“Ah, but the infamous Italian prince didn’t care who lived or died. That’s the difference between him and me. I care deeply what happens to my people.”
The Archbishop’s brow furrowed, his voice rising. “They are only your people in the sense that you are their King, their figurehead. They are not yours to do with as you please. Do you truly want to upset everything that Britain has worked to establish for three hundred years, merely for the sake of short-term gain? To assert your power in your old age?”
“Short-term gain?” The King’s voice rose to meet Youngblood’s. “If it were only me, I’d be content to live out my days in comfort and ease. This is for our children, and our children’s children. The status quo is simply not good enough.”
“While the status quo,” Youngblood said, “may not have been perfect, at least we knew where we stood.”
“And I will remind you, this island’s name is Great Britain, and great she shall be!”
“I must point out – as I’m sure you already know, Your Majesty – that the ‘great’ in Great Britain refers to its size in relation to Ireland, which was once referred to as ‘Little Britain’.”
“Well what would be the point of being King if I could not redefine the name of my kingdom?”
“But Your Majesty–”
“Good morning, Woollie.” The King indicated the door.
Lindsey pocketed his pencil, closed his notebook, stood up, and went to the door.
Youngblood fixed his eyes on the King a few seconds. Then he stood up, shook Alfred’s outstretched hand, allowed Lindsey to open the door, and exited.
The King exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. “That went well.”
Lindsey smiled, running a finger along the inside of his collar.
“Right. Who’s next, Blair?”
“It’s your children, Your Majesty.” Lindsey closed the diary, holding it in the crook of his arm.
“Ah,” the King said, standing, looking at the floor, and clasping his hands behind his back. “Can I not have the Archbishop back instead?”
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad, sir.”
“Hmm. We shall see.”
“May I show them in?”
Drawing a deep breath, the King said, “Very well.”
Lindsey opened the door. The Prince was pacing around the waiting room, while the Princess sat on the visitor’s sofa as if posing for a photo.
She stood and accompanied her brother into their father’s office.
Lindsey indicated some chairs. The Princess sat, but the Prince continued standing.
“What are you playing at, Father?” Prince Adrian raised his voice, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s some kind of elaborate joke, isn’t it? Well, I’m sure I don’t understand it. And I’m sure that Parliament don’t either. Nor the rest of the country, for that matter.”
Lindsey moved to the furthest corner of the room as he readied his notebook.
The Prince continued. “You simply can’t use the State Opening of Parliament to stage some elaborate practical joke. Because it must be a joke. I mean, really – you? Rule Britain? You simply can’t do that. Nor I, nor my little sister. It’s prepost–”
“How dare you,” the King bellowed, “address your father – your King! – in such a manner.” He held his hands behind his back and walked around his desk, looking down on his shorter son. “My plans for the New Order include you. You have a part to play which, given your usual behaviour, might also be considered a joke by many. But if you ‘man up’, you’ll get your chance to shine.
“Now, my dear,” the King said, shifting his gaze to the Princess, “do you agree with your brother’s sentiments?”
The Princess stood from her chair. “Yesterday, I’d have said that staging a coup in Great Britain would have been impossible. Today– well, we shall have to wait and see how it all falls out, but I’m absolutely behind you.”
The King smiled, and Frances hugged her father tightly.
Holding his arms in the air uncertainly, the King waited a moment before returning her embrace. His smile disappeared.
She released her father. “Sorry.”
Unnoticed in his corner, Lindsey smiled.
“I hope your plans include me as well,” the Princess said.
“Of course.”
Adrian jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and fell into a chair. “My dear sister, you can have my job, whatever that is. I don’t want any part of this. I like my life.”
The King put his hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed. “There is no going back. Your old life is over.”
Twisting free, the Prince stood up and made for the door.
“Adrian, you have not been given leave to depart!”
Looking back at his father, the Prince hesitated before opening the door, leaving, and slamming it behind him.
