by Ken Altabef
But now that she was with child—and married to that oafish King George of all things—farce, sickening farce. A midsummer night’s sex comedy really, with King George as the ass-headed Nick Bottom. And what then was he? Mopey Meadowlark. Not Oberon, but simply Puck. Poor abused and rejected Puck.
Dresdemona’s aim was simple. She would have the baby and then old King Georgie was going to suffer an accident much similar to the one Meadowlark had induced in his dear old dad, a faery’s kiss of her own and then with that royal lard-ass out of the way the child would be king and Dresdemona regent. She would rule the whole of the British empire and depending on how the war went and went and went probably the rest of Europe as well, possibly even the entire known world. That was the real prize.
And what would be his role in all of that? Royal footstool? Piss pot? Foot cleaner? Something like that.
Oh woe. Nothing but woe.
Chapter 57
December 7, 1761
St. James’s, London
“Theodore!” George called, taking his steward by the shoulder and spinning him round. “Go into the kitchen and check on the canapes. Queen Charlotte simply adores her canapes. We must have them ready for the feast. They simply must be ready.”
“Very good, sir.”
Everything must be ready. Everything must be perfect.
But there was so much to plan, so much to do and so little time. George felt almost completely overwhelmed as he rushed madly from the kitchen to the Grand Ballroom. Where the devil was Lord Bute? Now there was a man he could always depend upon.
He inspected the ballroom in a whirlwind of activity. The candles were lighted appropriately, the tables all set, the musicians in place. He stumbled over a stray parfait glass, nearly twisting his ankle. A parfait glass?
He glanced around at the bustling palace staff and caught the eye of the kitchen attendant managing the place settings. “Well, don’t just stand there. Pick this up! What if the Queen were to injure herself on this stupidity?”
What next? The food, the place settings, the music. Oh, look at me, the King of England and Ireland, fussing around like a schoolgirl. But everything must be perfect. He didn’t give a whit about the Prussian Chancellor but a gala ball was an opportunity to show off his beautiful wife, to celebrate her virtues, to honor her in front of everyone as she should be honored. The very thought of her made his heart thump in his chest and he realized he was winded from all the rushing around. He should sit down. Take a moment’s rest before he made himself dizzy. But first he had to check on the canapes. He just didn’t trust that steward. The canapes had to be perfect.
He rushed again toward the kitchen, nearly running over Jacob Schroeder. The old man began to topple over, but George grabbed his bony shoulders and set him right.
“My apologies, sir,” said Schroeder.
“No, sir,” returned George. “The fault is mine.”
Arghh, thought George, this old fellow always makes me feel uncomfortable. And here he was stuck staring into the old man’s rheumy eyes. He’d like to send him away, off on some mission to get him out of his sight but couldn’t think of anything. Everything, all the preparations, were suddenly so jumbled in his mind.
His dislike for Schroeder stemmed from the fact that he had been his grandfather’s groom of the bedchamber. Schroeder had in fact been the steward who had found his grandfather, dead as he had fallen off the privy. And he couldn’t look at this man without thinking of his grandfather. George II had never shown any interest in his own children, abandoning them in Hanover when he came to the throne in England and likewise had no time for George as a child; George had been terrified even to speak to the man. All of his recollections from childhood were soiled by the palpable animosity between the King and George’s father Prince Frederick, the harsh words spoken behind backs, the cruel arguments and vitriol. All the dysfunctional family ties that George had vowed not to perpetuate, when his child was born. He would treat his precious son very differently. He would very much distinguish himself from the previous king in the line of Hanover. He could hardly stomach thinking about the man. But, of course, it was wrong to hold such things against Schroeder.
He had no time for any of this now. Unable to think of anything for the old man to do, he simply pushed him aside. “Carry on.”
“Yes, your grace,” said Threadneedle.
By all accounts the masked ball was already a great success. The Prussian retinue had arrived without incident and Lord Bute had handled his reception flawlessly. The Chancellor, Friedrich Wilhelm Graf von Haugwitz, had been suitably impressed with all the necessary pomp and circumstance. The ballroom was now filled with dignitaries and guests, nobility and courtiers, the great and the good of the court lined up on all sides, awaiting the entrance of the Queen.
The ladies wore long dresses with prodigious hoops, tightly boned bodices, feathers in their hair and jewels on their breasts. The men strutted around in court dress or uniform, their outfits as colorful as the women’s dresses. With all this regal splendor reflected in the glass and mirrors that lined the walls, the room had the atmosphere of a circus. Laughter and light conversation painted the scene in tones of a great joyous celebration. The whole of it made George feel a little dizzy. The canapes! Had he checked on Charlotte’s canapes? She preferred them slightly underdone.
The Queen entered from the left side, followed by her ladies-in-waiting who carried her long train so it would not drag on the floor. Her elder brother Adolphus trailed behind as well, a slight sneer on his face. Why was he still hanging round, anyway? He’d long overstayed his welcome and George wanted him gone. Something about the man—no, everything about the man—disturbed him greatly. The Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz had been rumored to be a pompous effete, but instead this man carried himself very differently. He had an open air of arrogance and the look in his eyes, George could swear, sometimes it flashed red. And there was a whiff about him, a tainted smell. But Charlotte wanted him here. And so.
