The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  May 1st dawned, a day for splendour. The Queen rode in an open carriage from Buckingham Palace, her pink satin dress laden with silver lace and hundreds of diamonds. Across her breast was the Garter ribbon, and her hair was caught up in a tiara and white feathers. She had never been so proud. Dearest Albert would be immortalized through the Crystal Palace. He had been its guiding light from conception to completion; and not only her own dear country, but the whole wide world would bow down to acknowledge his superiority.

  As she left the Palace gates, a thousand bells peeled through the air. It seemed that all of London, half the country, and a good part of the world had come to witness the opening of the Crystal Palace. Among the people she could pick out the occasional turban and fez that signified a visitor from afar. The crowds were so dense; they looked like a street themselves – a jostling, cheering street paved with heads. ‘They are everywhere around us,’ the Queen murmured.

  ‘Above us too,’ replied Prince Albert, pointing upwards. The trees were filled with little boys trying to get a bird’s eye view. They swung from the branches, cheering themselves hoarse, their skinned knees and grimy little feet just over the Queen’s head.

  ‘God save our Queen! Long live our Vic!’ they roared. The Queen smiled and nodded and waved her tiny hands, twinkling with rings. These filthy urchins were as important to her as the grandest Duke in the realm.

  A disturbance at their carriage wheels drew the royal couple’s attention. Squealing and protesting, two women were pushed against the rails lining the street by an angry mob. The source of the crowd’s fury was the women’s attire. They were dressed in the most immodest fashion. Their tiny skirts ended above the knees while long pantaloons stretched to their feet. They were followers of the American feminist, Mrs Bloomer, and the British masses were in no mood for progressive women. ‘So you want your own rights, do you?’ one wag roared. ‘Rights to vote… rights to make an ass of yourself is more like it.’

  ‘We are not amused,’ was the Queen’s only comment.

  Averting her face, she spied a tableau more to her liking. It was the street performers Katie had seen near DuQuelle’s home. The strongman jingled the tambourine in his enormous fist, and Signor Salamander tooted the trumpet, despite a throat made sore by dining on fire. The Countess Fidelia, rougher and wider than ever, held the Little Angel by the hand. They had come, with the rest of London, to partake of the great day. ‘What a lovely girl,’ the Queen cried, spying the Little Angel. ‘Such beautiful black ringlets, such dark pools of eyes. She is most picturesque with her curls and rags.’

  The Queen’s pleasure did not seem to be shared by the Little Angel. She leaned forward, gesturing to the Queen, her voice rising, almost pleading with the monarch. But her voice was carried away by the shouts of the crowds. The Little Angel burst into tears and hid her face in her burly mother’s skirts.

  A shadow passed over the Queen’s face. ‘Wasn’t it strange,’ she said to the Prince. ‘That little girl wanted to tell me something, so very desperately.’

  Prince Albert smiled reassuringly. ‘Do not worry, my dear. It’s the excitement; it is too much for the youngest ones.

  ‘Look over there, my dearest,’ Prince Albert continued, pointing to a large group under a chestnut tree. Three hundred rural workers stood quietly, bowing their heads before their Queen. The men were in their smocks, the women in clean but rough calico.

  ‘It will be the entire parish,’ the Prince explained. ‘Their village at home will be completely empty.’

  ‘But the cost,’ the Queen questioned. ‘How can they afford to come?’

  ‘There is a special rate for the poor. The trip will come to 2s 6d per person. We have thought of those in need of aid. The exhibit will be open solely to invalids on Saturdays until noon.’

  The Queen’s eyes filled with tears, and the Prince patted her plump hand covered in gems. ‘Now liebchen, this is not the time to cry. Look, my dear, the whole world is on holiday, the whole world smiles!’

  The Queen and Prince Albert waved and waved at the mobs of spectators. Hawkers moved among the crowds, selling ginger beer, fatty-cakes and hardbakes. From the open carriage, the Royal Family could smell as well as see and hear. The spices of the baking cakes mixed with the tang of peppermint water and a pungent undercurrent of something much less appetizing. Yes, the entire world had turned up for the celebration, and most of them hadn’t bothered to wash. But what they lacked in cleanliness, they made up for in enthusiasm. The souvenir pedlars already had engravings of the Crystal Palace and bright tin medals with its replica. ‘Lord protect our gracious Queen!’ one shouted, throwing a shower of bright medals into the air as her carriage turned into Hyde Park, and another half a million people took up the cry. ‘God save the Queen!’ they shouted. ‘God save Prince Albert, the Prince of Wales! And the little Princesses!’

