“Prime Minister, His Majesty will see you now.”
The gaunt frame of the Lord Chamberlain had appeared at a doorway, smoothing down his thin, grey hair. He was red-faced and flustered, like he’d just run to meet her. The prime minister smiled, as courteously as she could muster, and followed him to the king’s study. As much as she would have loved to ask if the clocks still worked at the palace, it just wasn’t the done thing.
Alfie sat at his father’s old desk, out of breath, pretending to finish a letter. The prime minister swept in.
“Your Majesty,” said Thorn, giving the shallowest of curtseys.
“Oh, hi. Sorry for the wait, PM. Stacks of paperwork, you know how it is! So what’s new?” said Alfie, doing his best to act natural.
Expertly hiding her disdain, Thorn smiled and passed him a folder. “I thought I should bring you up to speed on the search for the so-called Defender. Here is the latest, such as it is.”
Alfie opened the folder to see a cheesy school photograph of Hayley, scowling at the camera, her hair pulled tight into bunches. He burst out laughing.
“Something amusing, Your Majesty?” asked the prime minister.
Alfie swallowed hard. Play it cool, he thought, she has no idea. “No, no. Just remembered a funny joke. Um, who is she?”
“Hayley Hicks. A runaway from some grotty estate. We suspect she is the key to understanding all of this, but she has gone to ground.”
“You’re so right,” Alfie said out loud without meaning to, thinking of the warren of secret chambers and halls beneath the Tower of London. “I mean, where could she be?” he added, pretending to think long and hard about it.
“Rest assured, we have our best people working on it,” the prime minister lied, thinking of Turpin and Fulcher.
She drew Alfie’s attention to the next picture, this one of Hayley’s gran, sitting on a bench outside the Whisper Grove Rest Home. It was a long-lens surveillance shot and Alfie reminded himself to warn Hayley about it before she tried to visit her.
“We hoped to find the girl through her grandmother,” continued Thorn. “But the poor dear’s rather lost her marbles, so she was carted off to this dreary place.”
Alfie tried not to let his irritation show. Hayley’s gran was one of the loveliest people he’d ever met and he hated Thorn saying something so insensitive.
“Can’t be easy without any leads,” said Alfie, handing back the folder. “Especially when you’re so busy trying to improve the lives of all the people living in those estates and old folks’ homes,” he added.
Thorn flinched, then forced a smile. “There was one other item of business, Majesty. Have you given any thought to my idea for a royal tour?”
“Oh yeah, it’s top of the agenda,” Alfie said, trying to dredge up the details from his memory of their last meeting. Something about travelling the country to let the people meet their new king. It wasn’t exactly a trip to get excited about.
“The public’s memory is surprisingly short,” the prime minster said, picking imaginary fluff from the cuffs of her jacket. “Take it from me. Your ordeal during the coronation no doubt endeared you to the country. But, since then, well, forgive me, but you’ve been rather inactive and the press are beginning to get restless.”
The last thing Thorn really wanted was for the king’s popularity to grow. In fact she was confident that he would make a fool of himself every time he stepped outside the palace, which is precisely why she had suggested the tour. As prime minister, she could not openly argue for an end to the monarchy, but that’s exactly what she hoped to see one day.
Alfie stood up. “I’ll think about it, Prime Minister. Promise.”
“Your Majesty.”
As soon as Thorn was gone, the Lord Chamberlain came in through another door. He’d obviously been listening in.
Alfie kicked his shoes off and breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that was as much fun as ever.”
“You did well, Your Majesty. But please do try not to antagonize her. The prime minister may be a trifle plain-spoken, but she can help you read the public mood.”
“I’ll try my best,” conceded Alfie.
“She is a sharp young woman,” continued LC. “If she picked up any hint of your superhero identity, she would surely hunt down the truth like a bloodhound savaging a fox.”
“You have such a way with words, LC.”
“Why, thank you, Majesty,” smiled the old man.
“He’s taking the mickey, you daft old coot,” laughed Brian as he strolled in polishing off a bacon sandwich.