Charlotte! George could not take his eyes from her as she glided toward the dais. She was resplendent in a long white gown weighed down with jewels. Her long, slender neck, those full lips, those smoldering eyes. She fanned playfully at her face with a large mother-of-pearl fan. Her chestnut hair was worn girlishly loose. George thought it slightly scandalous to allow everyone to see her so, especially with the way it got his dander up. He wondered what the others were thinking. How many of them had their hands in their pockets? They should admire the Queen, not covet her.
Charlotte took her place beside him on one of the chairs under the dais canopy set aside for the King and Queen. The sword of state stood before them, its jeweled hilt casting emerald and ruby reflections in the mirrors. Oh, I hope the choral master remembers my instructions. The choir is to sing Vivat Regina Charlotte! instead of Vivat Georgius Rex!
George scanned the faces in the crowd. There had been a pernicious rumor going round the palace that James Francis Stewart, the old Jacobite pretender, might be attending in disguise, ready to renew his claim to the throne. So many faces were obscured by masks cast in gold and silver and sprouting colorful feathered crests. Perhaps a masked ball had not been the smartest choice. A series of young girls, just coming of age, were presented to the Queen. She seemed not hardly interested but offered George a slight wink that made his heart flutter and then indicated that he should be about his business in the room. And so.
George went round the room exchanging bows and making conversations. It was stiflingly hot in the ballroom with so many people, all magnificently over-dressed as they sought to compete for the King’s notice and approval. Magnates and landowners, lords and admirals clawed and scratched at each other in showy attempts to elevate their position in polite society by obtaining a formal presentation to His Majesty. They pulled down their half-masks and smiled at him. George was oblivious to it all, doting instead on the Queen. He declared that it was her birthday, though that was far from the truth and that he was
too happy on such an occasion, much too happy, so happy he thought he might burst.
He paid no attention to the Prussian Chancellor, Graf von Haugwitz, and his inane prattling.
“Let us not talk of wars and misfortunes,” George said. “This night is for celebration and admiration of the Queen.”
Just then he spied a vision of loveliness that made his heart ache. Sarah Lennox was here! In a white silk gown. Sarah Lennox. Long before there was Charlotte, he had fallen in love with this girl. He’d wanted to marry her but Lord Bute had advised against it as she was not of royal blood. But he had wanted to marry her, he had wanted to receive adoring looks from her sweet blue eyes, to kiss her fevered lips. His feelings had been real. Real. Not like…
The Earl of Westmoreland, aged and nearly blind, took Sarah’s hand. Confused by her half-mask he’d mistaken her for Charlotte. He addressed her as the Queen and kissed her hand. She pulled it away, “I am not the Queen, sir!”
The entire scene pulled at George’s heartstrings. He had wanted her to be the Queen. She should have been if he’d followed his heart. He remembered her winsome smile, her playful laugh. He remembered standing close to her, so close he could smell the scented powder on her skin, could feel her hot breath on his cheek.
“Your Highness.”
Charlotte’s voice snapped George out of his reverie. He turned back toward the dais and for a second, only a brief moment, he saw a stranger seated on the Queen’s throne. “George come here.”
He knew she shouldn’t be addressing him by his forename in the midst of such austere company but did not, could not, take offense. He plodded back toward the dais. Charlotte wanted him. And so.
“A present,” she announced. “I have a special gift for my husband.”
Charlotte gestured for her handmaid Juliana Schwellenberg, who stepped forward, curtsied politely and handed the queen a small rosewood box.
“Some snuff!” Charlotte announced, holding the little box high. “A special blend all the way from Bengal. The tobacco is mellow but spiced with clove oil and spearmint.”
George wandered toward his seat but as he stooped he realized he could not sit. Charlotte did not want him to sit.
“Oh, do take some, Your Highness,” Charlotte said merrily.
A murmur rose from the crowd. Everyone knew that the King detested snuff.
George smiled broadly as he tried to conceive of some way to demur.
“Come now, George.” Charlotte said his name sweet and low. It was a promise. Sweet things, very sweet things, to come. He stepped closer.
“After all, your good friend Lord Bute has gone through some considerable trouble to track this down for me. Now have a pinch.”
George reached two fingers toward the open box. It was true, he hated snuff. He had tried some in his youth with terrible results. The last thing he wanted to do was put that vile powder up his nose.
“Hurry,” she whispered. “Everyone’s watching.”
He looked at her once more and noticed the little pink slip of her tongue, just the very tip, slide along her lower lip.
He took a great snort of the powder. Immediately it felt as if his nasal passages had been set aflame. A particularly disgusting sneezing fit ensued, whereupon George sprayed spittle and mucous to the edge of the stage. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He could not see, as stinging tears flooding his eyes.
But he heard them. He could not miss it. Though they tried valiantly to hide their reactions it was a large crowd. He heard them laughing.
Laughing.
Dresdemona snapped the snuff box shut. She gave her husband’s chest a gentle push, allowing him to stumble back to his seat. His coughing and retching were absolutely disgusting.
