by Mark Helprin
“I’ve got the power of speech,” Craig-Vyvyan blurted out, resentful of being spoken of as if he were a block of stone.
“Good,” said the prince, offering his hand to put Craig-Vyvyan at ease. “You can call me Freddy. Just call me Freddy. Try it.”
“Freddy,” croaked the now pacific Craig-Vyvyan, as if it were the first word man had ever spoken, and he pronounced it Friddy.
“No, not ‘Friddy.’ Freddy. Bannerman?”
“Sir?”
“Please explain.”
“You’ll want him to stay, sir, I am guessing, because of his name.”
“Cockaleekie?” the prince asked. Then, turning to Craig-Vyvyan, he said, “Have you ever thought of changing it?”
“No, why would I?”
“That’s his last name,” Bannerman said.
“I assumed that. Bannerman, are you well?”
“Aye. You’ll want to know his Christian name, sir.”
Turning to the boy, the prince asked, “What’s your Christian name?”
“Craig-Vyvyan, sir.”
“Truly?”
“It is.”
“With a hyphen?”
“With a hyphen, which I didn’t know what it was until today.”
“A good omen, sir, isn’t it?” Bannerman asked, as rhetorically as he dared. “He just wandered in here with his name. I thought of King Richard’s dog.”
“It can’t hurt, can it?” the prince asked, as rhetorically as he pleased. “Craig-Vyvyan?”
“Sir?” snapped Craig-Vyvyan, now fully alive to his part.
“I’ve just walked thirty-five miles, all night and all morning.”
“Why the rifle?” Craig-Vyvyan interrupted. “I’ve never seen one like that.”
“It’s an HK,” the prince told him, “standard for this regiment, and protection from the IRA. They rhyme.”
“But you don’t look like you’ve walked thirty-five miles. You look fresh. Look at me, and I’ve walked just eight. Is it because you’re royal?”
“No, it’s because I carried a change of uniform and I stopped to bathe in a lake.”
“The lake must have been cold.”
“It was, and it made me hungry. Let me tell you what’s for lunch. Bannerman, tell him what’s for lunch.”
“I’m quite looking forward to it myself,” Bannerman said. “Have been. Very hungry, I assure you. We have a broth of venison, a salad of wild greens and cherry tomatoes with Stilton-walnut dressing, grilled quail, baguettes just flown up from Paris, splits of Lafite ’64, Badoit, chocolate mousse, ginger biscuits, Champagne, and tea.”
Craig-Vyvyan was as unmoved as if he hadn’t heard, so Bannerman repeated what he had said, but, still, it was as if Craig-Vyvyan had not heard. “How does that sound?” Bannerman asked, leaping into the air so that he could cinch up his kilt.
“Is it food?”
“It’s food, and I’m sure you’ll like it,” said the Prince of Wales. “It was prepared on Britannia and helicoptered in: the greens and the quail are local.”
“Freddy,” Craig-Vyvyan asked, “do you have any fried dough?”
Freddy said that he had not.
“Fried Mars bars?”
The response was the same.
“Lard pasties?”
And so it went, a recitation of the most vicious buffet known to man. Bannerman closed his eyes and banged his hands together. “Two steel blocks,” he said, “as smooth as ice. That’s what I think of when I’m going to be sick, two perfectly smooth steel blocks, smashing together, over and over again.”
“That’s odd,” said Freddy, “so do I. Let’s get on with it.”
“Indeed, sir. Craig-Vyvyan, we’ve got warmers and coolers, and china kept hot. But if after lunch you aren’t happy, I’ll give you all three of the bars of Swiss chocolate that are left. I’ll give them to you anyway.”
Then a silence. Everything for the test had been made ready beforehand. Bannerman had tended to Craig-Vyvyan the falcon, set up a perch, found the best line for the falcon-step the prince would take. He had even brought a Bible. It was good that the boy had stumbled upon them. The prince had forgotten for a moment what was to take place, and was moved—not only by the boy’s poverty and raggedness but by his innocence and strength—enough to decide to reward him whatever the outcome that day. He had a joyful feeling and was contented as well, for the world seemed with him, and as the wind rose slightly and sang past the sharp whistle-like places in the car, he said, “I’m glad of this. How is the falcon?”