“Blair, is General Montgomery here in the Palace?”
Lindsey stepped out of his corner. “No, Your Majesty. The ranking officer on site is Captain Phillips.”
“Raise him.”
Lindsey picked up the desk phone, and spoke in hushed tones.
The King indicated a chair to the Princess. “Sit down, my dear. This won’t take long.”
Frances complied.
“Here he is, Your Majesty,” Lindsey said, holding the receiver to the King.
Alfred snatched the phone away from Lindsey. “Stanley, hello. The Prince of Wales has just left my office. I don’t know which way he’s going, but I want him brought back here. Don’t accept any argument from him – or resistance.” He handed the receiver to Lindsey.
The King sat down opposite his daughter. “As I was saying, my plans–”
She held up a finger and pointed first to the door, then to the phone. “Er… can you actually do that? Have Adrian brought back by force?”
“As of this morning,” Alfred said with a sneaking smile, “yes.”
Folding her hands across her lap and looking her father in the eye, the Princess grinned. “I see.”
“You know, I need you to have a talk with your brother. Perhaps you can persuade him to come round to our way of thinking.”
“Yes. Of course. Absolutely. I’m already thinking of what I might say to him.”
A knock came at the door. Lindsey opened it.
The Prince of Wales entered, sweat on his face and a soldier at his back. The Prince’s eyes darted to where his father stood gazing at him as if from on high. His sister perched on a chair, back straight, legs crossed, a smirk on her lips.
“What is going on?” The Prince removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his soaking brow.
Still holding the door, Lindsey looked at the soldier. “Thank you, Captain.” Captain Phillips left as Lindsey closed the door without a sound.
“Father?” the Prince intreated.
Lindsey withdrew to his corner.
The King locked eyes with his son. “Henceforth, you will wait to be dismissed before leaving my presence. Is that understood?”
The Prince stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. “Yes, Father.” He looked at his sister and then at the King. “May I be dismissed?”
“Yes, you may.”
Stepping forward again, Lindsey opened the door. The Prince departed backward, only turning when he was through the door. Lindsey closed it.
The Princess stood. “Is there anything else you want me to do, Father?”
“For now,” the King said, “only what I’ve already told you.”
“May I… be dismissed then?”
“Oh, there’s no need for that between us. He needs it. You don’t.”
She rose, half-smiling. “Thank you, Father. Leave Adrian to me,” the Princess said.
***
Prince Adrian’s Rolls-Royce came to a stop at the front of Clarence House.
The driver exited the car and began to open the passenger door. He jumped back as the Prince of Wales burst out of the car and went into the hous
e, slamming doors behind him.
The Prince’s butler, middle-aged with silvering hair at the sides of his bald top, bespectacled, dressed in a morning suit, met him in the entrance hall. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. We weren’t expecting you today.”
“It’s a day of surprises, Mitchell.” He shrugged his coat off his shoulders and onto the floor.
Mitchell picked up the coat. “It certainly is, Your Highness. May I ask where you’re going?”
“To my office,” the Prince said. “But I’m not to be disturbed.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“And no calls!” He opened his office door, entered, and shut it hard. Some flakes of varnish fell on the floor.
The desk, the furnishings, and the décor shared a neoclassical flavour. Behind the desk hung a painting of the same period, a tasteful nude.
He made directly for his desk. From a bottom drawer he took a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, nearly empty. Arranged on the desk was a silver tray with a full glass decanter and several crystal tumblers. Ignoring the decanter, he poured the remainder of the bottle into a glass, and drank. It was gone in one large sip.
A few seconds after he pressed a button on the desk phone and slumped into his leather office chair, a hidden door opened.
“You buzzed, Your Highness?”
The Prince tossed the empty bottle to Mitchell, who caught it. “Get me another bottle or two of Jack.”
“Right away, Your Highness.” The servant moved backward out the door and closed it.