  Following their parents in a golden phaeton, the children were equally resplendent. The Princesses were in matching white lace with wild roses twined in the ringlets that had enraged the Baroness Lehzen so the night before. Leopold was wrapped in blankets, but smiling widely. He was finally strong enough to be out of his wheelchair and could walk through the Crystal Palace. Bertie was kitted out in a tartan kilt and velvet jacket. He hadn’t been very happy about this, but word had come down from his father: ‘wear the kilt, or miss the opening’ – and this was a spot of fun not to be missed. As they passed through Hyde Park, Charles Spencer, the celebrated aeronaut, doffed his hat and bowed. He was standing next to the basket of his famous helium balloon, and was due to go up into the sky at the exact moment the Queen opened the Crystal Palace.

  ‘Come back,’ he shouted to Bertie. ‘Come back for a ride later today!’

  ‘I will,’ Bertie bellowed and the crowd roared approval. But he knew he would never come back. Bertie’s gruelling regime of study and good works did not include balloon rides.

  Vicky had her own carriage, as befitted her new status as an engaged woman. Frederick William sat beside her, surrounded by his Prussian entourage. While Vicky smiled and waved gamely, the Prussians were shocked at the closeness and exuberance of the British public. In their own country, the people would be controlled in such a situation. The military would surround the royal carriages, the Emperor would be protected at all costs. Any Prussian peasant who dared address their monarch in the easy way of the English underclasses would receive a sharp blow with the butt of a musket. Young Felix was particularly scornful. ‘These English,’ he complained to his uncle Frederick William, ‘they are like savages. They howl and bay at the Queen. How dare they? They should be whipped.’ Vicky looked at the child with distaste. He had always been a sweet boy, affectionate and loving. But since his illness, he had changed. Despite the blond curls and blue eyes, he had become cruel and bitter. She shrank away from him.

  ‘Perhaps we should have left Felix at home,’ she whispered to her fiancé. ‘He has been so ill, after all…’

  ‘Nein,’ Felix interrupted. ‘I must be here. My part in this is important. I must see it through to the end.’

  How could the child have heard her through the noise? Vicky wondered.

  Inside the Crystal Palace, James and Katie were already in place. At any other time, James would have rushed off to see the thousands of exhibitions and displays. The entire north side of the building was dedicated to inventions and machinery. There was a printing press that could produce 5,000 newspapers in one hour, a locomotive engine that laid down its own tracks, an apparatus for supplying rooms with pure warm air. He longed to see the sheet of paper 2,500 feet long, and the phosphor matches that could light themselves. There was even a medicine made from the livers of cod – a new miracle drug – and they were giving out samples. But today was not the day for machinery, medicine and invention. The Queen’s very life was at stake, and James was one of only three people who could save her. He looked across the room. Just behind the Duke of Wellington he could see a short, slight bishop, Katie. ‘Let�
��s hope she can catch an assassin the way she can catch a ball,’ he muttered to himself.

  It was very hot – especially in a long red robe, cone-shaped hat and a fake powdered beard. Katie was dripping with sweat and the powder from her beard made her sneeze. She tried to keep her distance from the other bishops. They were staring at her. Still, she thought, I’ve got a good view of the proceedings and if I don’t want this historical event to take on a more sinister significance, I’ve got to keep my eyes peeled. Outside she could hear the excited crowds – a humming and buzzing swirling around the building as if it were a giant glass beehive. The cheers moved closer and the 30,000 privileged people assembled under the glass roof shifted in anticipation. The trumpets sounded and the great bronze gates were thrown open. The Queen had arrived.

  To the little sovereign, nothing had ever looked more splendid. It was an Arabian Nights’ structure, full of light, so graceful and yet so grand. The millions of panes of glass reflected on the sparkling fountains, the chandeliers, the opulent coloured banners and tapestries. A kind of coloured rainbowy air appeared to pervade the whole building and give it a solemn sense of majesty. The arched glass transept was over 100 feet high, yet it looked like it could float away. In the centre of the transept was a raised dais directly in front of the largest of the elm trees. The Queen progressed towards it, past the marble statues, past the cut crystal fountains, past the enormous elms, hand in hand with Prince Albert. The 600 choir boys, the 200 musicians and the fifty-foot organ burst into song as she went by.

