Letitia Unbound

by Trevor Veale

  Chapter 19

  Dawna Defuses A Riot

  A few days later, Godfrey and Letitia were relaxing in their favorite wing-backed armchairs in the drawing-room. She had picked up her Country Life and was perusing its pages, the lenses of her spectacles twinkling in the firelight, and pondering the merits of swapping her life for that of a mere aristocrat, shorn of the burdens of monarchy and living simply on an English country estate. She saw herself dwelling in an elegant Georgian mansion with tenant farmers to oversee and village shops to patronize. She saw Godfrey relaxing in his oak-paneled study after a day’s shooting, while she received visitors for cream tea in a drawing-room much like the one she was in. They would have a wide oak staircase to sweep down, dazzling their guests at functions and balls… Balls was right! Who was she trying to kid? Visitors? Guests? She’d had enough of them to last a lifetime. She would be spending her time relaxing in her bed or puttering about the garden. Let Godfrey receive the visitors and guests.

  The thought of bed made her yawn. She put the magazine down and was tempted to take a snooze. “I’m going to take a nap before lunch,” she announced. “No doubt lunch will be late – it always is on a Sunday.” She removed her glasses, letting them dangle on their chain, threw back her head and closed her eyes. Godfrey watched his wife drift into a doze and became drowsy himself. He eased his head back, letting it rest on the padded upholstery of his chair. Before closing his eyes, he glimpsed the large buck’s head, its wide rack of horns thrusting outwards, mounted above the fireplace, a trophy of a successful day’s hunting. His empty brandy glass beside him, he felt the liquor burning pleasantly in his stomach and listening to his sons murmuring as they played a game of Angry Birds on the regency sofa. His daughter-in-law had buzzed off in her BMW – he knew not where, but strongly suspecting she was out buying candy. Nevertheless, he felt content. His wife softly snored beside the blazing fire and two beagles lay at his feet, one licking its genitals, the other lazily scratching itself.

  What a bumpy road we’ve been on lately, Godfrey thought, savoring the tranquil sound of the antique brass clock on the mantle as it ticked away the minutes before lunch. With all the damn kerfuffle over Catheter’s stupid affair and Dawna’s ridiculous eating problems and our own bodily malfunctions, it’s been a rough ride. Thank God we have some stability at last, and – God willing – a grandson on the way to safeguard the monarchy until long after I’m dead.

  His happy musings were cut short by an urgent rapping on the drawing-room doors. At a drowsy word from Godfrey they were opened, and Simpkins bowed and entered. His face bore the grave expression he assumed when bringing unpleasant news.

  Godfrey stirred in his chair and Letitia awoke and began blinking. The king nodded at Simpkins.

  “Your Majesty,” he announced, “I fear there is a riotous assembly gathered outside the palace. A large crowd of ruffians are being incited to attack Your Majesty and his household.”

  Letitia gave a derisive snort. “And who is inciting them, pray?”

  “Two louts from the People’s Party, Your Majesty. They’re on soapboxes demanding that all welfare benefits be restored to refugees.”

  Letitia’s eyebrows shot up. “Restore welfare? But we gave alms to over a hundred of them outside the cathedral this morning. Every Mellorian with proof of citizenship was given a little bag of coins.”

  Simpkins’s brow wrinkled. “With respect, ma’am, the refugees these subversives are referring to are the ones who were forced to renounce their citizenship in Shekels by the Slobodians – before being kicked out.”

  Godfrey gave the butler a stern look.

  “No one was forced, Simpkins. The Slobodians made unspecified threats about public whippings and internment camps, but those who held out were allowed to stay. The spineless ones were thrown out to destabilize the Mellorian economy.”

  The butler looked nonplussed.

  “Melloria doesn’t reward cowards,” the king continued. “Anyone who can’t stand up to the Slobodians’ bluff and bluster should not expect kid-glove treatment.”

  “You sound like that dreadful man, Amis – the one who comes to the palace every Wednesday,” Letitia said. “At least I think it’s Amis – perhaps it’s Amiss. Anyway, he’s always going on about loyal Mellorians as opposed to pond scum from Shekels.”

