Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

  ‘You are a war criminal,’ she told him, modifying her voice so that it sounded disapproving.

  ‘I am changed man.’

  The bodyguard did not look so fierce without his bullet-proof jacket and his shades. He trembled, as was proper in the presence of divinity. ‘And you think I don’t know this is blackmail? You think I betray my employer? No! Do what you want. I not traitor.’

  Badb knew better.

  ‘I am here to help the King,’ she told him. ‘I will give you the Green Man.’

  The bodyguard twitched. ‘Do not look around.’ He froze again. He was still trembling, but with excitement now. The new monarch hated jokers and probably Muslims too. He might overlook the fact that this man had forgotten to feed a few hundred of the latter in a long-ago war.

  ‘Here is the address,’ she told him. ‘They have booby-trapped the alley to the north, but the main street … well, they wouldn’t get away with that, would they?’

  Tuesday

  March 3rd

  ALAN TURING WOKE UP at 5a.m.; he’d set a reminder in his mind that pinged him awake. His husband slept soundly beside him, one arm outflung to rest on Alan’s body, the other tucked under Sebastian’s head. He always slept in exactly the same position – in fifty years, Alan had never seen a variation.

  Fifty years. How could he have forgotten? Richard. He had returned home from his tryst to find the dining table set formally for two, an ice-cold steak waiting on a plate, and a gold-wrapped box sitting next to it.

  Alan hadn’t needed to ask, What’s all this? As soon as he’d seen the box, he’d remembered. They’d only been married five years ago, on a sunny summer day, but yesterday was their fiftieth anniversary.

  They’d met in a bookshop on Charing Cross Road, both drenched from early spring rain and ducking in to get out of the wet. Their hands had met over a book, and the rest was history. Up until the wedding, they’d celebrated on this day, every year. Guilt washed over him, like a wave, and he almost doubled over with the force of it.

  He’d stood Sebastian up for their anniversary lunch. How had he forgotten? His mind had been elsewhere, had forgotten to ask the right questions. Rubbish in, rubbish out.

  He’d opened his present – a gold watch, sporting gorgeously intricate gears – and mentally made a promise that he and Sebastian would take an extravagant vacation together after the coronation. Maybe they’d go on a round-the-world trip.

  Alan was determined to make it up to him. Breakfast in bed would be a good start, a full English. He slipped out of bed, pulling a robe around himself, and headed to the kitchen. Alan reached for the cruet of oil sitting on the counter, but realized just in time that it was likely one of Sebastian’s special herb-infused oils. His husband might have plans for it, and that would be a terrible start to the breakfast, to use up something Sebastian needed. Butter was safe, though.

  Butter, mushrooms, fried tomatoes. Coddled eggs. Sebastian hadn’t bought black pudding, so toast soldiers would have to do. He burned it just a bit, but an open window took care of the smell, and Alan scraped off the black bits and slathered the toast with lots of butter and marmalade. Orange juice and tea. Had he forgotten anything? Oh, a flower – there was a bowl full of flower heads floating in some water on the counter. Pinks and whites and reds, striped with green; they were ridiculously romantic. Perfect – he picked one out, and adorned the plate.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Sebastian asked, walking into the room.

  ‘Rather a mess, I’m afraid,’ Alan said ruefully, taking in the chaos he’d created. ‘I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.’

  Sebastian smiled, picking the flower from the plate and tucking it behind his ear. ‘I’d rather have breakfast at the kitchen table with my husband, if that’s all right with you. It looks like you’ve made plenty for two.’

  ‘That would be perfect,’ Alan said, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Finally, he’d done something right. Relief burbled up, making him giddy. ‘You are a far better husband than I deserve,’ he said, which was only the truth.

  Sebastian pulled him into a quick embrace. ‘No, no, don’t worry about yesterday.’ He tilted his face up, and Alan bent to kiss his husband, hoping the intensity would read as passion rather than guilt. Sebastian smiled up at him when the kiss ended, and said, ‘It’s fine. The kingdom’s in transition, and the Queen was a friend. You have a lot on your mind.’

