“Listen!” hissed the crowd.
“The King is dead,” intoned Jonathan Trent. “I repeat: Edward the Ninth, King of England, is dead. Turning to our correspondent, Kevin Clark, on the Portuguese island of Madeira, we bring you this report.”
The announcement sent a rumble through the room. “Well, I’ll be… Did you hear that?” asked Calum.
“I can’t hear a thing,” James complained.
Instantly, the scene changed to a fresh-faced Kevin Clark, holding a microphone and pressing his left palm against his ear. He was standing in front of a large, modern-looking building in the dark, and he was saying, “I am here outside the Hospital Assunção, the medical facility where the body of the King was taken earlier this evening — about eight o’clock unofficially — by ambulance from his villa in Funchal. Initial reports, yet to be confirmed, indicate that the King suffered gunshot wounds and was pronounced dead on arrival in the trauma room.”
“I’ll be…“ whispered Douglas. “The old bastard really is dead.”
“It is not known at this hour,” continued the foreign correspondent, “the circumstances surrounding the incident. I am told the Portuguese authorities have mounted a preliminary investigation, and we expect to be issued a report within the hour.”
The scene switched back to Jonathan Trent in the London studio. “Thank you, Kevin. Can you tell us the reaction of the British Consul in Madeira?”
“I can indeed, Jonathan,” replied Kevin with suitable gravity. “The consulate staff is, of course, well aware of the implications of this tragic event, and are extending their full cooperation to the authorities to aid in the investigation. I have been told that the Consul has been in contact with Number Ten, and that a statement will be issued by the Prime Minister. We have not been privy to the —”
“I’ll have to stop you there, Kevin,” said Jonathan Trent, breaking in, “but it looks like that statement is about to be made. We go now to Ronald Metcalf at Number Ten Downing Street.”
The screen changed to a man in a trench coat with his collar up, standing hunch-shouldered outside a rain-streaked Georgian town house. Television lights lit up the night, glaring off the familiar black-enameled door. Policemen formed a cordon behind the press and television reporters, all of whom were jostling for better position.
“We have just received word that the Prime Minister is about to make a statement,” Ronald Metcalf informed the viewers.
“Tell us something we don’t bloody know already!” shouted someone from the back of the pub — who was in turn shouted down by those around him.
James found himself leaning forward to hear what was being said.
“It could be any moment…. We are waiting for… there — it looks as if the Prime Minister is coming out now.”
The picture shifted to the front entrance as the shiny black door opened and Prime Minister Thomas Waring emerged, looking distinctly grave and concerned, his compact, athletic form severe in a close-tailored black suit and deep blue tie. Accompanied by a swarm of aides, one of whom held an umbrella over his boss’s head, the Prime Minister paused to allow the pressmen a photo opportunity. Then, disdaining the offered umbrella, he braved the drizzle and walked quickly towards the bank of microphones to the staccato click of camera shutters and the strobelike bursts of their flashes.
Stepping before the massed mikes, he looked at the paper in his hand, waiting for the buzz to quiet down. When he sensed the moment was right, he raised his head and, in solemn, subdued tones, said, “I have prepared a brief announcement.”
He paused, swallowed, and began reading. “A little over an hour ago, the Home Office confirmed the report that the King of England was found grievously wounded at his villa in Madeira and rushed to hospital where he was pronounced dead at eight twenty-seven Greenwich Mean Time. Official cause of death is yet to be determined, but preliminary reports indicate that Edward succumbed to a head wound caused by gunshots.”
The Prime Minister raised his head slowly. “As Prime Minister, I wish, on behalf of the nation, to extend condolences to the members of the monarch’s surviving family, his many friends, and well-wishers the world over. Obviously, our thoughts and sympathies are with them in this time of grief. I have nothing more to say.” He made to step away from the microphones.
At this, the journalists unleashed a volley of questions at the retreating politician. “Mr. Waring! One question, Prime Minister!” shouted someone over the rest of the pack. “You said gunshots — was it murder or suicide?”
