Avalon Read Free Page B

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