by Ken Altabef
Pitt was delivering his situational report on the progress of the war. “France is rapidly sinking under the weight of their efforts to maintain the war. Her navy is nearly ruined, her treasuries ravaged, and her people discontented. And after what happened at Frieberg, I believe King Louis is finally ready for peace. And then Sweden and Poland will also negotiate.”
“I’m happy to hear it,” George said. “Quite happy. This is…” He left the thought hanging. The spot of glare on the desk was utterly distracting. He moved a ledger to cover the offending spot but the glare from its leather binding was just as bad. France suing for peace, he thought. This is what I wanted. This was exactly what he wanted, so why this peculiar sense of unease pricking at him? Not what he wanted. Charlotte was what he wanted. To touch her, to feel her, to be with her right now, always, ever.
He glanced at the Queen. She sat contemplatively on the divan, paying him no attention as she scuffed the toe of her shoe against the knit of the fine oriental rug. Just sitting there. It isn’t fair a woman can bring a man to his knees with desire, he thought. She shouldn’t be at the meeting, that’s all. He should tell her to remove herself from the meeting.
“I’m glad you’re pleased, Sire,” Pitt continued. “I expect Count de Bussy will be arriving here in London within a few days to negotiate on behalf of the French king. I’m told he will offer to cede Canada and renounce all claim to Cape Breton in exchange for Marigalante and Guadaluope. And on the African continent, Louis will give us Senegal and Goree for Acra and Anamaboo. It would be a highly satisfactory arrangement.”
Satisfactory, thought George. Well it might be satisfactory if not for the infernal pricking of his seat. The itching and the pricking and that damn spot of glare. Something was wrong with that deal. Someone had warned him against dealing with the French. Someone had said not to give them anything. Charlotte. Charlotte had said that, though he could not recall the exact conversation.
“Why should we give them anything?” he said. “We’ve never been stronger. The sun rises and sets within the extent of British dominions. There must be a way to keep it all.”
Pitt leaned forward a bit. His hands, which had formerly been clasped behind his back, came forward to stroke his chin. “I don’t quite understand, Sire. A treaty to end the war now can be made on very favorable terms. It’s what we’ve wanted all along.”
Yes, you fool it’s what we wanted! thought George. But she told me otherwise. She told me we will destroy any who oppose us. The Protestants. The French. We needn’t stop until we rule all of Europe as well. Her skin, so soft. The smell of her! She’s wet and ready. She said the British empire should know no bounds. Peace, war—it’s all the same. Life, death—damn that glare!
“Yes,” he said, “it is what we wanted… It was what we wanted.”
“My lord?”
George threw up his hand for silence, nearly upsetting the inkwell. “My earnest wish has always been to mark this early period of my reign with a cessation of the calamites of this war with France.” That’s right. That’s absolutely correct. “So much of Europe suffers because of it, but…”
He glanced at his wife, sitting on the divan. Charlotte. Her eyes, not looking at him, cast demurely down to her breasts. Her lips, so soft, so wet. He choked back a helpless sob.
“But it is clear to me now that a truce will not be possible. These concessions are wholly unacceptable. My good brother and ally, Frederick—Prussia, you do remember Prussia, don’t you?—can be made to agree.”
“What’s this?” Pitt leaned forward aggressively, one fist clenched. “We’ve many times discussed the overbearing cost of this war, and the horrid number of casualties inflicted on both sides. You always shared my concerns before. If you’ve decided upon a change from your previous stance, why is this the first we’ve heard of it? Why this sudden reversal of mind? All our plans…”
He held himself back from saying more but the fire in his eyes proclaimed he would not let this pass without an argument, regardless of the differing status between them.
George could barely look at him. Charlotte. It was Charlotte. He wanted her right now, right now. If only these nattering fools could be made to leave him alone.
There. See? The way she shifted her hips casually against the settee cushion. She moved with such a regal bearing and grace. Confident. At peace. Of course, why shouldn’t she be calm? Why shouldn’t he? The king had final say in matters of war. The Secretary of State, the House of Lords, the dead men littering the streets of Lutterberg and Landshut, their empty eyes staring upward, staring to God, staring at him. Why should we give them anything?
“Who’s that?” George said, twisting round. “Who’s that there?”
An old man shifted forward, carrying a silver tray. “Your morning tea, sir.”
“Schroeder,” said George. Had he asked for tea? He couldn’t remember. “I didn’t ask for any tea.”
“Beg your pardon, sir. Should I leave the tray?”
“Leave it, leave it. Set it down. And move along. We’re… we’re almost done here I think.”
“Very good, sir.” Schroeder laid the tray on the mahogany side table then set about fixing the sugar.
“Don’t fuss, don’t fuss. Just go.”
“Sir.”
“Now then,” George said to Pitt. “Let us end this discussion. Things have changed. Review of our military operations shows me a significant opportunity.” He swallowed painfully, his mouth so dry. “Now that we have taken the Belle Isles and Dominica, and captured their southern base at Pondicherry, the French threat in the East Indies is radically reduced. We may therefore redirect our fleets and forces—I shall have to consult with General Abercrombie—to further our attack. We shall not relent. We can yet do grievous harm to our enemies.”