The Prime Minister hesitated, then returned to the microphone. “The Portuguese authorities are conducting an investigation. To offer any speculation now would be highly inappropriate. Thank you.”
He turned away and started back to Number Ten.
“Where does this leave your Magna Carta scheme?” another journalist shouted.
The Prime Minister turned his face towards the camera but kept walking. “Not now,” Waring replied. “I have said all I have to say this evening. I will be making an announcement in Parliament tomorrow. Thank you.” He disappeared through the crush of his aides and bodyguards; the door opened before him, and he ducked quickly inside.
A rare silence descended upon the Pipe & Drum — a spontaneous reverence for the passing of the nation’s monarch. Not so much the man, James thought, as for the monarchy itself. Ready Teddy had not been a particularly sparkling example of modern sovereignty.
In common with some few of his predecessors, Edward IX was a wastrel and a womanizer, as often as not dragging his reign through the muck with his lascivious shenanigans. Twice he had been named corespondent in scandalous divorces, and he had once come within a hair’s breadth of being indicted for embezzling funds from a business venture in which he was a partner. His driving license was in a permanent state of revocation, and he owed huge sums of money to the banks of several countries. He spent far more time at his various properties abroad than he ever did at home — although he still opened Parliament and the racing season, and he was widely quoted as saying he wished he had inherited the crown of Spain because the food was better and weather did not impede one’s golf game.
Magna Carta II made all this more or less irrelevant. A misnomer, to be sure, the term was a journalistic tag attached to the movement to dissolve the monarchy of Britain. Whereas the original Great Charter established the rule of law and curtailed the power of the monarch, Magna Carta II aimed to abolish both sovereign and sovereignty altogether.
The scheme featured a series of closely orchestrated phases, each linking a referendum to the necessary legislation. Four times the Government had consulted the people and, four times, passed laws that moved the country ever closer to the final Act of Dissolution.
Introduced by Parliament several years ago, the devolution process had been quietly and systematically working its way through its various stages, beginning with a few slight changes in the British Constitution and a moderate government reorganization which, among other things, abolished the House of Lords. Social reform eliminated all honors, titles, and other lingering vestiges of inherited privilege, while long-anticipated tax reform brought royal lands under the heavy thumb of the Inland Revenue, thereby producing the desired effect of pricing the nobility out of the market.
No government could have pursued such drastic, sweeping measures without the sanction of the British people. Years of wretched excess and royal disgrace had soured public opinion to the point that no one cared anymore. Whatever legacy of loyalty the House of Windsor had built up over the years had been squandered by the latest run of rakish incumbents. Not to put too fine a point on it, the weak-willed, petty-minded monarchs had brought about their own demise. Thus, when Magna Carta II was launched, most people thought it was high time to dump the whole stinking lot.
James never learned who won the football game that night, for the normal schedule of programs was abandoned and there followed a rambling, catch-as-catch-can obituarial documentary on the sad life
of the sorry King, interspersed with continuous late-breaking bulletins which added nothing to the fact already evidenced: that the King was dead indeed.
“Oh, come on,” growled Cal after a while. “It’s not like he’s going to be missed. The man was no Mother Teresa.”
James had known Calum McKay since the day his family moved onto the Blair Morven estate. Cal’s father had been hired as gamekeeper to help James’ father, who was managing more and more of the estate, and suddenly James had a new friend. Two wild young bucks, they had gone through school together, skipping classes at every opportunity to ride ponies and go hunting and fishing. Loyal, irritating, diverting, and exasperating — Cal was the brother James’ parents never got around to giving him.
Douglas Charmichael was also a long-time friend, and the three of them, bachelors all, often met of an evening at the Pipe & Drum for a pint and a little football. Like everyone else that night, they sat and absorbed the shocking news. For, whatever a person might think of Edward the man, and in spite of the inevitability of Magna Carta II, the nation was confronted that night with the end of a long history of monarchical rule, and that was something that could not be digested in the space of a sound bite.