“Really, King’s Armourer, this is a royal palace, not some roadside cafeteria,” sniffed LC. “And I am not happy with His Majesty’s unauthorized excursion last night. You’re supposed to be his protection officer. Kindly stop him!”
“He was hard enough to keep track of before he had his own magic flying horse,” Brian shot back.
Alfie waved at them, annoyed. “Hello? I am still in the room, you know.”
“Then answer me one more thing, Majesty, before the royal bath. Are you supposed to be a lion or a giraffe?” LC asked.
Alfie looked blank until Brian indicated he check his face. Alfie wiped a finger across his cheek and saw he’d spent the entire time talking to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom with an orange-and-black face.
“Hayley, you are so dead,” Alfie muttered.
“May you never die a Yeoman Warder!”
Chief Yeoman Warder Seabrook raised his cup to the three new beefeaters as the walls of the Keep echoed with the reply of the spectators:
“MAY YOU NEVER DIE A YEOMAN WARDER!”
A throaty cheer went up as the fresh recruits had their hands shaken and backs slapped by their new colleagues. The ceremony had taken place once already that day, top-side on the sun-drenched Tower Green, for the benefit of the tourists and press. The three long-serving soldiers, two men and one woman, had sworn their oaths of loyalty to king and country and been officially appointed “Yeoman Warders of His Majesty’s Palace and Fortress the Tower of London”. But this, down in the Keep with only the beefeaters, the king, Lord Chamberlain and King’s Armourer, plus Hayley, looking on, was the real deal – the secret investiture. Or the “after party”, as Brian liked to call it.
Alfie chuckled to himself as the new recruits gazed around the vast underground hall, its walls draped with tapestries depicting the real history of the United Kingdom, Defenders from through the ages doing battle with all manner of super-villains and monsters. It wasn’t so long ago that he had stood where they stood now, full of disbelief and wonder.
“Interestingly the Yeoman’s oath does not derive from any concern about dying in combat,” droned LC, “but rather an historical quirk to do with their pay—”
“Which you’ve told us about before, LC,” interrupted Alfie.
“Not that this is boring or anything,” added Hayley, “but don’t you think it’s time we got this party started?”
She took out a small silver remote control and pressed a couple of buttons. Suddenly the lights dimmed and a glitter ball descended from the ceiling, filling the Keep with strobing lights. Loud pop music blared from hidden speakers. The Yeoman Warders cheered once more and started to dance with alarming enthusiasm. The Lord Chamberlain clamped his hands over his ears as his face began to flush purple. “Wh-wh-what is THIS?” he spluttered.
“Modifications,” shrugged Hayley, retreating to a safe distance.
A little while later, most of the beefeaters had decided to take a break from the dance floor and wage all out war on the buffet, filling their beards with pastry crumbs. After the main scrum had moved on, Alfie approached the table and picked up a lonely-looking sausage roll. But as he raised it to his mouth, it was plucked from his fingers by a raven.
“Hey, that’s mine!” cried Alfie.
But the big black bird hopped under the table, where she gobbled the sausage roll down in one gulp. Yeoman Eshelby, the Ravenmaster, rushed
over and shooed her away.
“Get out of it, Gwenn!” He turned to Alfie and bowed. “Sorry, Majesty. That one thinks she’s a human. Untrainable.”
“No problem,” laughed Alfie. “Ravens have to eat too.”
Sausage-stealing aside, Alfie liked how the ravens were given free run of the Tower of London. Shortly after he had first arrived in the Keep, Alfie learned that the big, black birds were not just there for show. The Yeoman Warders took the ravens’ mystical bond with the Tower very seriously. At least six birds had lived here ever since it was first built, and according to legend if they ever left then the Tower and kingdom would fall. Alfie had laughed when he first heard that – how could a few birds decide the fate of the whole kingdom? But Yeoman Eshelby had shown him that the ravens’ wings were not “clipped” as it said in the official Tower guidebooks. In fact they could fly just fine and were free to leave any time they liked. They simply chose not to.
