James thanked them and rapped on the door for Cal to let him out. Under a hastily arranged police escort — fifteen officers with riot shields and truncheons at the ready — they returned to the speaker’s platform where they were met by the officer in charge of the police detail for the event. “With all respect, Your Majesty, I do think it would be best for all concerned if you would desist from speaking,” he said. “It would allow us to move everyone along, sir.”
“You are right to be concerned, Sergeant,” James replied. “But the disturbance was meant to silence me. If I don’t finish what I started, the skinheads and those who undoubtedly hired them will have won. We can’t allow that to happen at Speaker’s Corner, can we?”
The police officer frowned, clearly unhappy with this line of reasoning. The breakdown of security and crowd control had shaken his confidence in their ability to maintain order. “We cannot take the respon —” he began.
“The King is right,” said Jenny quickly. “If they win this one, you will have let a bunch of thugs dictate terms. No one wants to see that happen.”
The officer relented. “I suppose not, miss.” To his constables, he said, “Right, boys and girls, you heard the King. Let’s see it doesn’t get out of hand this time, shall we?”
James mounted the soapbox once again. There was a smattering of applause, and he began to speak about what had just taken place.
“My friends,” he began simply, “there are forces in the world which do not love goodness, do not love compassion. There are forces of darkness, which do not love charity, or mercy, or justice, and which will not rest until these virtues are extinguished by all-encompassing night. Whenever any good or worthy thing is contemplated, the agents of evil seek first to destroy it; failing that, they seek the destruction of any who champion virtue and right. We saw that here today.
“But I tell you that as long as I am King, those whose minds are bent on hate and destruction have a foe who will not retreat. In the King of Britain, the agents of evil have roused an adversary who will take the battle to the grave. I will not be bowed. I will not give in. I will not surrender to the forces of night.”
He finished by saying that in the final days before the referendum he would be taking his vision of Britain directly to the nation. He asked those listening to think about what he had said, and if they found themselves agreeing, then he asked for their support. “Britain was exalted once, and it can be again,” he said. “Join me in the fight. Together, we can make Britain the place it was always meant to be. We can make the dream of Avalon into reality.”
Forty-two
That night Prime Minister Waring, along with several million other viewers, sat transfixed before the Six O’Clock Report and watched the gallant young King snatch a toddling child from the jaws of ravening attack dogs, and then take on not only savage pit bulls but a gang of rabid neo-Nazi hoodlums as well.
Had the attack been painstakingly planned and rehearsed, it could not have been better stage-managed. The scandal had made the monarch the center of attention; the impromptu Speaker’s Corner appearance had guaranteed sufficient media involvement; the attack, so sudden and brutal and wanton, had made him an instant hero.
The trouble, from Waring’s point of view, was that it hadn’t been an act. The pipes and chains were real, the dogs frighteningly real, and so was the courage that had faced them down. In media terms, it was an unassailable demonstration of the King’s personal integrity, an unanswerable argument for his character.
Next day, the nation’s Sunday newspapers displayed magnificent full-color photos of the valiant King cradling young Hannah in his arms, heedless of the leaping pit bull. Nearly every front page of every newspaper in the land extolled the King in banner headlines. Several seasoned paparazzi captured the precise moment the airborne toddler fell into the safety of Cal’s arms, thereby making Calum McKay a secondary hero in the drama.
The Sun, heretofore the monarch’s biggest detractor, ran a seven-page photo supplement on the attack — which they called a “mob riot” — complete with diagrams and a minute-by-minute timeline. Two pages were devoted to the role played by the King’s mysterious fiancée; the main photo showed Jennifer comforting a frightened Hannah, their faces nose to nose, tears still glistening on the child’s round face, her tiny hand tangled in Jenny’s long black hair. An intensely intimate moment, that single picture did more to endear the heretofore unknown woman to the nation than any number of silky soft-focus glamour portraits so adored by previous royals.