  They fell to eating and chatting, in the way of an old married couple. Alan promised to rake up the leaf mould before going into the office, and Sebastian favoured him with a smile as radiant as a groom’s on his wedding day.

  It took so little to make Alan’s husband happy. He’d been a fool to indulge himself so with Richard – Sebastian deserved any extra time and attention he could spare. Alan should end the affair; with that thought, a weight rolled off his shoulders, a weight Alan hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. Honestly, it was a relief to make the decision, though Richard would surely resist the end of the affair. Maybe striving for the kingship would distract him sufficiently.

  Alan had half-tuned out what Sebastian was saying – an essential husband skill – but then something caught his attention, so that he almost spilled his tea. He replayed Sebastian’s last words in his mind: ‘After what Prince Henry said, it’s going to be hard to see him crowned king. Richard would be a much better choice. I liked what he had to say – such naked bigotry should not be voiced in our country. That’s what a king should sound like.’

  ‘I agree,’ Alan said cautiously. ‘Richard would be better. If we had to pick one of them.’

  Sebastian frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Alan hesitated a moment – but wasn’t this what marriage was about? Trust, trust was paramount, and he wanted nothing more than to trust his husband. ‘The Queen – she confessed something to me on her deathbed. She said Elizabeth had a son.’

  ‘What?’ Sebastian’s bushy white eyebrows shot up. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘A joker – they spirited him away.’

  Sebastian frowned. ‘If this is real, you can’t try to manage this on your own, Alan. You have to tell Henry. Or better, tell Richard. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ His husband must not suspect anything, if he were sending Alan to Richard. That was as it should be – there was no longer anything to suspect. It was over. Alan reached out and rested his fingers lightly on his husband’s hand as it lay on the chintz-clad table. It felt right, like coming home.

  Sebastian nodded firmly, entwining his fingers with Alan’s. ‘Tell Richard. He should know that there may be another body between him and the throne.’

  And Henry, Turing added silently.

  The atelier was cold and silent. Constance had waited for Bobbin at the usual place for breakfast, but to no avail.

  Without Bobbin there, she hadn’t bothered with breakfast, but on the way to the atelier she stopped for cakes and pastries, making certain that she bought Bobbin’s favourites. Then she added Bakewell tarts, fruit cake, and some chocolate eclairs just in case he wanted something different. It was a ridiculous amount of food, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Hello?’ she said as she let herself into the shop. There was no response. No cheery, ‘Good morning.’ Just the cold, dimly lit atelier. She went to the back and turned on the overhead light. After placing the box of pastries on Bobbin’s desk, she went and turned up the heat. There was no doubt about it, he wasn’t there. If he had been, the heat would have definitely been on. He hated the chill.

  She went to her drafting table hoping Bobbin might have come back and left her a note. Indeed, he had. Written underneath her Wednesday entry was TRAITOR. Above it, in her own neat hand, was Henry? She sank down on her chair.

  When had he come back to the shop? Was it this morning? Maybe he was planning to talk things over? Or had he come back the night before? All she knew was he’d seen what appeared to be a damning piece of evide
nce and yet another lie and betrayal.

  She reached for her mobile phone in the pocket of her cardigan. It got stuck and she swore.

  ‘Dial Bobbin,’ she said once she’d freed it. Her voice was tremulous. The phone rang four times before it went to his voicemail. ‘Bobbin here, leave a message.’ At the sound of his voice she felt a stab of guilt and a brief unsteadying urge to cry. But there was only so much crying she had left in her after the night before.

  ‘Bobbin,’ she said. She cursed to herself because suddenly she had no idea what to say. ‘Bobbin,’ she blurted out. ‘What you saw in the planner was because the Lion called me not long after … well, after you left. I would have said anything to get him off the phone. I was in a bit of a daze, so I wrote it down, but I’m going to tell Lion I have no intention of actually doing …’ She trailed off. How could she possibly explain?