“He’s good, sir. Many a time today he’s cupped his wings.”
“Perhaps he’s ready.”
They walked to the perch, where Bannerman left the bird. No one said anything, and the wind rose strongly, which was a good sign, for all Craig-Vyvyan had to do was spread his wings and it would lift him. Bannerman tugged at the boy to follow. The prince had become oblivious of them and all else, and concentrated upon the restless falcon sidling to and fro on the perch, against a background of wind-thrashed purple cloud that stood over the sea like a castle wall.
THREE TIMES ALREADY he had done this, and three times he had failed. First it had been at Balmoral, then Caernarvon, and then in England at Blenheim Palace, with the grounds emptied of all onlookers except Bannerman, the queen, and Freddy’s father, Prince Paul, Duke of Belfast. As a child, Freddy had been used to failure on the first try—not hitting a tennis ball the first time it came over the net, sinking when tossed into the pool during Paul’s primitive swimming instruction, failing to deal correctly with invisible cricket balls, sword tips, and badminton birdies. It was therefore not surprising that Craig-Vyvyan had not flown, although it was humiliating when the bird chose to pee on him. Young Freddy was glad to get over that test, and the ten years until the next seemed to shelter him like an infinity. Besides, at seven he imagined that at seventeen he would have the powers of a giant of the earth.
At seventeen, however, he was famously unsure of himself and awkward, and though he had more hope that the bird would fly, he suspected that it would not, and that it would be offended by his tentativeness—as it was. When on the high battlements of Caernarvon he made the forward step, it had refused to leave his wrist. Still, three more chances remained, and any misery he might have had in his seventeenth year was dashed away by the spectacular torrents of his sexual apprenticeship to Lady Phoebe Boylingehotte, who, three years his senior, had a mesmerising, inexplicable, ineffable gift. Though she was green-eyed, blond, firm, well defined, and boiling hot, it was her face—the shape of her lips, the brightness of her eyes, the curve of her smile, the indecipherable combination of it all—that spoke volumes of sex. Her powers of seduction were rivalled only by her powers of delivery. Not one woman in a hundred million had such talent. Whence it came, no one knew. Nor did they know what it was, how it worked, or where it was going, but Freddy had decided that he needed it for the rest of his life. What a pity that she was married.
Though he had failed at seventeen, by the time he was in his late twenties he was absolutely certain Craig-Vyvyan would respond to his strength and fly from his arm. When he was a soldier, his lot for years had been one test after another, each beyond the capacities of most men, some extraordinarily so, and all predominantly fierce. It is remarkable what a man can do in such a frame of mind, and not only did he do such things then but he carried them forward. For example, after lunch with Bannerman and the boy Craig-Vyvyan, the Prince of Wales knew that he would pick up his rifle, shoulder his pack, and walk across Scotland to Balmoral, travelling in the high and empty places by day and through more settled country by night. Having been born to his station, he demanded from himself unceasing proof that he was worthy in his own right. But, still, the bird had been unimpressed by the prince as soldier, and had once again refused to fly. Perhaps he would rise on the fourth try, when the Prince of Wales had not only strength but, by now, the beginnings of wisdom.
That which is required of a king, other
than being born to it, is strength, courage, wisdom, and forbearance, all of which Freddy had in some degree, some in great abundance, and some on its way. Now he wanted the falcon to fly not for him but to save England from a crisis of abdication.
So it was hardly of himself that he was thinking as he took Craig-Vyvyan from the perch, quieting him with soft, confident words, but of Britain, and of his obligation to both the past and the future. “England needs a king, Craig-Vyvyan, by the right of succession, the practice of self-abnegation, the harrowing of the body, cultivation of the intellect, and clarification of the soul. Grant me confirmation that I will be worthy in the name of God and for the sake of my country.”
But as he removed the falcon’s hood and released him from his bonds, he had the sense that something was missing, although he did not know what. He felt within him quite an evenly balanced war of his own virtues and vices—his right and proper sobriety, his disastrous marriage; his high achievement, his terrible temper; his exemplary asceticism, his expectation of the best of everything; his devotion to family, his magnificent adultery with Lady Boylingehotte; his integrity in his duties, and the sin that he had married a woman he did not love.