“Why not?” Alfie had asked.
“No one knows, Majesty. But if you ask me, ravens are just as smart as people. And just as loyal,” the Ravenmaster had replied with a friendly wink.
More ravens were flapping towards the buffet. Seeing that he was outnumbered, Alfie left them to it and strolled past a group of Yeomen Warders huddled around a television in one corner. It was showing the Wimbledon Tennis Championships and the opening match of the big British hope, feisty young Kate Robertson.
Meanwhile Hayley was trying to tempt Herne out from beneath the ops table with a carrot stick. “Come on, you stupid mutt. You’re going to like me one day, even if it kills me.”
The silver-grey dog growled and bared his fangs. Alfie strolled over and whistled. Herne crawled out and trotted to his side, licking his hand. “What can I say, Hales? He’s just a good judge of character. Or maybe it’s because he’s not a vegetarian.”
“You’ll see,” said Hayley, crunching the carrot stick herself.
The music stopped and the lights came up. Brian clinked a glass to get everyone’s attention. “Now that our merry band of beefeaters is back to full strength, there’s one more loose end needs dealing with. And I’m sorry to say Yours Truly drew the short straw, so listen up.”
Everyone exchanged worried glances. Brian looked deadly serious.
“The ancient rules of this place are clear. No civilian without a formal position can reside in the Keep. Therefore, Miss Hicks…”
Gasps rippled through the hall. All eyes turned to Hayley. Could he really be talking about throwing her out?
Alfie stepped forward. “Brian, you can’t—”
“I’m sorry, sir,” replied Brian. “Rules is rules.”
Hayley put her hand on Alfie’s arm. “It’s OK,” she said. “I knew it couldn’t last.” Hayley turned to the assembled Yeoman Warders and did her best to smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my mouth shut. Well, see ya, I guess.”
The Yeoman Warders parted, heads bowed, as Hayley sloped past them towards the doors. Alfie looked around for LC – he couldn’t let this happen! But the old man was nowhere to be seen.
“Hold up, miss!” bellowed Brian. Hayley turned back. “I ain’t finished yet. No civilian without a formal position can reside in the Keep, therefore we have decided to reinstate an ancient post not held since the reign of Henry the Fifth.”
Brian marched over to Hayley and handed her a long scroll.
“Miss Hayley Hicks of Watford, I hereby appoint you Keeper of the King’s Arrows.”
“Arrows? What arrows?” asked Hayley.
The Yeoman Warders giggled as behind them a curtain rose and a long metal rack filled with longbows and hundreds of arrows was wheeled in. Excited, Hayley took one of the bows from the rack. It was taller than she was.
“Sweet.”
“That’s a war bow. Made from an ash tree. But you’d be better off training with a half-sized one,” Brian said.
“Nah. I can handle this big boy,” Hayley replied.
She levelled the longbow and tried to draw back the string, but it was so stiff she could barely move it.
Brian laughed and slapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll work on it. Now, the post comes with your own quarters in the Tower, so no more kipping on the sofa for you. Oh, and a uniform.”
Yeoman Box, a female beefeater who had taken Hayley under her wing over the last few months, came forward with a red-and-black tunic complete with Tudor bonnet. “Looks like you’re one of us now, love,” she beamed.
Hayley, looking more flustered than Alfie could ever remember, took the uniform and brushed a tear from her eye.
“Thanks, Brenda. I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.
“Say yes!” shouted Alfie.
Hayley laughed. “Yes!”
The Yeoman Warders cheered and gathered round to congratulate her. She even let Alfie give her a quick hug.
“Nice threads,” he said, admiring her new gear.
“Yeah, well, the longbow’s cool. But I’m not wearing this. Seriously, you can’t make me.”