Standing and resting his hands on the desktop, the Prince breathed deeply, staring at the floor.
A convulsion forced all the air out of him. He inhaled but in an instant his lungs involuntarily expelled his breath.
In another moment he was wracked with sobs.
Collapsing into his chair, he gasped for oxygen, tears streaming from his eyes. He wiped them away with a handkerchief, kneaded his eye sockets with the heels of his hands, ran his hands through his hair, and straightened his tie.
Composed, he took the telephone receiver and dialled a number.
“Good evening, Olivia,” he said, his voice steady. “Absolutely right. How did you guess?” A pause. “Good. Be sure and wear that slinky black number. Under the boiler suit, of course.” Another pause. “I’ll see you soon.” The Prince put the phone down.
A decorative chaise-longue sofa stood at the opposite end of the room. The Prince went to it and lay down the wrong way, his feet perched at the top and his head at the bottom. He clasped his hands over his abdomen, and closed his eyes, regulating his breathing.
***
A Volkswagen Golf parked near the tradesman’s entrance of Clarence House, sporting a magnetic sticker on its door: “24/7 Air Conditioning Specialists”. A woman got out, wearing a blue boiler suit, flat cap, and false moustache. She pressed a button on the security intercom next to a door.
A voice crackled from the speaker. “Can I help you?”
“Air conditioning,” the woman said in a singsong feminine voice.
“Come on in, love,” the crackly voice said.
The door buzzed open, and the disguised woman entered.
***
The Sikorsky S-76 helicopter painted in the distinctive royal livery drove a blast of icy air onto the deck of the supercarrier HMS King Alfred.
Waiting as the aircraft touched down was the ship’s full complement of officers, together with rows of ratings.
Admiral Frederick Billington, his rank distinguished by epaulettes and the four embroidered rings around his jacket cuffs, and his clean-shaven face by a serious demeanour, greeted the King with a naval salute and a formal smile. “Welcome aboard, Your Majesty.”
The King returned the salute as they walked together toward the forward island, one of two towers rising from the flatness of the flight deck.
“Good morning, Frederick,” King Alfred said. “I trust you’re running a tight ship, as ever.”
“I am, Your Majesty. As I believe you are.”
“It’s a bit early to say,” the King said, “but the gears are in motion.”
They entered the tower, followed by the guard detachment.
The tour took in the crew quarters, kitchens, mess halls, hangar bays, maintenance areas, and engine rooms, finishing on the bridge. Captain Frank Rycroft waited for them, a bearded sailor with a square-jaw who wore his fifty-plus years well.
“Good morning, Your Majesty. How do you find my ship?” Rycroft beamed confidence while shaking hands with his sovereign.
“Your ship?” the King said, eyes widened and brows raised. “This is His Majesty’s ship, Frank. That is what ‘HMS’ stands for.”
The Captain laughed politely, and the King smiled. The Admiral looked on as if nothing had been said.
“It is a fine ship, to be sure,” Alfred said, looking at the Admiral Billington. “But a mere two aircraft carriers does not a navy make, Frederick.”
The Admiral laughed. “You’re using my line, Your Majesty. The refits are going very well. Some of the hulks we obtained from the Americans ten years ago are fully refurbished and ready to be brought into service. They only await your command. The rest are not far off.”
“You know how to curry favour with your sovereign,” the King said. “I’m sure you have naval matters well in hand, Frederick. Perhaps my son could be given a commission on one of the new ships. After all, he is a captain in my Navy.”
“I know. I was there when he was commissioned. I was, however, under the impression that his rank was purely honorary. In any case, all our ships have commanding officers currently serving.”
“He has undergone all the standard naval training,” Alfred said, holding Billington’s eye. “All he lacks is a ship.”
“His training was quite a number of years ago,” the Admiral said. “It’ll be somewhat out of date now. He’s seen no duty of any kind since then.”