He knew his good qualities and shortcomings. Surely the falcon would not expect him to be perfect. In her modesty and reassuring grace, his mother was almost that. Though he had been only a small child before her inheritance of the throne, he had always thought that her success in royal matters was at least partly due to circumstance. As a girl, she was content to be the daughter of a king, and nothing more if need be, all her life. Happy with her station, satisfied with her lot, she received the kingly sword having been already blessed with tranquillity. Freddy, however, was a man, with the need to forge his way, conquer, and surprise. Her greatness was feminine, and was within her from the start. His, were it to be, had to be made by his own deeds and strength, and yet none of his deeds and no part of his strength could be directed to winning the crown, as that would be a war against his own blood. All he could do was wait and endure, and this was not natural for a young man of any station.
He had very many good qualities, had worked hard, and been devoted, if not to Fredericka then at least to the kingly ideal, which a thousand or more years of history had made difficult to understand, much less to match. Were he to be judged as he stood upon this cliff looking over the sea, he wanted to be judged as having the heart of a king. Something was missing, however: a quality, a virtue, the thing that would hammer on the falcon Craig-Vyvyan’s doors at dawn and tell him, as it had with Philippa, that here was an arm from which God had given a tell-tale falcon full permission to lift away on the wind.
Though indeed something was missing, Freddy did not fail to notice a single detail, not the sunlight streaming down, the westward-flowing sea of purple heather, or the storm lit by jagged shavings of white and yellow lightning. This was a great place in which even to fail, its nature offering consolation sufficient unto the day of the final test.
And this, rather than the certainty of result, made him confident. The wind had risen and was rising still. All the falcon need do was arch his wings and let it open them, keep them straight and let it take him. Lifted and blown back, he would then tilt forward to move into the air below the escarpment. What bird would keep himself from such oceans of air? How could he? He must be aching to go.
In wind now raging, and having risen to the occasion, Freddy elevated his arm, turned to the falcon Craig-Vyvyan, and took the falconer’s forward step, expecting to see wings gloriously unfold.
But they did not. Instead, the talons gripped tighter to hold Craig-Vyvyan in place despite his forward momentum, and he turned his head away from the wind and to the Prince of Wales, as if to say, I was willing to fly, I was wishing to fly, and I was wanting to fly, but you have failed me once again.
Craig-Vyvyan the boy did not know what to make of this. Bannerman sighed. And Freddy bent his head in disappointment. He had only one more chance, and now, for the first time since all this had started, he truly doubted the result.
“I’VE FAILED,” he said, looking up, “again. Given the state of things, if I fail the next time I may take the monarchy with me. It’s one thing if it ends, and even if it ends with me, but it’s another if I myself end it,” he continued, now pacing. “Other people, ordinary people—watchmakers, hairdressers, and taxi drivers—don’t have to stake everything on the whims of a bird, do they?” He shot Craig-Vyvyan the bird an angry look, and seemed to be addressing him even as he spoke out at the heath. “They eat birds, that’s what they do. They go to the bloody supermarket and buy dead birds wrapped up in plastic, they take the bloody bus home carrying the bloody birds, and they throw them into a microwave oven.” He moved toward Craig-Vyvyan the bird.
“Now,” he said to the bird, who stared back with one eye as big as a marble, “we are going to have some birds. We are going to eat them. They’re just fuzzy little quails, the kind you’ve never had, because Lambert Simnel made your great-great-to-the-fifth-power-grandfather promise not to eat them. But who is to say we cannot eat bigger birds? Birds as big as a chicken, for example. A capon. A turkey. It can be done, and one does not have to be a king to do it. Have I made myself clear?”
“Your Royal Highness,” Bannerman said quietly, “they’ll die in service rather than give in. They’re not politicians.”
“I know,” said Freddy. “And I’m grateful for it.”