George scanned the reactions of Pitt and Bute. Their faces betrayed the same kind of horror and that he felt inside too. He could hardly breathe. White-hot needles sticking him in the ass. That damned glare. And now, thoughts of Charlotte straining his britches. It was all too much.
“While I heartily regret…” He forced himself to take a deep breath. “I regret the further effusion of Christian blood in Europe which this decision will no doubt necessitate, but I must press on. I must. I am confident you will both agree with me in my opinion…” He fought for another breath. “That the only means which can be productive of peace is unchallenged victory. To that end I shall order an attack on the French mainland.”
Pitt’s eyes went wide. “You can’t be serious?”
“Entirely serious. After the sacking of Paris, the rest of Europe will fall in line.”
“Sacking of Paris?”
“The Romans did the same. Why not? We’ve nothing to lose. And if the Spanish don’t align themselves with us, we fight them as well.”
Mr. Pitt did not know how to respond. He became so flustered he did the unthinkable—he called on Bute for an opinion.
Bute spoke calmly, putting himself forth as the voice of reason. “We must remain cognizant of the fact that in light of our recent victories, we have vastly increased the territories we must secure in both Canada and the colonies. I fear the treasury can not bear another campaign—a new campaign—aimed at the very heart of Europe.”
“Make the colonies pay for it,” George said. “After all, it is the colonists who benefit most from our defense of their lands and they’ve done far too little for the war effort as it is.”
“That is true,” said Bute, “but I must say this plan—this bloody and expensive new idea—will strain our resources beyond the point of breaking… and the cost in human lives—”
“Enough!” said George. He’d thought for certain Lord Bute would take his side on this matter, and champion his causes, but he could see that no one believed in him except, of course, for Charlotte. She had told him as much, hadn’t she?
The pricking of the seat, the white-hot needles had run all the way up his legs, all the way to his groin. He
could stand it no longer. He wanted to be inside her. He needed to be inside her.
“Get out!” he raged. “Get out, the whole lot of you! I want to be alone with my wife. Is that too much to ask?”
Threadneedle walked quickly down the corridor away from the King’s study, but not too quickly. Jacob Schroeder was supposed to be an old man after all. He felt naked without his silver serving tray and he did not like feeling naked. He did not like the thrill of panic that had run through him just moments before when he’d glanced at the Queen. Luckily, he was well-practiced in keeping his emotions from showing up on his face, even a false face such as Schroeder’s.
He had contrived entering the royal study to deliver the King’s tea, hoping to learn something of interest but had been stunned to learn this awful bit of news. There had been no mistaking it. He had felt the tell-tale tingle.
Another faery. There had been another faery in the room. And it was Queen Charlotte. But Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz was not a faery. He was certain of that. Something was very wrong at the court of King George.
Though he detected her glamour immediately, Threadneedle had not been able to see through it. He could not tell who it really was. That left no doubt. She must be a powerful fae indeed to put on such a glamour that he could not penetrate her disguise. He had a very clear idea of who that might be, and the look in her eyes, that particular blend of scorn and surprise informed him quite adequately of her identity. It had to be Dresdemona. Worse yet, she had certainly recognized him. There was not a moment to lose. He must get away. He had entered the spider’s web and she would not be alone.
Fortunately for him, Threadneedle knew seventeen distinct ways of exiting the palace unnoticed.
“Adolphus!” she hissed, pulling him aside. “I need you.”
“Now?” Aldebaran asked, with a lecherous lick of his lower lip. “Right now?”
“No, you idiot. Not like that.” She pulled him into a sitting room off the grand hallway. “We have a problem. He is here.”
Aldebaran closed the door behind him, glancing about the room as he no doubt weighed the lustful prospects a few minutes alone might bring. “Who do you mean?”
“Threadneedle.”
“That little Summer Court spy? I should’ve killed him years ago when I first had the chance.”
“Maybe so. But he was there in the King’s study. Posing as one of the groomsmen—Shrayder, Schroeder—something like that, an old man. And if I recognized him, he probably knew me as well. You have to find him.”
“And kill him.”
“No. Don’t!”
“What’s this? You still care for him? A little bit left over, some crumbs from the sweetcake not yet swept away?”
“Don’t bother me with that now. Of course not. As you said, that ended a long time ago”
Aldebaran snarled. He was such a jealous fool. “It will end today at the point of my blade.”
“Don’t kill him,” she said. “I just want him taken away. Removed. To the abbey at Hertfordshire. We can deal with him there.”
“I’ll deal with him when I find him and if I don’t find him immediately I will call in the Hunt. He won’t escape us. Oh, it will be fun.”
Damn, she thought. Aldebaran was not easy to control in the best of times but lately, without her body to satisfy him, her consort was slipping out of her power. She’d have to do something about that soon. “Not the hunt. I can’t have that now. Look, if you find him on the grounds then you may kill him but if not, I can’t spare you to go chasing after. I need you here. To protect me.”
“Protect you?” he sneered. “I know the sound of lies when I hear them.”