“I want him on active duty, Admiral,” the King said, inclining his head and looking down his nose at the Navy’s most senior officer. “As captain of his own ship.”
The Admiral stood up straight, almost to attention. “As you wish, Your Majesty. May I suggest he serves alongside an established captain? Until he re-learns the ropes.”
“That will be quite satisfactory, Frederick. I wouldn’t insist if it weren’t important. As heir to the throne, Adrian must get accustomed to taking command. It is essential to success. You and whichever captain you choose have a critical part to play. I hope you understand that.”
“We’ll, do everything necessary,” Admiral Billington said.
“Good. In fact, I’ve a specific idea regarding which ship he should command.”
“I’ll be very interested to hear it,” the Admiral said with hesitation.
The King smiled.
***
“You may,” the King said, reclining in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, “speak freely.”
Blair Lindsey stood next to the King’s desk, looking at the floor. “I’m not sure I can, Your Majesty.”
“Come now, dear boy, out with it.”
Lindsey inclined his head upward, looked to the floor, to the desk, then into the King’s eyes. “The Prince is not,” he said, glancing at the ceiling before fixing his gaze on the King, “trustworthy.”
“Really, Blair,” Alfred said, eyes widening, “you’ll have to justify that statement.”
Wrapping his arms around his notebook, Lindsey shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “His philandering, for example.”
The King sighed, taking his feet off the desk and standing. “Surely a man’s indiscretions in the bedchamber do not define him.”
“I believe they do. If he shows no compunction about unfaithfulness to his wife – and his girlfriends, for that matter – then what chance he’ll be faithful to his country? I mean, who’s he closer to? His own family, or the British people? And it’s not just his sexual immorality. There’s also his de
ception, drinking–”
“Enough!” The King stood up, dominating the shorter man. He held out a hand in front of him, gesticulating before the words came. “I do not believe the way you do. I cannot! He is my son, and he fears me. I will mould him into a trustworthy leader. At the bottom of it all… he is a good boy.”
“I apologise, Your Majesty. I spoke too freely.”
“I should think so.” Moving to stand toe to toe with Lindsey, the King gazed downward into the younger man’s blue irises. Lindsey averted his eyes.
Alfred began pacing around the room. “And then, if Adrian doesn’t start taking his responsibilities seriously, I’ll send him to the Falklands. Both he and his harem. So, what have we next on today’s agenda?”
“Well, it’s hard to say, what with the diary being in such a shambles after your big announcement in Parliament. Many of your appointments no longer apply. Now, if you’d told me in advance what you were planning, I could’ve wrangled your schedule accordingly.”
“The King must have some secrets. I believe it’s mandatory.”
Lindsey raised an eyebrow. “Surely not from his personal assistant?”
Both men smiled.
“Obviously,” Lindsey said, halting, looking at the floor, “you know you’re doing the right thing.”
The Kings scrutiny returned to Lindsey. “Is that a question or statement?”
Lindsey met the King’s eye. “Whichever gets me into less trouble.”
The Kings gaze remained steady. “Next appointment, Blair?”
Lindsey consulted the diary he carried next to his notebook. Many items were blacked out, and extra items were written in wherever there was space so that the pages were full to the margins. “I think your meeting with the Parliamentary privileges committee will still be valid. Perhaps even more so now.”
“Good.” The King looked at the floor, and ran his hand over his smooth chin as if examining it for stubble. “Good.”
***
Television cameras tracked Archbishop Youngblood and another man as they sat under studio lights. Youngblood wore conservative clerical attire. The other man – a well-fed but not fat gentleman who wore squareish glasses and a moustache – was dressed in a standard business suit, his thick dark hair streaked with grey.
“Please, Mr McKinnell, call me Woollie. Everyone else does.”
“Of course. And please, call me Doyle. Now what I, and the nation, want to know is, exactly what part do you play in the New Order?”
“I have only ever been a humble functionary, Doyle, and that is what I will continue to be.”