“ALFRED!” she shouted over her shoulder, struggling with the soldiers to make them stop.
Because their faces were hidden behind gold skull masks, it was impossible to guess what they were thinking. The royal guards remained silent throughout, which only added to the sense that this was a nightmare.
“Mama! Where are they taking you?” demanded Alfred.
“GET BACK INSIDE YOUR ROOM, ALFRED! AND LOCK THE DOOR!” she shouted back.
“But…!”
“NOW! AND PROMISE ME YOU’LL STAY THERE!”
The boy did not reply.
“Promise!” she pleaded.
“I promise!” he mumbled.
Shocked at what he’d just witnessed, Alfred retreated and slammed his bedroom door shut.
SCHTUM!
He stood dead still, unable to move. It was as if he were underwater. That too made it feel like being in a nightmare.
But this was no nightmare. This was really happening.
As if to prove that, tears welled in the boy’s eyes, then streamed down his face. His mother, who he loved more than anyone, was being dragged away in the night, and he was helpless to stop it. Alfred looked around his bedroom. There were silver-framed photographs of her everywhere.
Here she was reading him a bedtime story.
There she was pushing him on a rocking horse.
Here she was helping him draw a picture.
There she was playing with his train set.
Here she was painting his face like a lion.
There she was helping him blow out all the candles on a birthday cake.
Here she was giving him a teddy bear.
In each picture, the young boy was basking in the glow of her love.
In one of the photographs, Alfred was dressed up in a suit of armour as Richard the Lionheart. Richard I was a heroic king from the twelfth century, who led crusades in far-off lands. Alfred picked up the picture, and studied it.
Lionheart.
That was his mother’s pet name for him.
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. He always felt unworthy of that name. He felt nothing like a hero. Having been ill all his life, Alfred was used to being an object of pity. Sometimes he even pitied himself.
Tears ran down his cheeks.
He felt helpless to stop his mother being dragged away by the royal guards.
Other important people had mysteriously disappeared in the night over the years.
The prime minister.
The chief of police.
The head of the army.
Even Alfred’s grandmother had suffered the same fate.
Lionheart.
His mother’s voice calling him that name circled round and round in his mind.
Lionheart.
Lionheart had been a mighty warrior. Alfred needed to summon some of his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-ancestor’s spirit, and do something. Anything.
“Lionheart!” he said out loud, and, despite what he had promised his mother, he opened his bedroom door.
Alfred limped down the corridor, steadying himself on the sideboard to catch his breath. Quite a few paces ahead, the royal guards’ cloaks fluttered as they bustled the boy’s mother along. Alfred tried to speed up, but in doing so he stumbled over a rug…
THOD!
…twisting his ankle.
“OUCH!”
With no chance of catching up with them, he thought of Richard the Lionheart, and called out, “I C-C-COMMAND YOU TO ST-ST-STOP!”
Not only was Alfred out of breath, but he was not used to giving orders. As a result, the words came out wonky. Despite Alfred being royal and these being the royal guards, the pair of faceless fiends ignored him. The Queen turned her head and shouted back to her son.
“PLEASE, ALFRED! I DON’T WANT YOU TO SEE THIS.”
There was a look of terror in her eyes. A look the boy had never seen before. His mother had always been a wonder at pretending everything was tickety-boo when it clearly wasn’t. She would always make up stories to cover what was really going on.
The sound of an explosion in the middle of the night was “nothing more than a thunderstorm”. She would then stroke Alfred’s head until he drifted off back to sleep.
After his grandmother had mysteriously gone missing one night from the palace, Mother would make believe that Grammy had written postcards to him. She was the “Old Queen”, his father’s widowed mother, and much loved by the boy. Alfred always called her “Grammy” because when he was little he couldn’t say “Granny”. His mother would read these postcards aloud to him as she put him to bed at night.
It was only when Alfred grew older that he suspected his mother had written all the postcards herself.
When he asked whether they would ever set foot outside Buckingham Palace, the Queen would take her son on an imaginary flight around the world.
“Hold my hand and together let’s fly up, up, up into the air, across London, across the sea, over the pyramids of Egypt, down the Grand Canyon of America, along the Great Wall of China and back to Dear Old Blighty in time for tea.”
In his mind’s eye, the boy would see everything his mother described. The adventures gave him hope that one day he would be able to leave the palace.
Just then Alfred felt something – or someone –SLAM down on his shoulders.
DOOF!
He took a sharp intake of breath, but he was so shocked that no sound came out of his mouth. Two large gloved hands were holding on to him. Alfred turned round. It was another royal guard who had somehow crept up on the boy after he’d stumbled on the rug. Silent, just like the others, he picked the prince up with ease and dragged him back to his bedroom.
“L-L-LET ME GO! I SAID, L-L-LET ME G-G-GO!”
Alfred was powerless to resist. In moments, he was deposited back in his bedroom, and the door shut behind him.
SHTUM!