Quickly bored with the unenlightening coverage of what was already being termed the National Tragedy and since football was not going to return, Gordon, the landlord, switched off the TV, and James braved the crush at the bar to fetch the table another round. “Good day on the moors?” Douglas was asking Cal when he returned with the drinks.
“Oh, aye, good enough. We let one real trophy get away, and two others bolted before we could get close. But the punters seemed happy enough. They each got a kill — that’s what matters.”
“Who’ve you got this week?” James asked, handing the drinks around.
“A couple of flash solicitors all the way up from London-town.” Calum accepted his pint. “Ta, Jimmy.”
“Don’t talk to me about solicitors,” James grumbled. “I’ve spent most of the day with them, and I’ve got a mountain of stuff to plow through tonight.”
“These are a right pair, I’ll tell you,” Cal continued blithely. “Think they’re on safari. Matching macs and field glasses, designer sunglasses on little strings around their necks, and silver whisky flasks in their plus fours. They’re driving a purple Range Rover, for cryin’ out loud, with tinted windows, bull bars, and state-of-the-art audio.”
“It’s parked outside,” Douglas informed him, taking a sip from the foaming pint. “I saw it when I came in.”
Cal glanced guiltily around the room. “I don’t see ’em — must be in the dining room,” he concluded. “You should ha’ seen the two of them when the first stag came charging over the hill this morning — almost wet themselves trying to get a shot off.” He chuckled. “Oh, they’re all right, I suppose. A bit toff, but good tippers. They’ve been up before.” He took a long pull on his pint, and then shook his head. “Man, how about that King, eh? What a sorry end to the whole rotten business.”
They drank in silent agreement, each deep in his own thoughts. Then Douglas suggested, “We should go out some weekend. Just the three of us. It would be like old times.”
“Sure,” allowed Cal diffidently. “Maybe after Christmas.”
“After Christmas maybe,” James agreed.
Cal and James both knew, if Dougie didn’t, that it was far too likely that there would be no more hunting on the estate; by Christmas the Duke’s will would be probated, Cal would be out of a job, and James’ erstwhile inheritance would be swallowed by an Australian development consortium — the very reason James had spent yet another day in Braemar with the solicitors, trying to hold on to the little piece of the estate his parents thought they had left him.
The pub’s atmosphere had become truly grim, and then somebody called for some music, so Gordon fired up his overtaxed stereo with his favorite old Gerry Rafferty tune, loud and thrumming. James put his glass down and stood. “Well, that’s me gone. See you, Cal. See you, Dougie.”
“Hey, don’t go,” said Douglas. “It’s my turn next.”
“Late night tonight and early day tomorrow.” He stepped away from the table, said cheerio to Gordon, and started for the door.
“See you, James,” called Dougie.
“Give Jenny my love,” added Cal; he pursed his lips in a pantomime kiss.
“Try not to let the lawyers shoot you,” James answered over the guitars and drums.
Outside, he took a deep breath, tasting the peaty smoke from the hearth fire as it curled on the breeze. The lights from inside gleamed pale and yellow like warm butter, pooling in the puddles on the rain-soaked pavement in front of the pub. The music was almost as loud outside as in, and he walked across the parking lot singing to himself, “‘That’s the way it always starts…’”
He climbed into his dad’s battered old blue Land Rover, frowning at the box of files and documents on the passenger seat, switched on the ignition, and drove from the parking lot. He passed quickly through Braemar — it was quiet, deserted: the townfolk glued to their TV sets — and turned east onto the old military road.
The drizzle had lifted and the rain clouds were dispersing on a quickening west wind. A few stars were shining through the gaps in the clouds, and a bright slice of moon was rising in the east. It would be a fine crisp night, he thought, and his mind drifted naturally to Jenny. Cal’s gentle needling put him in the mood, and he suddenly wished she were there beside him. In the same instant, a pang of guilt shot through him as he remembered he had not called her for a week or more. Now that he had the whole of the Blair Morven estate to look after, he could not see her as often as he would have liked. He resolved to call her as soon as he got home.