Not to be outdone, the Observer proclaimed ARTHUR LIVES! The headline was run above a photo of the unarmed King in hand-to-hand combat with a gang of marauding, chain-swinging, pipe-wielding skinheads. The reporter, also an eyewitness, fell all over himself praising the King, and declared with solemn sincerity, “In our brave new King, Britain’s ancient code of chivalry is revived.” He ended the piece proclaiming, “The spirit of Arthur lives again!”
Clips of the attack were run and rerun on news programs for the next few days. Waring couldn’t turn on the television without seeing yet another replay of some aspect of the Hyde Park incident. Every man, woman, child, and tourist within a mile of the place must have had their video cameras grinding away, because there seemed to be no end of fuzzy, poorly lit, herky-jerky footage of Good King James beating the living snot out of the bad guys for the glory of Great Britain. Eyewitness interviews seemed to have included half the population of greater metropolitan London, and the other half was phoning up radio talk shows to discuss it in depth.
If that weren’t bad enough, the King proceeded to take his absurd naïve primitivistic message on the road. On Monday morning, he joined the London commuters on train platforms to chat with them and receive their promises of support; Monday afternoon saw him in the City, speaking to businessmen and -women lunching in pubs, cafés, and the restaurant haunts of executive high flyers; by Monday evening he was working the poorer housing estates of Tower Hamlets and the East End.
On Tuesday the King turned up in Birmingham and was featured live on the morning breakfast shows as he talked to Asian market-stall merchants, shopkeepers, and cabdrivers. By Tuesday afternoon he was on the move again, this time to Manchester, where he visited two hospitals, three schools, and the UMIST campus. Tuesday night found him in Liverpool, doing the clubs and taking in the street scene, talking to young people, winos, and police on the beat.
Meanwhile, the King’s unofficial entourage of press and paparazzi scrambled frantically to keep up with him, faithfully reporting his every move — a process made more challenging by the fact that he refused to announce his next destination. This engendered intense speculation among professional pundits, and became a fascinating game for viewers and listeners at home as everyone tried to guess where the King would pop up next and what he would say.
Wednesday dawned, and an intensely curious nation awoke to learn where the King had surfaced again; his destination this time was Newcastle, where he was videotaped addressing a special meeting of the long-haul truckers’ union. People all over England, Wales, and Scotland went to work with the King’s stirring words of challenge and hope ringing in their ears. Lunchtime found him in Gateshead at a shopping mall, visiting merchants and customers, and posing for pictures with shop assistants and food court diners. Then it was on to Middlesbrough for tea and sandwiches at a retirement home and an early supper backstage with the cast and chorus of the English National Opera touring company in Durham. He ended his hectic day in Glasgow at a night shelter for the homeless, where he spoke at length on his vision for a Britain where all such shelters would close, not for lack of funding, but for lack of need.
Waring watched all this with a dull, burning hatred that mounted almost hour by hour, as the relentless, tireless press reported the King’s every move throughout the day. He watched as slowly, gradually, the charismatic new monarch began to turn public opinion. He watched as the King’s popularity waxed, and his own wanted in almost direct prop
ortion. The ex-Prime Minister watched with the growing desperation of a man who feels the deck tilting dangerously beneath him and knows there is nothing he can do to bring the ship around.
On Thursday, the King returned to London for the funeral of his friend and supporter, Donald Rothes, and Waring breathed a sigh of relief. At least, attending the funeral would slow the media juggernaut somewhat, and for once the blasted King would not be the center of attention. As a parliamentary colleague of the former MP, Waring would also attend the service. In light of the opportunity provided, he intended to make the most of the situation; he had his press secretary prepare a speech ripe with juicy sound bites guaranteed to tempt the media back into his camp. Given only the slightest chance, he would be well on his way to restoring the shambles of his collapsed government.