  “The prime minister is right in this instance,” Godfrey maintained. “These people have compromised their loyalty and don’t deserve public handouts.”

  Simpkins cleared his throat and rocked gently on his heels.

  “Very well, Simpkins,” Godfrey growled. “Send out the palace guard to disperse the mob.”

  A pained, embarrassed look crossed the butler’s face. “I regret to inform you, sir that the palace guard are out on maneuvers – it’s the first Sunday of the month, sir.”

  “Ridiculous!” The king’s face darkened. “This is all Amis’s fault – he should never have merged the palace guard with the regular army, budget cuts or no budget cuts!”

  “Well, at least the gates are locked,” the king muttered. “Is Trashmountain about?”

  “Yes, sir,” Simpkins replied. “I sent him to keep an eye on the gates lest the mob try to break in.”

  “Very good, Simpkins,” the king said. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing more to be done – unless we call the police.”

  Anton looked up and smirked. “No good calling the Babylon – they get Sundays off nowadays.”

  “Sundays off? Why, I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous!” Godfrey said. “Isn’t anybody on duty today?”

  “Yes, dear – you are!” Letitia trilled. “Go out and read the riot act – they’ll listen to you, you’re their king. And try to get them to go away before Her Glorious Gorgeousness gets back from the sweet shop – we don’t want her involved in exciting the crowd.”

  She sat back, a satisfied smile on her face, and closed her eyes. Godfrey’s jaw dropped and he looked abjectly about him. His gaze fell on his sons, who had left their game and were wolfing down a box of Ferrero Rocher on the sideboard.

  “All right,” Godfrey said, “you heard what your mother said – it’s time to do our duty. Put your boots on, boys – we’re going out to deal with the mob.”

  His mouth filled with chocolate, Anton looked anxiously at Catheter, who swallowed his mouthful and folded his arms.

  “I don’t think it would be wise for us to go with you, Daddy. If the mob turns vicious the heir to the throne and his successor risk being hurt, perhaps fatally.”

  Godfrey’s face hardened and he glared at the princes. “Well, there’s a centimeter-thick bullhide belt in my study with a wide brass buckle – that could really hurt somebody.”

  Anton’s face twitched and he gave a nervous laugh. “Of course we’re going with you, Pops – hey, we’re princes, that’s what we do.”

  The three royal warriors stepped into the palace courtyard, accompanied by Trashmountain, the palace doorman, a giant of a man over two meters tall, who wielded a large club. All four wore Barbour jackets against the blasting north wind, which the princes hoped would eventually disperse the crowd. Godfrey clutched a bullhorn. The mob they were facing pressed against the palace railings, shaking fists and waving hand-drawn placards through the wrought-iron rails. The heavy palace gates were being severely shaken.

  “That padlock and chain won’t last long,” Godfrey said with concern. “Trash, go get some more locks and chains – we need to secure these gates.”

  The giant grunted and departed, leaving the three royals to police the courtyard.

  Above the shouting from the bodies crushed against the railing and pushing at the gates, two voices, a man’s and a woman’s, could be heard haranguing the crowd. By telescoping his neck, Godfrey was able to make out a man with a brutal face wearing a red ball cap and a woman with a black beret standing a few meters apart. Both were standing on platforms and their jeering voices baited the crowd with surly belligerence.

&nbs
p; “At this very moment,” the man announced, “the royal family are feasting on venison and caviar, washed down with the finest champagne, while you, the hard-working people, must eke out your onion stew and acorn coffee with your kids!”

  The baying crowd roared their agreement.

  Then the woman urged the mob to end this disgraceful state of affairs by storming the palace and taking what was rightfully theirs. They’re just taking advantage of the police being off-duty, Godfrey thought. He hoisted the bullhorn and looked around for a place from which to address the crowd. The courtyard was empty, save for the imposing bronze statue of his father, King Egbert, on its stone plinth.

  Clambering up the podium and over the plinth, he hooked an arm around the bronze coat sleeve of his saber-wielding forebear. He was aware that he looked like one coated old drunk hanging on the arm of another, but he had to reply to his taunters. Clearing his throat, he raised the bullhorn to his lips.