Crossing the Invercauld Bridge, James headed for Glen Morven and his cottage above Old Blair. He drove on, eventually coming to the scattering of farmhouses known as Alltdourie; it was just after passing the last house before entering the estate that he saw the spark of light flare from the top of a hill through the trees.
His first thought was that it was just the moonlight hitting something — the windscreen of a car maybe. On second thought, he considered that highly unlikely, and so slowed down for a better look. By the time he came in sight of the hill again, the glinting spark had become the glimmering glow of a fire.
James slowed and cranked down the window. The fire surmounted the top of broad, bald-topped Weem Hill. He knew the countryside well; the estate was seamed through with nature trails — and Weem Hill, a mile more or less from the road, was one hikers particularly enjoyed. He continued on slowly until he came upon a plum-colored Range Rover parked on the mossy shoulder of the road.
“I better go see what the city boys are up to,” he muttered, rolling to a stop behind the expensive vehicle.
Pulling his jacket from the backseat, he shrugged into it, then reached into the glove box for a flashlight, which he tapped against his palm a few times before switching it on. He walked to the other vehicle and shined a beam in the driver’s window. The interior was spotless; the doors were locked.
He turned towards the fire. Two lower hills stood between him and the blaze; it would mean a slog over rough wet ground in the dark. James sighed, zipped up his coat, and leaped the ditch. On the other side, he put his hand to the fence post atop the bank, vaulted over the top wire of the fence, and struck off along the rising slope towards the shimmering light on the far hilltop.
Reaching the crest of the first hill, he stopped to survey the situation. The fire still burned as brightly as before, but, try as he might, he could not make out any movement around the perimeter of the blaze. He moved on, descending quickly to the valley floor, jumping the stream at the bottom, and starting up the long slope of the next hill.
It was a good steady climb, and he soon warmed to the exercise; his breath came in gasps that sent puffs of steam rolling on the cold air, and sweat beaded on his forehead to drip down the side of his face. After a day spent in a
lengthy, largely pointless meeting with his solicitor in town, it felt good to exert himself a little.
James slowed his pace as he neared the crest of the next hill, and dropped down low. The fire burned hot and bright — a proper Bonfire Night conflagration of heaped scrap wood and shipping pallets — but there seemed to be no one around. He saw no sign of the London lawyers whose car was parked on the road, and wondered where they could have gotten to.
He changed course, moving across the face of the slope so that he would come upon the fire from the side. Just before reaching the crest of the hill, he stopped and crouched down. He listened. The rippling flutter of the bonfire flames, fanned by the gusting wind and punctuated by the gunfire-sharp crack of wet wood, were the only sounds to be heard.
Rising up slowly, he peered over the top of the hill towards the fire. There was no one around. He moved closer — and had taken no more than half a dozen steps when the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
James halted in midstep, the fiosachd jangling; the skin between his shoulder blades quivered. Someone was there, after all.
Two
James moved closer, feeling the heat blast of flames on his face and hands as he mounted the hilltop. He stood for a moment, and then walked slowly around the perimeter of the fire, the flesh between his shoulder blades squirming with the certainty that he was being watched.
“You might as well show yourself,” he called loudly to the night. “I know you’re hiding here somewhere. Come out.”
He waited. The wind rippled the flames ominously, but that was all.
“I’m not leaving until you come out,” he said, his voice loud over the sound of the fire. “So you might as well save us both some time and —”
“I am here. No need to shout.”
The voice startled him. It came so clear and close, he whirled around — half expecting to see a thug with a high-powered rifle trained on him.
Instead, James saw a white-haired man dressed all in black feathers. He clutched an old-fashioned horn-tipped shepherd’s crook of the kind sold in tourist shops north of the border. He stood not a dozen paces away, stock-still, as if he had materialized out of thin air or the hill itself had opened and disgorged him whole.