Category: Mystery/Suspense Type: Fiction
Copyright: Jan 15, 2003
Future King brings to life one of the world’s most romantic and enduring legends: when England needs him most King Arthur will return from Avalon.
Excerpt
“I will tell you something else, King, which may be a surprise for you. It will not happen for hundreds of years, but both of us are to come back. Do you know what is going to be written on your tombstone? Hic jacet Arthurus Rex quandam Rexque futurus. Do you remember your Latin? It means, the once and future king.”
-- Merlyn
From T.H.White’s
The Once and Future King
CHAPTER I
The King pushed the heavy damson-colored draperies further aside and leaned close to the glass, looking keenly into the darkness below.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
Prime Minister Alistair Saxon cocked his head. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?” He pointed to his ear with a deprecating smile. Then he rose from the chair Charles insisted he use rather than stand during these long private meetings, and moved to the window. “What did you say?”
“I thought I heard something,” said the King. “Damned inconvenience, this electrical trouble. Black as ink out there.” He let the drapery fall and turned to the Prime Minister. “It sounded like a shot, gunfire.”
Saxon knitted his unruly eyebrows. “I should think not, Your Majesty. More likely a backfire from a cab or lorry.”
Charles gave him a skeptical glance. “They’re still out there, aren’t they? Even in this rain.”
“The rain has stopped.”
The King was silent, waiting.
“A few,” the Prime Minister admitted after a moment. “Farmers protesting the freeze on milk prices. I’m sure they mean you no personal harm, but I wouldn’t trust the fates so completely.”
With no hesitation, he stepped across the bounds of royal etiquette and took the King’s arm, guiding him away from the window. Charles frowned, but allowed Saxon to move him toward his desk, which was uncharacteristically awash in papers.
“I appreciate your concern,” the King murmured. It was as close to an expression of warmth as he could manage. Always stiff and distant in his personal relationships, Charles had become painfully so since his ascension to the throne.
Saxon acknowledged the comment with a nod and a muted smile. “As you know, Your Majesty, my overriding concern is for Great Britain who requires her sovereign.” After a breath, he added, “And order.”
Charles eased himself tiredly into the dark Moroccan leather chair at the desk. They had come full circle, back to the subject they’d been arguing for nearly half an hour. He shook his head and sighed. “That won’t do, Alistair, won’t do at all. Order is not what this Emergency Powers Bill is about.” He shook his head again. “No -- it’s about power, the concentration of power. To put it bluntly, too much concentration. Too much control in the hands of one human being.”
The Prime Minster took a calming breath and tried once more. “The Americans and some few others may have finally found their way out of this world wide financial disaster. Even that is being questioned in some corners,” he said. “However, this country is still faced with grave problems, Your Majesty.”
“And cannot afford another,” Charles retorted. “Particularly one that, in the long course, could produce a final malaise.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, if someone is not given the power to end the fuel shortage and several of our other problems almost immediately, what happens in the long course will be academic. Great Britain will be no more.”
Saxon had returned to his chair in front of the King’s desk and now leaned forward and placed a bound report on the polished oak. “According to this study from the Home Minister, our petrol supply will be depleted in less than three months. And that is if we continue the strict rationing we now have on private vehicles.”
Charles ignored the report and shuffled through the papers on his desk, picking up and then discarding documents, talking as he searched. “I did not wait through more than 50 years to assume this responsibility only to shirk it at the first sign of trouble.”
“But, Your Majesty, these matters—resolving strikes, managing resources—are not the proper concerns of a monarch.”
“No, no,” The King muttered, an edge in his voice now. “I’m talking about this.” He grabbed up several bound pages and thrust them at the Prime Minister. “Have you actually read the proposed draft of this legislation?”
Saxon didn’t move to take the document. It was a long moment before he said, “It is not a draft, Your Majesty. That is the Bill as both houses of Parliament have approved it.”
Charles drew the offered pages back and looked off toward the window where he’d parted the draperies, where he thought he had heard gunfire. The air was thick with silence. Finally, the King broke it. “I see,” he said flatly.