  This was something that could only be sorted in person. At least she hoped it could be.

  There came a crash of glass, and Sebastian ran into the Victorian summer house with soil on his knees and a trowel in his hand. He stood confused, breath rasping, although he’d covered less than a dozen yards to get here.

  ‘How on earth?’ he said, or so Badb guessed from reading his lips. She watched him look from the broken pane in the roof to the shards of glass scattered among his orchids. And then he gasped at the cheap mobile phone lying face up right in front of him.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he cried. ‘I’ll call security!’ But there was nothing to be seen on the adjacent lawn but grass and crows.

  Then the phone rang and he yelped.

  Again, he looked around, holding the trowel with both hands in front of his little pot belly.

  The ringing never stopped. And finally, finally, he picked up the phone.

  ‘H … hello?’

  The voice at the other end was that of a young woman, her accent Italian. ‘I am sorry to approach you this way, Mr Wallace, but I have a deadline and I need a comment.’

  ‘On … Who is this?’

  ‘I’m desperate. They’re all stuck in the last century. People don’t care if a prince is gay. It is a good thing, yes? Very now. Prince Richard must be allowed to love who he wants, even if it is a man who is a computer. Would you care to comment?’

  Sebastian froze, the phone held in front of him, his mouth working, but without sound.

  Francesca was one of Badb’s best tools. A real journalist. A glamorous woman who covered the whole world with little more than a microphone and a wheelchair. She only ever asked for payment in information.

  ‘This is hard for you, of course. Forgive me. I presume you are aware your husband has rekindled this old relationship. I admire that you stand by him.’

  Sebastian growled and squeezed the phone as though he meant to choke it. ‘You think I’m a fool?’ he whispered. ‘You think I don’t know you’re just fishing so you can print it in whatever rag you’re working for?’

  ‘We have photographs, Mr Wallace. We have recordings.’

  ‘You … have what?’

  ‘Your husband has a mole on his left buttock that is made of pure metal. I say this so you know I am speaking the truth. They laugh about your age. Especially His Royal Highness, who calls you Mr Floppy, who says that for a gardener, your sap rarely rises now.’ Francesca paused, like the professional she was. ‘Would you care to comment? What do you think of the Prince? Very handsome, of course. Would you say your relationship with Mr Turing has become toxic? Has it been poisoned by His Royal Highness? Would you care to comm—’

  With a roar, Sebastian smashed the phone onto the old tiles of the floor. He hit it with the trowel again and again, coughing. Sobbing. Furious.

  ‘His Royal … fucking … Highness!’ And then the energy went out of him, all at once. Sebastian sank to the cold floor, rested his head against the tiles.

  ‘Not again,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Alan – not again.’

  ‘Cup of tea?’ asked Francine Smith.

  ‘No thank you,’ replied the Green Man. It had been difficult to squeeze himself into the limited space at her kitchen table, but she’d insisted he be comfortable.

  She set out two cups by the steaming kettle. ‘How do you like it?’

  He didn’t. Since his card had turned, the only thing he enjoyed drinking was water. He’d been surprised to learn that refusing tea caused more offence than being a seven-foot-tall walking tree, but there it was. The British stereotype existed for a reason.

  ‘Just black.’

  ‘Right you are. I’ll be having milk and sugar myself. I know I shouldn’t, but at our age you take the pleasures you can.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Francine was a small woman, mostly skin and bone, topped with a frizz of white hair. He suspected she’d looked this way for the last ten years and would go on doing so for the next twenty or more. Under the warm smile and slightly bumbling demeanour lurked a bit of old steel.

  The floral kitchen was clean and neat, and he could see pictures of Theo and several other family members attached to the fridge door, all with their arms around each other, both before and after her grandson’s card had turned.