“I’m not myself,” she said, nodding toward her belly. “Think of our baby.”
He sneered again.
“Hurry up,” she urged. “We’re losing time. Go and look for him.”
Chapter 43
Eric spent the better part of the morning waiting his turn among a long line of people in the hallway outside the King’s library at St. James’s. As the day wore on, these petitioners were taken in one by one for a confidential talk with the high court. In between admissions the unruly crowd jostled each other and chatted loudly amongst themselves—lords and ladies, foreign ministers and men and women of rank, all of whom had favors to request, some secret to impart, or a grievance to lay before the new king.
Eric had taken no chances of making a poor impression, wearing his best suit of clothes, a high-collared shirt, a black brushed velvet waistcoat and crisp linen stockings. He had even rented a wig in town, a mid-sized white tuft that reeked of French perfume heaped atop a substantial odor of man-musk. But as the day wore on, judging from the snippets of loud conversation he could not help but overhear, he despaired of his chances of actually getting through the door. After all, the King could be expected to put up with only so much petty nonsense before growing bored and overtired.
He had also been warned that a dreary day was the worst possible day to address the King, after the rainy weather had cost him his morning ride. No choice. Today was the day the Archbishop had promised and Eric sorely needed a miracle. Dare he hope? He must. He’d heard good things about this, the country’s third King George. He was given to be a patient man who took his responsibilities very close to heart. The first few months of his reign had shown this George to be a conscientious ruler, eager to root out corruption and end the destructive friction in England’s raucous politics.
King George was also a good Christian man, and on this Eric believed he could hang his hat. It was a tricky road, pleading that the Christian thing to do was to end the oppression of the faeries, especially since the faeries themselves were not Christian but pagan. But that should not matter, he told himself. Liberating the oppressed, regardless of their beliefs or circumstances, was the Christian thing to do. The Archbishop agreed. Having burned his way through all his contacts in the aristocracy, Eric had arranged this audience not through Pitt or Lord Bute, who would surely have shielded the King. He had avoided the labyrinthic workings of parliament and Whitehall and pursued an alternate tack, working his way through the church from cleric to vicar to the canon of the cathedral, and, by messenger, to the archbishop himself. He had never met Archbishop Eddington nor conversed with him directly but when he learned the archbishop would attend the meeting, Eric felt encouraged that the King might hear him favorably.
All that mattered now was the piety of the King. And on that, he felt he could well rely. One of the first acts of George’s reign had been a proclamation for the encouragement of piety and virtue which commanded his subjects to attend worship of God on every Lord’s Day. This edict was immediately ignored by most, but the King, set to rule by example, made a good show of it, clearly bent on ensuring that the conduct he desired to encourage in others was observed by him personally at court. That this piety was indeed genuine was Eric’s only hope.
“Grayson,” the steward read from the page. “Lord Eric Grayson.”
“I’m here,” said Eric, shouldering past a large man in a naval military uniform. The Commander or Viceroy or whatever he was, seemed reluctant to step aside and put out an elbow that would have jabbed Eric in the throat had he not dodged with considerable speed. Eric’s wig was knocked all askew in the maneuver.
“Come in.”
The royal library at St. James’s was an impressive sight. The high, arched ceiling rose at least thirty feet above Eric’s head. Vast bookcases stuffed with volumes of every shape and color extended to half that height. A white marble fireplace stood in the center of one wall with a large square portrait of George I hung above it, the first of the Hanover kings still presiding over the affairs of state. On either side of the fireplace were huge chest boxes and map-drawers containing who-knows-what valuable and historic documents.
The King had a comfortable chair with a red velvet seat at his disposal but stood before it. Apparently, he made a point of standing throughout these interviews. As this neces
sitated that his full retinue stand as well, there were no other chairs in the room. Eric noted with some relief that Sir William Pitt was not present, but Lord Bute stood beside his king and the Duke of Newcastle, the First Lord of the Treasury, and Archbishop Eddington were all there as well to help their lord carry on His Majesty’s business.
The King wore a modest suit without any ostentatious trappings of office. His outfit consisted of a long brown tail-coat with sleeves unbuttoned at the wrist, a yellow vest with brass buttons, and black silk knee breeches. His hair was dressed in a twisted roll and lightly powdered. His eyes, perhaps a bit too large and protuberant, struck Eric as sleepy and impatient.
A pair of redcoat guards, both tall and handsome, stood one on either side of the hearth. Bute had recently been appointed Secretary of State for the Northern Department. He was a Scot and quite a religious man by reputation but Eric had no idea what his personal opinion of faeries might be should he choose to weigh in.
“Your Majesty,” Eric began.
King George glanced at him with weary eyes. He looked almost asleep on his feet. Eric wondered if he’d been standing all day. Well, Eric thought, this interview will wake him up for certain, one way or another.
“Yes, yes,” said George. “Mister, uh, Grayson is it? The bishop has only just briefed me on your case and I’m sorry to say that you have made this trip in vain. We cannot have anything to do with faeries on British soil ever again. You understand.”
Eric was struck dumbfounded. Crushed again. Just like that.