  “May I say a few words!” he shouted, close to the mouthpiece. “While I may be luckier than some, because I ate a bowl of granola with milk early this morning – no sugar, I might add – since that time not a morsel of food has passed my lips nor those of my sons!”

  He waved the bullhorn toward Catheter and Anton, who had been slouching, hands in pockets, near the base of the statue. They immediately straightened up, and flashed quick smiles at the crowd.

  “So – contrary to what our friend in the red cap has been saying – ,“ his amplified voice boomed, “far from feasting on caviar and venison, none of my family will eat a damn thing until you good people have all gone home!”

  The crowd replied with a mixture of cheers and jeers, and Godfrey realized his voice sounded overripe and hypocritical, even in his own ears. The man on the platform quickly took up the argument.

  “Did you hear what he just said?” he taunted. “Did you hear what the king just said? He said that as soon as you all go home like good boys and girls, him and his bleeding family will tuck in to their venison and champagne!”

  Godfrey gritted his teeth and clung grimly to the bronze statue’s arm. He knew it was his duty to stand out here, in the biting wind, his stomach rumbling, until all these bloody people had cleared off, but he wished he had a better speech writer than himself.”

  Meanwhile the woman with the beret was adding her two-cents worth. “King Godfrey says he hasn’t eaten since breakfast,” she bellowed. “Poor king! How many of you didn’t even have a breakfast today?”

  The crowd roared in approval and some voices answered in the affirmative.

  “She knows how to work the crowd,” Anton muttered to his brother, “but I couldn’t fancy her in a pitch dark room with a bag over her head.”

  Summoning his reserves of cunning, Godfrey raised the bullhorn again. “You’re quite wrong about one thing!” he yelled. “I have no intention of eating any food until every hungry person in this crowd – and their children – has been fed. In fact, as soon as you all disperse, as the law requires, I will make it my duty to ensure supplies of food are available to all who need them – including Mellorians from Shekels who were forced to renounced their citizenship by the bloody Slobodians!”

  The man in the red cap bellowed a reply, but Godfrey had the impression he and his co-agitator were on the defensive now. Some of the crowd began drifting away, and the number of people pressing against the gates seemed to lessen. Godfrey wondered whether he’d been too rash in promising to feed an unspecified number of people from the government’s meager budget. He knew Amis would have a fit, but reasoned that a few distribution centers located in obscure areas keeping short opening hours, announced by an obscure ad in the back pages of the Bugle, should reduce the amount of supplicants.

  He climbed down from the statue and stood beside his sons. Tucking his bullhorn under his arm, he thrust his hands deep in his jacket pockets. The wind made their coats flap and the cold air stung their cheeks. How much longer can these bloody demagogues keep a crowd of people standing out in this weather? He wondered. He craned his neck to see if any more people had left, but noticed that for every person who slunk away, others pressed forward, shuffling their poorly-shod feet on the sidewalk.

  The agitators stepped up their ranting, the man calling the king a liar and repeating that as soon as everybody had gone, he and his family would be wolfing down prime venison and truffles, washed down with vintage Dom Perignon. Of course we will, Godfrey thought irritably, the sooner the bloody better. I’m parched and absolutely starving! He glared at the crowd, wiling them to leave, but underneath his resolute veneer he felt a growing sense of unease. What if the buggers stay all night – they could pitch tents and light fires – while we three morons freeze to bloody death? We daren’t let the servants come out and attend to us – it would look like we were being pampered. These unwelcome thoughts pressed on his mind.

  The woman with the beret was telling the mob that the royal regime was bankrupt and that the treasury didn’t have a pot to piss in, so the king’s promise to feed the hungry was nothing but a hollow sham, a fraud which the people should treat with contempt. The afternoon gloom was deepening and the street lamps suddenly came on.

  “Listen, people are cheering!” Catheter suddenly announced, his lips beginning to turn blue.

  “It’s because of the bloody lights, you tosser!” Anton snarled through chattering teeth, but Catheter gestured toward the crowd.

  “No, the cheering’s getting louder – hey, perhaps the palace guard are coming back from maneuvers!” His voice fluttered and Godfrey’s breast rose in response.