Bannerman went about getting the lunch. Swinging open the doors of the Land Rover, he revealed an extraordinary field kitchen in highly polished brass and chrome, at which he began to work, adroitly lighting the ovens, warming the china, dressing the salad, and plunging the Champagne into a silver ice bucket. He set up a folding table and camp chairs, and pulled precut firewood from a bin. This he piled on the ground and lit with a blowtorch the size of a nightstick. It blazed up easily in the wind. Bannerman knew that the same wind would blow away most of the fire’s warmth, but he made it to sear the quail just before they were eaten, and for the sweet smell of the hardwood and its clinging lichen as they burned. He used a lull in the cooking to feed the falcon a few bits of raw steak. Sometimes arching his wings, the bird Craig-Vyvyan seemed to be flying vicariously upon the distant storm. As the prince watched Bannerman give him water, he said, “He wants to fly, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” Bannerman replied, “and he will.”
“Then come,” said Freddy, “and for God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings.” He often quoted Shakespeare inappropriately. Looking for recognition, he found none, and sat down on a camp chair, motioning for his two companions to do the same. “Shakespeare,” he said to Craig-Vyvyan.
“No, sir, Craig-Vyvyan.”
“Richard the Second,” Freddy added.
“No, it’s me,” said Craig-Vyvyan.
“Have you not heard of Shakespeare?”
“Shakespeare who?”
“Ah, yes,” said the prince. “Shakespeare was a playwright, the greatest Englishman.”
“I’ve heard of Jackie Collins: he writes books about racing cars, I think. Have you read them?”
“My loss.”
“Soup,” said Bannerman, putting down untouchable china bowls of almost boiling soup in front of each diner, including himself.
“Do you always eat this fine, Freddy?” Craig-Vyvyan asked as he began to work up a sweat with the soup, which was most pleasant in the cold wind.
“On occasion, it gets more complicated,” Freddy told him. “State dinners can require an interpreter to explain what everything is, and they can take hours. I have eaten more than my share of the kind of things that Dumas describes: you know, ‘first take the tongues of a hundred hummingbirds. . . .’ And, then, Fredericka is very dainty about what I eat. Fredericka is my wife. The last time we ate in a restaurant—always her favourites—I had medallions of veal, four of them, to be precise, each the diameter of a shilling and the thickness of a
pound note.” They finished the soup and were on to the salad and bread. The bread was hot, the butter was sweet, and Freddy continued. “These médaillons,” he said contemptuously, “came on a plate with a combination of sauces the colour of buildings in Santa Monica, California: vapid, pastel, berry-tinted. I put them on my fork and ate all four in a single bite. And then came the salad. The vegetables were Lilliputian. I can’t think of anything more overly precious than a whole cucumber the size of a pea, or an asparagus as thin as a hair.
“But then again I suffer all kinds of tortures. In Africa, I must out of politeness eat grubs and worms; in Southeast Asia, rotten fish; in Kazakhstan, the eye of a sheep. And then there’s my father. He’s the opposite of Fredericka, and will question your manliness if you don’t eat the four-pound wildebeest cutlet with which he bombs your plate. ‘Not a problem,’ he says, ‘I killed it myself. If you wash it down with a gallon of ale, you won’t choke, and you’d better not. No Heinrich Himmler manoeuvre here; we beat those Nazi bastards and we don’t have to do their bloody manoeuvres. Only nine hundred grams of fat. Eat the bullet, too. It’s got vitamins.’
“He’s never been an ounce overweight, and has no compassion for those who would grow plump on his twenty thousand calories a day. And, on occasion, my mother cooks. Had she cooked for Napoleon we never would have had to fight at Waterloo. You see, she has a deep hatred of cellular structure, which in her cuisine must be broken down at all costs. Not even Fredericka, however, whose motto is miniature and raw, refrains from eating it, whatever it may be. And who knows what it is? It’s all the same colour. You can’t really tell whether it’s meat, fish, or vegetables. Why boil lettuce for an hour before it goes into a salad? Does spinach really need peppermint? And toast should not be black. She is England’s greatest monarch since Victoria and its worst cook since Nigel Dalrymple.”
Although he was used to holding forth, Freddy knew when to hold back and let others hold forth proudly before him. “What do you eat, Craig-Vyvyan?” he asked as if he didn’t already know. “What are your favourites?”