The ravens were fluffing up their feathers as they settled down to sleep and the party was winding down. Hayley had gone to check out her new room, which was at the top of a small spiral staircase from the Keep, and Brian was packing away the longbow rack. Alfie noticed candles burning inside the Training Arena and came in to find the Lord Chamberlain contemplating the shrine to the fallen Yeoman Warders. He had almost forgotten that the only reason they were having the party at all was because three new Yeoman Warders had been needed, replacements for those killed by the Black Dragon during Professor Lock’s escape. The faces of the fallen smiled at him from their photos, each proud in their uniform, the very picture of loyalty. A loyalty that had cost them their lives.
“There is something I am missing.” The old man’s voice was quiet, like it was a thought he hadn’t intended to say out loud.
“Like what, LC?”
LC bowed his head to the shrine, and crossed to a low stone table near the regalia cabinet. On it lay the dragon bones recovered from Lock’s secret chamber at Harrow School. Curled up, as if sleeping, the creature was still huge. Even in death, its angular eye sockets and vicious teeth had the power to turn you cold with fear.
“The professor must have found a way to awaken the dragon magic using the power of Alfred’s crown. But all our tests showed that there was no trace of the creature left in his body after the battle at Westminster Abbey.”
“Maybe the tests got it wrong?” said Alfie.
LC rubbed his grey chin. He looked weary. “Perhaps, Majesty. But then why wait so long to transform into the Black Dragon again? He could have escaped at any time. Something does not add up.”
Alfie didn’t like seeing him so glum. LC might be an annoying old pain in the neck most of the time, but he had stuck by Alfie and believed in him when no one else did, including himself.
“I wish Lock hadn’t escaped. But at least he’s gone now,” said Alfie. “He wouldn’t dare come back after what happened. We should forget about him.”
LC covered the dragon bones with a cloth and chuckled.
“Why are you laughing?” asked Alfie. “You never laugh. Stop it. It’s weird.”
“I was just thinking, Majesty, about the wonderful optimism of youth.” And suddenly his face was grim and lined with worry once more. “If history teaches us anything, it is that men like Cameron Lock do not simply go away. We must be on our guard.”
Roderick “Sultana” Raisin squelched towards his cottage on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne and glanced down the line of rough wooden poles that marked the route known as the Pilgrim’s Path through the sand back to the mainland. It never ceased to amaze him how fast the sea came in here, cutting the island off from England for hours at a time. Every other month or so, some dozy tourist would ignore the big yellow warning signs at either end of the causeway and wind up with their car six feet underwater and a coastguard rescue, if they were lucky. When Sultana had first arrived on
Holy Island years ago, the sea used to scare him. It still did, if he was honest. It was just so … indifferent. The sea didn’t care if you were stuck in the sand; it came in all the same, uncontrollable. Back at the Tower of London, where he used to be stationed, the Yeoman Warders’ barracks were ordered and neat, just the way he liked it. But, out here in this lonely outpost, if the sea wasn’t trying to drown you it was keeping you awake, roaring through the night, washing in boat wrecks and strewing the beach with rusty rubbish like a monster spitting out the unwanted bones of its latest victim.
Sultana reached the safety of the island and stopped to catch his breath. His daily race against the sea was good exercise, but he was a heavy-set man and getting on a bit now. He peered through his binoculars at the glinting lights of the distant mainland and sighed. If I wanted to live this close to the water, I’d have joined the Navy, he thought for the hundredth time and fumbled in his pocket for his house keys.
“Evening, Rod,” said Trisha Harald as she rattled down the lane on her bike. She was the landlady of the Ship Inn, on her way to open up for the evening. “Darts tonight, remember?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied.
“Looks like it might be a big one blowing in!” Trisha shouted back as she peddled off, the wind whipping her words away.
Sure enough, a storm was gathering in the east, the skies behind the turrets of Lindisfarne Castle were as black as pitch and the sea was rough and rolling. You sprung up quick, thought Sultana, gazing at the bank of clouds, puzzled. It had all the making of an “earplug night”; you hadn’t heard wind until you’d spent a night on Holy Island during a force ten northwester. Back inside his cozy fisherman’s cottage, Sultana drew the curtains and put the kettle on.
Dark Age Page 3