  “Thank God! I knew our chaps wouldn’t let us down!” he cried. The welcome image of uniformed troops armed with rifles forging their way through the ragged throng, intent on seizing the agitators and rescuing their king and his sons blazed in his mind. It rekindled his waning hope of salvation.

  Through the shifting melee of figures outside the palace gates the three royals saw the headlights of an approaching car. The beams were coming from a BMW coupe in powder blue, with plum pink leather upholstery, that slowly approached the beleaguered gates. The car’s sole occupant – its driver Princess Dawna – stared with deep apprehension through her tinted windshield. Her sudden appearance in the midst of the hostile crowd had an immediate and amazing effect. For no obvious reason people leapt around the car in childlike glee, urging the nervous princess to step out and favor them with her presence. That she merely flashed a terror-stricken smile from inside the car did not deter them one bit. The voices of the agitators all but vanished as people yelled: “Over here, Dawna!” “Doesn’t she look lovely!” “How far is she – five months?” “Will it be a boy or a girl?” “When’s it due?” and even “When’s it popping out?”

  Godfrey was temporarily stunned by the crowd’s reaction, but the sight of his daughter-in-law staring, wide-eyed and panic-stricken, at the crowd pressing against her windows and tapping on the bullet-proof glass galvanized him into action. He fished in his jacket pocket for a key and rushed forward to unlock the gates.

  “Make way! Make way, I say!” he bellowed, his pitted face flushed with determination, and amazingly the people who had earlier been jeering at him pulled back and watched him unlock the chain. His newly-confident eyes met those of the pregnant princess and a strange frisson of emotion passed through him. If I didn’t know myself better, he thought, I’d say it was love! The thought made him shiver. He pulled the chain off and swung open the wrought-iron gates. The car swished past him, and he marveled anew how, with her beguiling beauty, the princess had transformed the crowd into the docile, happy subjects he dreamed of ruling.

  He and Trash, who had at last appeared, slammed the gates shut, pulled the chain through the bars and locked it. Behind him, the car had stopped and Dawna stepped out, to be formally embraced by Catheter. The crowd went wild. People suddenly produced cameras from hidden places and an explosion of flashlights seared Godfrey’s eyes before he could turn away. He hurried back inside
the palace, following Dawna and the two princes. That’s one up for the monarchy, he told himself as they trooped into the drawing-room. Thank God one member of the family has pulling-power! He eased himself into his chair and gratefully took the large brandy that Simpkins had poured for him.

  His mood of relief took a nosedive during their delayed lunch. Letitia made clear her disapproval of Dawna’s effect on people– upstaging Godfrey’s efforts to disperse the crowd –by passing the truffles to her last of all. Later, while serving her family cocktails in the drawing-room, she underlined her displeasure by failing to hear Dawna’s request for a pineapple Daiquiri, so that the princess was forced to drink a Drambuie instead.

  Chapter 20

  Letitia Left In The Lurch

  The next morning Queen Letitia awoke to sunlight stabbing her eyes through a gap in the carelessly pulled drapes. I’ll kill that maid, she thought, groping for her eyemask. She was feeling disgruntled. Princess Perfect had done it again. If it wasn’t enough that she liked to flaunt her belly at every concert, fashion show and cocktail party, now she’s doing crowd control as well. And everyone thinks it’s amusing. Well, I’m not amused – in fact I’m downright ruffled. Ruffled? Hell, I’m damn near corrugated!

  She removed her eyemask when she became accustomed to the light and looked around her. The dark furniture and looming tapestries seemed to close in on her. The bed was the room’s finest feature: a high, sturdy mahogany four-poster with bedclothes of Shanghai silk, a gift from the Chinese ambassador. Most of the other decorative furnishings in the palace were gifts, not purchases. The Gorm family was always pleased to accept them, reasoning that they were saving their subjects tax money. She contemplated the enormous tapestry of beagles worrying a great elk that blanketed one entire wall. Must find a better place for that awful wallhanging, she mused. Perhaps I should give the blessed thing to Catheter, as a christening present for the baby. It seems to make the bedchamber look smaller, which is not what I want. The world seems to be shrinking anyway – if it gets any smaller I’ll go off my rocker!