Donald Rothes’ funeral service was held in St. Margaret’s — the gray stone church that huddles in the shadow of mighty Westminster Abbey. As a sitting Member of Parliament, he was accorded as much pomp and ceremony as precedent allowed. All of his Commons colleagues attended. The former Prime Minister and his cabinet cronies, and Huw Griffith and the rest of the Opposition party leaders were given choice seats in the choir; the rest of the backbenchers and junior members filled in behind according to their own peculiar pecking order — much as they did in the chamber. Add to this number several score friends and numerous relations, and the church was quickly crammed to standing-room-only capacity. The media newshounds, who were not allowed inside the church, joined the throng crowding the entrance and square, impeding the flow of traffic through and around the abbey precinct.
Caroline and Isobel, grim and dour in their black mourning hats and veils, sat on the front row of chairs lined up on either side of the coffin. With them were some of the Rotheses’ close friends and relations — his younger brother, Alexander, and a few of Donald’s business associates and neighbors. Jennifer and Calum sat four rows behind the family and friends; Embries, Rhys, and Gavin stood at the wall behind the mourners. As a speaker, James sat on the dais beside the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had volunteered to deliver a sermon. At Caroline’s request, James had prepared a simple eulogy, and the vicar of Donald’s local parish had been asked to lead the service itself.
It was a morning service, following which the casket would make its way up to the family estate at Glenrothes in Scotland, where Donald would be buried in the family plot. The day was suitably subdued, the sky crowded with heavy low clouds allowing only rare bursts of sunlight. Outside the church, the funeral cortège of black limousines sat waiting to begin the long trip north.
From where James sat, he could observe those in the front rows quite easily. He noticed that although most of the congregation appeared dutifully solemn and pious, Waring looked distinctly haggard and ill at ease. Was it, James wondered, anything to do with the fact that two of the nation’s most highly respected newspapers had come out in support of the Royal Reform Party on the day of Donald’s funeral?
The service started promptly at ten. The hymn “Amazing Grace” was played, and the Reverend Samways led an invocational prayer. The congregation sang “We Rest On Thee,” which was followed by a passage from St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans; there was a short liturgical reading, after which Samways introduced the King. James stepped to the pulpit and read a few verses from the Book of Revelations about the final judgment every human being must one day endure. He then delivered the eulogy — which he hoped was as much a celebration of a fine man’s life as it was a lament for his needless, wasteful death.
He sat down to respectful silence, wishing he might have done more. This feeling was short-lived, however, because the Archbishop spoke next. A man of imposing stature and a full head of snow-white hair which billowed in waves over his high-domed skull, Archbishop Peter Rippon looked out upon the world through disconcertingly direct blue eyes. In manner and appearance, he reminded James of one of those energetic oldsters who take up bungee jumping or join the Polar Bears; he looked as if he might suddenly sell up, buy a caravan, and head for the cheap casinos of Costa Brava.
Rippon began in the time-honored, if slightly stuffy, way of Anglican clergymen, but quickly departed from the stylized form. “Observe the oak coffin before you,” he said. “Soon it will be removed from this place and laid to rest, and we will all go back to our daily chores and occupations. Life goes on, we’ll say; and it’s true. But for now, for this one brief moment, while the coffin stands before us, I would have you feel with me the heartrending tragedy of a life cut down in its prime.”
The Archbishop went on to say how deeply he had been affected by news of Donald’s death following, as it did, the announcement of his new Royal Reform Party. He then brought the congregation bolt upright with the declaration: “As a lifelong royalist, I have no doubt whatsoever that Lord Rothes’ murder was a direct result of his desire to save the monarchy.”
This bald statement sent ripples of chagrin through the largely government-comprised congregation. Many of the Archbishop’s listeners — not least Waring and his cohorts, who had not anticipated being accused of complicity in their former colleague’s murder — blinked in astonishment at this unexpected revelation.