  As the Queen stepped on to the dais, Katie could see that Alice was trying to stay as close as possible to her mother. Everyone else was swivelling around, gawping with wonder; Alice was concentrating on the small regal figure in pink satin and silver lace. James was stationed next to his father at the foot of the stairs, and Katie stood on tiptoe to see past the Duke of Wellington’s old crooked back. The ceremony began: an endless and tedious prayer from the Archbishop of Canterbury, followed by the Hallelujah chorus and the National Anthem. ‘God save our gracious Queen,’ 30,000 voices sang. Princess Alice, James and Katie sang with their hearts in their mouths. It really was up to God.

  And then came the salutation of the nations and colonies. As they were called in alphabetical order, each Ambassador came slowly down the great transept to bow to the Queen. Abkhazia, Abyssinia, Anguilla… The European delegates were dressed in full court regalia, their long white embroidered silk waistcoats covered in ribbons and medals. Others had come in the splendour of their national costume. The Japanese delegates in full kimono, the maharajas in silk turbans and diamonds. The Americans had included a native Indian in their retinue, complete with ceremonial paint and feathers.

  The glass ceiling was sealed and in the heat of midday, the Crystal Palace was becoming very warm indeed. Next to Katie, the Bishop of Rochester was beginning to wheeze. He was not a thin man, nor a young one. He swayed, stumbled and then fell to the ground with a resounding crash. Dr O’Reilly was there in a flash, carrying him into an anteroom. Towards the back of the hall, one of the Swiss delegation also fell victim to heatstroke, and then one of the Queen’s own ladies-in-waiting. James tried to stand his ground, to guard the Queen, but his father dragged him away by the arm. People were dropping like flies – he needed help – this was not the time for James to stand around taking in the sights.

  The delegates continued to move forward: ‘Azerbaijan, Bhutan, Bolivia, Braunschweig.’ Katie scanned their ranks. In their elaborate costumes it was nearly impossible to get a good look at them. Would she be able to recognize the killer? She could see James across the room, helping an elderly woman towards an open window. He had his hands full and Alice was out of reach. It would be up to Katie.

  Suddenly a silk-robed Indian pushed through the ranks of dignitaries. ‘I will come now,’ he said, ‘when I choose. What I am giving the Queen cannot wait.’ Katie sprinted forward, knocking over the Bishop of Durham in her wake. She’d almost reached the Indian, when the Duke of Wellington caught hold of her.

  ‘I say,’ he cried in the very loud voice of a very deaf man. ‘Pushing and shoving at a royal ceremony? This is not appropriate, Bishop.’

  Katie found herself tangled in his sword.

  The Indian proceeded directly up the steps of the dais. Katie could see Alice, struggling to reach her mother. With a sudden dramatic gesture, the Indian unfurled his magnificent turban and, taking something from it, pointed directly at the Queen. ‘This is what you deserve,’ he said.

  It wasn’t a pistol in his hand. It was a diamond. ‘The Koh-i-noor,’ the Duke of Wellington roared. ‘The largest diamond in the world. Well, I’ll be damned. Who would have thought the Maharaja of Punjab had it in him. Splendid chap! Capital fellow, eh Bishop!’ He slapped Katie on the shoulder and shook her by the hand. Smiling weakly, she slunk back to her place.

  The Queen was clapping and dimpling. There was nothing she liked more than a big, bright gem. Alice looked as if she might faint. The roll call of dignitaries continued. ‘The Sultan of Burkina Faso, the Governor of the Cape Colony…’ and on came the delegates. The false alarm had left Katie feeling both foolish and frightened.

  ‘He must be here,’ she muttered. ‘It has to happen, but when?’ Her eyes moved frantically, scanning the crowds. And still they came forwards, ‘Sir Edmund Walker Head, Governor General of Canada, Hee Sing, the Ambassador of Imperial China…’ A man moved up the aisle, his black and scarlet cap, blue tunic and gold chains making a fanciful tableau. Katie looked again – he was surprisingly tall – and then she knew – this was no Chinaman. It was the eyes that gave him away: fierce, black ignited eyes, the eyes of a fanatic, a killer. Before the assembled crowd stood the anarchist, the assassin, the leader of the Black Tide – stepping forward, to kill the Queen.

