baptist, and also Jewish congregations — have organized transportation for their members. Many mosques have added their weight to the ‘vote no’ campaign as well.”