He lingered behind the door and listened. Outside, the guard waited for a while before the sound of footsteps betrayed his movements. In his head Alfred counted to a hundred. As much as he wanted to race through the numbers, he knew that was a foolish idea. He needed to count until he thought the coast would be clear.
“Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.”
On one hundred, he opened his bedroom door slowly and silently. Then he peeped out and checked that no one was around. The corridor was clear. So he tiptoed down it, before hurrying down the long, sweeping staircase, and across to the grand ballroom. This room once played host to the world’s most extravagant parties. Now it was a ghost of a room. The chandelier was hanging by a thread, the silk curtains drooped on the floor and damp had blotted the walls with dark, ugly patches. Desperately out of breath, the sickly boy stumbled again. This time he fell flat on his face.
BANG!
“OOF!”
Alfred noticed there was some kind of powder on his hands and face. At first, he thought it was dust – the palace was encrusted with the stuff. But it wasn’t dust. This had a smell to it that was different. Chalk!
Scrambling to his feet, he noticed that there were faint chalk markings all across the vast floor. It was as if the boy were standing at the centre of a life-sized chessboard. Someone had tried to rub the lines and markings off, but traces were left behind. Alfred bent down. There were words and symbols, but, despite his love of books, he couldn’t recognise any of them. What’s more, there were burn marks on the wood, and a large discoloured area where something heavy had been moved.
Alfred shivered as he realised something: there were strange goings-on in the palace.
The boy stood up and walked slap bang into someone.
D
O
O
F!
Or, rather, not someone, but something.
THE OCTOBUT.
A robot programmed to do all a butler’s duties, it was meant to make life easier, but it actua
lly made it harder. Much harder. It looked not unlike an octopus, if an octopus were made of metal and trundled across the ground. Crucially, though, it did have eight arms, each one with a special attachment for performing different tasks. Hence the name: “Octo” for “octopus”, and “but” for “butler”, although its name made it sound more like it was an octopus’s bottom.
“Good morning, Mr President!” jabbered the Octobut. It was always getting things wrong.
“Oh, hello, Octobut,” whispered Alfred. “I wasn’t expecting to bump into you. Please can you keep your voice down?”
“Roast chicken,” replied the robot, before announcing, “You will be pleased to know I have boil-washed your underpants.”
With that, the Octobut flung a gigantic pair of unwashed men’s underpants at the prince. They must have belonged to some humongous old man.
WHOOSH!
They landed SLAP BANG in the boy’s face.
“Thank you, Octobut,” whispered Alfred as he removed the still-stinky underpants from his nose.
“Now, are you ready for your game of croquet?”
“No!” hissed the boy.
The robot swung its croquet-mallet arm so hard it bashed the wall.
BANG!
So hard that the arm itself came loose.
It fell to the floor with a CRASH.
With seven arms rather than eight, it was now not so much an Octobut as a Septemabut.*
Outside the ballroom, Alfred could hear the bootsteps of royal guards growing nearer.
STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!
The soldiers were just outside the tall wooden double doors that led into the ballroom.
“You go that way!” urged the boy, spinning the Octobut round to face in their direction. “The pope needs his toenails clipping.”
“Very good, Princess!” came the reply.
With all his might, Alfred pushed the Octobut so it trundled off in the direction of the doors.
As the boy tiptoed out of the ballroom, he looked back to see the OCTOBUT CRASH straight into the guards, knocking them to the floor, and accidentally slapping one in the face with its corgi-stroking hand.
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
The guard grabbed the arm to make the robot stop, and it came off in his hands.
“Oh no!” exclaimed the robot. “I will never stroke a corgi again!”
The poor Octobut was now down to six arms. It should really be renamed the Sexabut but that sounds far too rude.
Ahead of Alfred was the entrance to the throne room.
This was the fortress within the fortress of Buckingham Palace. In a way, it was a panic room, like a giant safe. It had been installed in case of an attack, or, horror upon horror, in case the revolutionaries ever managed to break into the palace itself. The walls of the throne room had been made of metre-thick steel. The only way in or out was through a huge metal door, which opened only with fingerprint recognition. Just two people had access to that room.
The first was the boy’s father, the King.
The second was the King’s chief adviser, the Lord Protector.
The Lord Protector was an elegant figure in his sixties. He was well-spoken and refined, with impeccable manners. A learned man, he spoke with great authority on any subject you might care to mention. Art. Literature. Philosophy. He wore a black shirt buttoned up to the top without a tie, and a smart grey suit. On his lapel he sported a gold pin badge, which, like the flag and the armbands the royal guards wore, depicted a griffin.
The Lord Protector had worked at Buckingham Palace for as long as anyone could remember. He’d started off in the palace library, tending to the thousands of ancient books collected there.
Most of the books were displayed on shelves, but there was a handful kept under lock and key in a cabinet. Only the Lord Protector had the key. Like museum pieces, Alfred was not allowed to take these books up to his room. However, he could look at their covers. One intrigued him the most. It was an ancient red leather-bound book with gold lettering on the front.