  Katie made a spring towards him, but suddenly her head jerked back, her feet were in the air. She was lying on the ground, staring up at Bernardo DuQuelle, who, with one shining black shoe, had pinned down the hem of her robe.

  ‘Tisk, tisk,’ he said, smiling. ‘This is unusually aggressive behaviour from a bishop. Even a bishop from the twenty-first century has better manners than that. And now – you are coming with me. Excellent costume, my dear.’

  Katie scrambled to her feet. ‘No – no – help!’ she gasped. ‘The Queen… the Black Tide… the Assassin… the Chinaman… look… please… help!’

  DuQuelle’s smile was gone in an instant. Taking Katie by the arm, he ran through the startled Ambassadors and towards the dais. The leader of the Black Tide had prostrated himself on the floor in a long ceremonious bow. Getting to his feet, he reached into the long sleeves of his silk gown, searching for something in the folds.

  ‘We’re too late,’ Katie thought, and DuQuelle looked frantic. But then she saw Alice break forward, to stand directly in front of her mother’s silver throne. ‘Mama, it’s too beautiful,’ she cried. The Queen tried to smile, but looked nettled by this break from protocol.

  ‘Thank you, Alice dear,’ she said. ‘Now please return to your position, the ceremony has yet to finish.’

  A furious Baroness Lehzen was moving forward to take Alice away, but Alice climbed into her mother’s lap and put her arms around her neck. The Queen’s smile froze as she tried to unclasp the child, but the assembled dignitaries were laughing quietly and murmuring their approval. What could be more appealing than a child’s natural fondness for her mother?

  Prince Albert bent down to his wife.

  ‘Let her stay, liebchen,’ he said. ‘Yes, she is over-excited and it is inappropriate. But to move her would interrupt the beautifully planned ceremony.’ The Queen did not look happy, but she did as Albert said.

  ‘What is Alice doing?’ Katie puzzled anxiously.

  ‘She is being very brave,’ DuQuelle answered. ‘She is using herself as a human shield. If he shoots now, she will literally stop the bullet with her own body.’

  Katie looked from the Queen to the assassin. It was
his move next. Alice’s appearance had unsettled him. The Black Tide’s glittering prize, the target – the Queen – had been within his grasp, and now this girl was in the way. In a split second he made his decision, he’d have to make do with the target on offer. His hand found the cold metal hidden under his robes.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ came a voice next to him. ‘I too have a pistol, and you can feel it against your back. Now, bow nicely to the Queen and withdraw.’ The Queen looked annoyed. First Alice’s unforgivable behaviour, and now what was DuQuelle doing with the Chinese Ambassador? She would have to talk to Albert about that man.

  After a flicker of hesitation, the assassin obeyed DuQuelle and, bowing yet again, walked backwards into the crowd of dignitaries. DuQuelle led him through the Great Transept. With one arm he had the assassin, with the other he held Katie. ‘Two at once,’ DuQuelle murmured. ‘That is an excellent catch.’ They passed the assembled guests and DuQuelle lifted a velvet curtain, ushering them both into the small waiting room.

  Katie exhaled deeply. ‘I think I’ll be going now,’ she thought. But it wasn’t DuQuelle that stopped her. The assassin whipped around and struck DuQuelle a blow to the stomach. Grabbing Katie, he made a dash for the door. She could just see DuQuelle, doubled over in pain and surprise, before she was dragged into the labyrinth of the Crystal Palace.

  A French bureau, a Greek urn, a threshing machine and a stuffed elephant. They all whizzed by as Katie was hurled through the empty corridors. Everyone else was in the Great Transept. She struggled against him, shoving the assassin with her elbows and trying to kick his ankles. ‘Do you want me to shoot you here and now?’ he spat, aiming a vicious blow at her head. She ducked, but it caught her just under the jaw. The pain was so great it broke through her fright. She cried out, only to receive another blow to the head. ‘One more sound and I will kill you,’ he shouted in fury. ‘We need to find some quiet place, and then you will have to start talking. I want explanations.’