“Now that I have your complete attention, perhaps you will allow me to explain,” the Archbishop continued. “Where the blame for our brother’s death will ultimately come to rest, God alone knows. Nevertheless, the reason for his death is no mystery at all. I put it to you that our dear brother was killed because he dared take his stand on the side of the angels. He was murdered because he defied the corporate wickedness of the current political system.”
The congregation squirmed.
“I see that some of you are upset by my blunt speaking. Good!” Archbishop Rippon declared, leaning out from the pulpit. “Good for you. We should be disturbed in the face of such pernicious evil. All the same, it should come as no surprise to anyone here that we live in an exceedingly evil age. My friends, I remind you that our fight is not against flesh and blood but against the principalities, against the cosmic powers, against the rulers and potentates of this present dark age, against the supernatural forces of wickedness in high places.
“I dare say some of you will think I am overstating the case; you will think I am assigning cosmic causes to simple worldly problems. ‘Now wait a minute, padre,’ I hear you say. ‘Accidents happen. It’s just the way of the world.’
“Let me tell you something, ladies and gentlemen: the way of the world is evil. It does not become any less evil because we disguise it with harmless-sounding phrases like ‘status quo’ or ‘business as usual’ — it merely makes the evil more palatable to us. Therefore, I’ll say it again: Donald Rothes died because he dared speak out against the way of the world. His voice was silenced by the very evil he sought to uproot.”
He gazed out upon the captive audience with steadfast defiance, all but challenging anyone to disagree.
“Does this assertion seem overwrought to you? Is it too presumptuous, perhaps, too melodramatic? Well, maybe it is,” he allowed, drawing the doubters in. “Then again, maybe it is we ourselves who have become so jaded, so worldly-wise, so knowing, that the merest mention of righteousness, goodness, and truth — or their counterparts evil, wickedness, and sin — makes us writhe uncomfortably in our seats. But tell me now, what do you call it when good, well-meaning men are silenced for daring to challenge the status quo?”
He let the question hang in the air.
James looked at Waring, who merely stared ahead, legs crossed, hands folded on his lap, his features drawn but impassive. A case-hardened political trench fighter, he was giving nothing away.
“Now then,” the Archbishop continued, “some of the more sensitive among you will no doubt be thinking: ‘Such a waste. He died in vain.’ But you’re wrong.
“You see, I believe that no man dies in vain who has staked his life on a godly principle. Some of you may choose not to believe that. Others might be skeptical of such an
assertion; you will be asking yourselves, ‘On which godly principle did Donald Rothes stake his life?’
“I’ll tell you: Donald Rothes recognized that earthly sovereignty is a provision of the divine order, an important part of God’s plan for the good governance of his people. More specifically, he saw a sacred institution under attack and tried to defend it. He saw the monarchy of this nation — much abused, forsaken, defiled, and debased, to be sure — besieged by the enemy, and he dared to believe the monarchy could be redeemed.” Extending his hand towards the flower-covered casket, the Archbishop said, “Donald Rothes believed in the monarchy as a sacred institution, ordained by God; he saw it in deepest trouble, and sought to defend it. For that he was killed, and his body lies before you in that coffin.”
The congregation was growing restive under the Archbishop’s unrelenting barrage. They had come to hear a few platitudes in praise of their fallen comrade, not to be lectured by a cleric with an axe to grind. Rippon, not to be deflected, steamed on.
“Sacred institutions, divine order — what old-fashioned notions, completely irrelevant to the modern world of e-mail on the Internet, Martian probes, and genetic engineering. That’s what most people think. And, if you’re anything like the ninety-three percent of the population that owns a television set, subscribes to a newspaper, and listens to at least one hour of radio per week, then that’s what you think, too.
“If so, you only have to ask yourself: Does love go out of fashion? Do kindness and compassion and simple virtue wax and wane with the transitory trends of fashionable society? Is the longing for something good and decent and trustworthy in life merely a mirage, a delusion, a pacifying illusion in the service of ‘business as usual’?”
Archbishop Rippon let his gaze sweep across the assembly; he let them feel the weight of the questions.