She glanced back at the crowd. She didn’t know who that girl was, but she’d seen the way the royal buffoon looked at her, felt the disruption the mere sight of her had caused.
She signaled to Bekla, still posing as her handmaid Juliana Schwellenberg, to lean in close. “Make sure to point that girl out to Aldebaran. After the party...” Dresdemona lowered her voice even further, “She doesn’t see the light of day again.”
“Yes mum.”
The band began a waltz by Strauss, probably more in an effort to conceal the King’s continued coughing and sneezing than to encourage anyone to dance.
A platter of food was practically stuffed in front of her face. The Queen shoved it away. Her appetite was gone, stolen by nausea from the pregnancy. Not that she’d be able to stomach this type of garbage under any circumstances. The King had them serving German delicacies of which he assumed she was fond. Cow-heels, pig’s head, sauerkraut. Barley-water. Dresdemona hated German food. After she had conquered all of Europe, she was likely to throw Germany to the dogs.
The King had finished his coughing fit and taken to gazing at her adoringly again. She could hardly stand to look at him. She was bored, impatient, and uncomfortable with the baby. She couldn’t relax and have a good time; she hated them all. She hated being here. The polite conversation, the repressed attitudes, the false indignation, the docility of women. Things would be very different when she took charge. Civility would be a crime, punishable in the worst way! Oh, yes, despotism would rule the day as she administered her infant son’s lands and territory, an expanding empire blazing across land and sea, a world in flames. But such long-range plans did not satisfy in the moment. What about here and now? She wanted to have some fun!
As the waltz concluded, a new introduction was made at the entrance.
“Mister Horace Wilde, a thespian of great renowned, late of the Menagerie Theatre.”
Dresdemona watched as the diminutive actor took a flourished bow and proceeded toward the celebrants. Something strange struck her about the man. The way he moved, the walk, the furtive glances. She just knew something wasn’t right about him. For a moment she considered he might be a faery in disguise but dismissed the possibility. If he were a faery, she would feel the tingle, the little itch that revealed the presence of one faery to another. But there was none.
Horace took his seat at table and Dresdemona at last figured it out. The famous actor sat like a woman. He was, in fact, a woman pretending to be a man. That was all, just a tawdry little fake. Strutting the stage, playing the female roles. All just a petty deception. Nothing for her to concern herself with.
Chapter 58
The first two courses of the main dinner were served simultaneously, assorted hors d’oevres and mock turtle soup. The guests, bedraggled and overheated by the waltz, cleared the dance floor. As King, George had been served first, but the platters of food before him held little interest. The episode with the snuff had soured his stomach. He picked at a small potatoe dumpling.
Worse yet, Charlotte did not seem pleased with the food. After all the effort and care he’d taken to have her provincial tastes satisfied—he just didn’t understand it. Instead she seemed rather disgusted. What was that horrid look on her face?
She was staring at the empty dance floor. But no, it wasn’t completely empty, was it?
A faint green mist had begun rolling across the tiles, appearing from seemingly nowhere. It slithered along the floor like the heavy morning fog of the haunted Scottish moors, to gather slowly in the center. A rounded hump bubbled up and resolved itself into the outline of a crouched figure.
The figure stood up. The quiet murmur of the crowd flowed into a sweeping gasp. It was the Green Man.
“You there,” George called out. “Whoever you are, that costume is in poor taste.”
“Is it?”
The Green Man had been officially outlawed. After the revelation that the vigilante was in fact Lady Theodora Grayson, George had put a price on her head. The outlaw, or the woman, had not been seen since.
The Green Man took a step forward and began to laugh. Many had heard her distinctive laugh out on the streets of the city. It rang out from the shadows whenever she appeared from the mists to face some fractious miscreant
or other. It punctuated every episode, as the Green Man’s blade pierced some criminal’s evil heart or slashed some vile throat. The laugh held equal parts unbridled joy and vicious taunt. No one in London could successfully imitate its chilling effect. The laugh left no doubt. This was no masquerader. It was the Green Man.
“Good evening, my King,” she said, addressing the dais. “My Queen.” The Green Man tilted her head at Queen Charlotte. “But you’re not really my queen, are you? After all, I’m not part of the Winter Court.”
George had no idea what this was all about. He didn’t care. The Green Man was a danger to his beloved Charlotte. He wasn’t going to tolerate that. A danger to him. A danger to England. “Faeries!” he screamed. “There are faeries in the palace!”
He stood up, gesturing with both hands to the armed guards at the corners of the ballroom. They converged on Theodora Grayson, if it was Theodora Grayson beneath that feathered green hat. The Green Man tensed, half bent over, every muscle on high alert. She had brought along a slender rapier, but she was outnumbered four blades to one. The King’s House Guard were fine men, highly trained. Let’s see her fight her way out of this, George smirked.
But she had no real intention to fight. One green-gloved hand went up and sparks in yellow and orange shone at its fingertips. Then a multitude of little flashing lights, intensely bright, flared in the air at various points around the dance floor, directly in front of the soldiers’ eyes. Onlookers looked away, saving themselves, but the lights were bright enough to blind the House Guard, either temporarily or permanently.