Turning back, he took his time looking for the passage in the Bill he wanted and found it. “Then you expect me to give my assent to language such as this?” He adjusted his glasses and read. “‘Promulgations deemed necessary by the Emergency Commission shall not be in any way delayed or modified by proceedings in British Court of Law, nor by unapproved public acts of protest of any kind.’”
“By the legal maneuverings of special interests,” Saxon explained. “Or damaging strikes.”
The King looked at him over his glasses. “That’s one interpretation.”
“The only one which shall be made, I assure you, Your Majesty.”
“And that is because Sir Alistair Saxon, Prime Minister of Great Britain, is to be Chairman of the Emergency Commission? What if this excellent chap should fall ill? Or, heaven forbid, die?”
Saxon moved to speak, but the King put him off with a gesture. “What if he was to snap, to simply go…off his trolley?”
The Prime Minister gave a harsh barking laugh. It wasn’t attractive.
“I’m afraid I don’t see the humor, Alistair,” Charles said grimly. He tossed the document into the litter on his desk. “Frankly, in my opinion, this is an open invitation to a dictator.”
The word hung in the air, spoken and gone, but still absorbing the faint hum of the heating systems, the distant hoot of traffic.
Finally Saxon said, “Surely, sir, you do not believe I would do anything to bring harm to Great Britain or her people?”
Charles stared into the Prime Minister’s slightly florid face. In the two years since he’d asked Alistair Saxon to form a government with his New Liberal Party he had never been able to gauge what lay behind those hooded agate eyes. He knew the theory on short men and their compensations, their egos. Did it apply here? Most likely, but wasn’t that quite possibly what the country needed: a Churchillian bulldog, as the tabloids always portrayed this squat, fleshy, stubborn little man? What would he do if given complete leeway? What could he do?
At length, the King smiled, although without warmth. “No, Prime Minister,” he told him. “I do not question your motives.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Saxon replied, a layer of tension melting away.
“However, there is a larger issue here that I must question,” Charles said, giving a slight shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Alistair. I’ve decided to speak against the Emergency Powers Bill.”
Saxon gazed at the gaunt aging face for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and exhaled deliberately. The discussion was over he knew. There would be no easy solution. “As I am sure Your Majesty is aware, it has been more than three hundred years since a sitting British monarch refused assent to an Act of Parliament.”
“Queen Anne in 1707; The Scots Militia Bill,” Charles said.
“You understand what I must do, Your Majesty?”
“Fully, Prime Minister. Your responsibility is to follow the wishes of your party.”
With a curt nod, Saxon added, “And in this case, the majority of the Members of Parliament. But I want you to know that it does not diminish my loyalty to you, Your Majesty.”
“Accepted,” the King said, nodding. He looked for and found a leather-bound calendar in the pile on the left side of his desk. “You will arrange for my presentation to Parliament?”
“Of course, Your Majesty. When would be appropriate?”
Charles referred to the calendar. “I would prefer to make it as soon as possible. Let us say, Monday next. That will give me tomorrow and the weekend to prepare.”
“Very well, Your Majesty.”
The King closed the calendar and the subject. “Can I offer you something to brace against the chill; a brandy? I saw snow flurries this afternoon. He rose from his chair and buttoned his tailored herringbone suit.
Saxon was up quickly from his chair. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I must away.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I’m late for dinner now, with old classmates from Oxford. A seasonal tradition we never miss. If you’ll pardon me?”
“Good night, then, ” Charles said. He turned and walked toward a door at the rear of the room, an exit to a small study with his personal library, fully stocked liquor cabinet, and private telephone. All of which he was retreating to more and more as he struggled with public and private problems.
As the Prime Minister entered the outer office of the King’s chambers his aide, Richard Thorn, looked up expectantly. Saxon shook his head. He had also made his decision. “Arrange a meeting, at the usual place,” he said.
Thorn glanced at his watch.
“Tonight!” commanded the Prime Minister.
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