  ‘There you go,’ she said, putting the cup in front of him. He noted it had a much bigger handle than hers.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. Not often I have a celebrity to tea.’

  ‘I’m hardly that.’

  ‘Our Theo thinks you are. You should hear him talk! Green Man this and Green Man that. It’s adorable.’ She smiled again. Francine had an infectious smile, the kind that must have made her work in the hospital that little bit easier. ‘I’m glad you’re watching out for him.’

  Such praise was rare, and he wasn’t sure if he should take it, given the other side of his work. ‘Theo deserves the same chances as everyone else.’

  She raised her tea cup to that. ‘He’s a good lad. Has his moments of course, but then, don’t we all?’

  ‘Definitely. Did Theo tell you why I’m here?’

  ‘He did. Biscuit?’

  ‘No thank you. I’m afraid I can’t stay long.’ He looked out of the window. Things appeared suspiciously calm outside. A group of young children were playing with a tennis ball, using the fence as a goal, and a dog on the other side was jumping up and down, doing her best to join in.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure you’re very busy.’

  ‘Francine, I need to know about the royal baby Princess Elizabeth had in 1948. It’s very important.’

  She nodded, her smile vanishing, but said nothing.

  ‘Theo tells me you saw it.’

  ‘Aye, I did. Saw him as clear as I’m seeing you.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was a sweet little thing. They say all babies are, but they’re not really. This one was a love though. A gentle soul, I could see it in his eyes.’

  ‘Was there something … different about him?’

  ‘His skin. It was all blotchy and bumpy.’

  ‘Bruised?’

  ‘No, but it wasn’t like anything I’d seen before. Babies don’t come out the way they do on the telly, all clean and pink. They come out messy and some of them have all kinds of problems, poor loves. I’ve seen babies born raw and shivering. And I’ve seen them get stuck or injured. Birth is a tough thing, Mr Green Man. But this wasn’t anything natural. At least not natural in the way I understand it.’

  ‘So that we’re clear: you’re saying his condition would identify him as a victim of the wild card virus. That the young prince was born a joker?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. That’s the truth of it.’

  ‘What happened when the Palace realized?’

  ‘Oh, there was all kinds of fuss. The first thing they did was get us out of the room. They were panicking, you see. But it was too late by then. I’d seen, and so had a few of the other girls. They made us sign a paper to keep us quiet. Said that if we told anyone, we’d go to prison.’

  ‘And you’re not w
orried that telling me might get you into trouble?’

  She chuckled, and helped herself to a biscuit. ‘Not much they can do to me now, is there?’ A little of that hidden steel emerged as she added, ‘Besides, I’m sure if they did come after me, a nice man like you wouldn’t just stand by and do nothing, would you?’

  ‘You know me too well. Now, can you tell me anything else?’

  ‘Well, I probably shouldn’t say anything more but seeing as I’ve come this far, and seeing that you’ve been such a good friend to our Theo, there is something else that’s stuck with me to this day.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was the one holding him at the end, while they all decided what was going to happen. All bundled up in my arms, he wasn’t no different to any other baby. Better behaved than most, in fact. A bit puffy in the face, I suppose, and like I said, funny-looking. But nothing a mother couldn’t love.

  ‘I was talking to him and rocking him gently, trying to make sure he was settled. Babies can be quite sensitive to their environment, so I thought if I was calm, he’d be calm. I suppose I was hoping that if he was good they’d be more likely to take pity on him.’ She sighed. ‘I was a bit of a silly goose in those days.’

  She saw him looking at her, and then continued. ‘Prince Philip came out of the bedroom with this terrible look on his face and I made sure my eyes were down when I realized he was coming over to me. There was another man with him that I hadn’t seen before. Well, Prince Philip whips the baby out of my arms, which makes him cry of course, and pushes him into the other man’s chest. And then he says, “deal with it”, just like that. “Deal with it”! As if this baby’s nothing more than a pile of dirty washing.’

  ‘This other man, was he part of the palace staff?’