The boy knew very little Latin, but he knew enough to translate that. “Libro” was a word you often found in library books. It meant “book”.
So this was The Book of Albion.
Once, when he’d slipped into the library unnoticed, Alfred had seen the Lord Protector studying it. Glancing over the man’s shoulder, he saw there were ornate hand-painted pictures inside. But, before he could make out what they were, the Lord Protector had slammed the book shut, and locked it back in the case. Of course, this only intrigued the boy more.
Over the years, the Lord Protector had gained the trust of the King to the extent that he had become his closest adviser.
As the country slid into ruin with crops failing and no clean water to drink, the Lord Protector introduced EXTREME MEASURES in the King’s name.
Food and water were rationed.
There were curfews at night, so people couldn’t go outside.
Punishments were severe, including execution.
The government was outlawed.
The army and the police force were disbanded and replaced by the royal guard.
The Union Jack was replaced by the flag of the griffin.
Since the catastrophic events that had plunged the kingdom into darkness, the King had relied heavily on the Lord Protector to guide him through this terrifying new world. Over the years, the King became more and more withdrawn, as if he’d disappeared into the back of his mind. No one knew why exactly, but the King, who had once been so full of life, seemed as if he were one of the walking dead. Soon he was ruler only in name. The country was controlled by the Lord Protector.
When Alfred spied his mother being held by the royal guards outside the huge metal door to the throne room, he seized his chance. The lady was making a lot of noise, and struggling to get away, which distracted the two soldiers.
“THIS IS NO WAY TO TREAT YOUR QUEEN! UNHAND ME! DO YOU HEAR? UNHAND ME AT ONCE!”
The boy tiptoed behind them, and when the metal door slid open…
WHOOSH!
…he took a deep
breath,
and
sneaked in.
* * *
* “Septem” is the Latin word for “seven”.
The throne room was modern and high-tech compared to the rest of Buckingham Palace, which had not changed for centuries. The walls, floor and ceiling were silver metal. One side was covered with a giant television screen, affording any view of the palace imaginable from a roving flying robot.
In front of the screen was a figure, slumped on the throne.
The King.
The man was only in his fifties, but he looked a good deal older. He had a long, grey beard, and deep, dark circles round his eyes. His appearance had changed rapidly over the years. This once-handsome upright man, full of life and love and laughter, had become an empty shell. Alfred thought that something must have happened to him, something terrible, to make him like this. Father was a completely different man from how he’d been when Alfred was a toddler. It was disturbing to witness such a change in him. As always, the King was wearing his silk pyjamas and dressing gown. He never got dressed or shaved or even washed.
You would never guess he was the King. Once he’d been a great guardian of the British people – now he was seen as their enemy.
Behind the King stood the Lord Protector, his long, thin fingers creeping on to the back of the throne.
“Lord Protector! What in the name of Great Britain do you think you are doing?” demanded the Queen.
The Lord Protector looked past her and the two royal guards – he’d spotted the prince crouching behind them.
“Well, well, well. We have an uninvited guest,” he purred.
“WHAT?” demanded the Queen. She looked round to see her son lurking there.
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
The Queen was furious. “Alfred! I told you to stay in your room!”
“
I know, but I couldn’t just let them take you away. Not without a fight.”
The Queen mouthed “I love you” to her son.
The boy mouthed “I love you too” back.
“FATHER!” shouted Alfred. “They are taking Mama away! You have to stop them!”
The King turned to his son, but his eyes had an absence about them, as if there were a deep sadness that no one could reach.
He was staring at Alfred, but seemed to look right through him into space. There appeared to be no thought or feeling within him.
“Your Royal Highness,” began the Lord Protector, “with respect, this is neither the time nor the place for one of such tender years. Please let me call your nanny. She can escort you safely back to your room.”
“NO!” snapped the boy, finding a strength he didn’t know he had.
“No?” The Lord Protector had a way of being perfectly unruffled.
“NO! I demand to know what you are doing with my mother!”
The Queen allowed herself a smile, as if to say, “That’s my boy!”
“Father! Please help us!”
The King held up his hand as if to say, “Enough.” At once, his son noticed nasty cuts on the palm of his father’s hand. He’d seen these before, although, when asked, his father had no memory whatsoever of how they’d got there.
The Lord Protector smirked. He spoke softly and slowly, not meeting the boy’s anger.
“There must be some misunderstanding, Your Royal Highness. I am not doing anything to your mother, the Queen. I am merely a servant of the King.”
The Queen glanced sadly at the King. “My husband is a lost soul and has been for many years, thanks to you. No, this is your doing, Lord Protector!” she stated. “What a title you have! Protector! You protect nothing and nobody other than yourself. You are destroying this kingdom, but you are not going to destroy me!”
The Beast of Buckingham Palace Page 2
