Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

  On the other side of the casket, hanging back near the edge of the cemetery, she saw Green Man. He was shadowed by a few dangerous-looking jokers. But then he was almost always in the company of dangerous-looking jokers. She knew he was a gangster and might even have ties to the Fists. Everyone in the East End suspected as much. It didn’t matter that she’d moved away decades ago, she still had deep roots in the community and was perfectly well aware of what was happening there.

  The vicar began intoning yet another prayer. Constance tuned him out. Her eyes burned, and things got blurry. She told herself it was because the wind had picked up, but that was shite and she knew it. The sharp pain of losing Glory wouldn’t leave and, unconsciously, she gripped Bobbin’s hand tighter, not even noticing when his thorns pierced her knuckles.

  ‘I’m always here for you,’ Bobbin said softly. ‘I know I’m not her, but you can count on me.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied quietly. There was a hitch in her voice and a lump in her throat that made it hard to swallow. The vicar kept droning on and Constance thought she might scream, Get on with it, you git!

  At last, the vicar finished, and the mourners began to make their way past the coffin. White flowers – lilies, chrysanthemums, and gladioli – were lovingly placed around the casket. She saw Green Man begin to make his way through the crowd carrying a delicate bouquet of violets.

  It made her like him a little, but only just a little.

  It pained Green Man to arrive anything less than early, but it wouldn’t do to be hanging around. He’d learned long ago that the trick to maintaining any kind of mystique was to give people as little time to talk to you as possible. And so, at the very last minute, he slipped in quietly at the back of the cemetery.

  Manor Park had lost none of its gravitas over the years. Even under a drab London sky it managed to look stylish and timeless, from the clusters of mature oak, ash and birch trees to the wrought-iron gates tipped with gold, to the neatly kept grass. Where many places of this calibre would have turned their back on the resident jokers, Manor Park and the rest of the East End had welcomed them with open arms. To them, jokers were just another quirk of an already vibrant community.

  A good-sized crowd had assembled to pay their respects to Glory Greenwood. She’d been something of a star during the sixties, and always popular. That was the thing about being different: to be accepted you had to be easy on the eye, and for the most part harmless. Glory had been both, and charming with it. A little bit of brightness in the East End that would be sorely missed.

  He allowed himself the slightest smile as the crowd became aware of him. Furtive glances were cast his way and a little ripple of reactions passed out from where he stood. He watched carefully, noting which faces seemed pleased, which afraid, and the few that were openly hostile – he’d make a point of talking to them later.

  Somewhere nearby, Wayfarer would be sitting in an innocuous-looking van with the engine running. A few of the more discreet Fists were also around, ready to run interference if need be. It was unlikely anyone would be crass enough to move against him here, but it always paid to take precautions. In his pocket, his phone was set to vibrate if Wayfarer got word of trouble. The old code: one buzz for police, two for armed units or military, and three for the Silver Helix.

  So far it had stayed as quiet as the park itself.

  His turn soon came to step up to the grave, several of those already in the queue giving up their places out of respect. Among them he saw one of the few nats present: Constance, alongside Bobbin. They stood together, almost like an old married couple, but not quite. Green Man favoured them with a slight nod as he passed.

  Despite the sombre nature of the day, it felt good to be outside. Too much of his life was spent cooped up inside the back of vehicles or below ground. He relished the feel of the wind on his body: he was virtually immune to the cold these days, and was delighted when rain fell on him.

  When he reached the grave he stood for a while, head bowed, to give the impression of deep thoughts and feelings. The truth was he hadn’t really known Glory at all. Their lives had followed very different paths. She’d always seemed too much of a hippie for his liking. He much preferred tidy, practical people. And she would likely have found him dull.

  Still, regardless of any personal feelings, it was important that Green Man be seen to care and, in a vague way, he did care. Jokers like Glory were rare and important to the cause. The world would always see him as a monster, but she’d been able to touch people, joker, ace and nat alike. She was the other side of the coin. The Twisted Fists could fight the worst of humanity, but they would never win over the best of it.

  He stooped down, and left his bouquet of violets.

  When he made his way out, he saw some of the old jokers laughing together as they shared stories of their time with Glory. He saw them hold each other, their misshapen bodies leaning together for support.

  And he envied them.

  Alan Turing stood outside the door to the Queen’s bedchamber, collecting himself. She had summoned him, and he had come at her command, as always.

  Margaret had been so beautiful as a girl. Beautiful and wild. An eighteen-inch waist, the papers had reported, and the rest of the figure to match, plus a face lovely enough to paint. Both before and after his card had turned, Alan had felt no flicker of desire for the stunning princess, but he had appreciated her beauty, like a work of art. And though time had worked its ravages, buried in the wrinkles of ninety lay the lovely bones of the girl who had flirted her way across Europe. Pregnant Elizabeth had surely been relieved when Townsend had actually proposed to Margaret; marrying a divorcé was still scandalous back then, but better than a babe born out of wedlock. She’d thrown her considerable weight behind the match, and the marriage, a mere seven months after Elizabeth’s own, had featured the most splendid of cakes.

  A flowering of British beauty, British glory, such a relief after the ravages of the war followed by Wild Cards Day. And then, things fell apart, as the poem said. Had Yeats known, somehow? The centre did not hold: Elizabeth’s baby was born dead, followed a few years later by Elizabeth’s own passing, her health broken by the birth. She had fought so long, so hard, their princess, and the country had been heart-stricken. When George VI died a year later, Margaret had been so distraught that she’d needed sleeping pills for months. They’d tried to keep that out of the papers, but to no avail.

  Still, in the end, she’d rallied. Young Henry to live for, and then Richard following a few years later. Twenty centuries of stony sleep put back to rest by a rocking cradle? Margaret I, ruling over a realm that had been, for the most part, peaceful. And if she had her lovers on the side, as some whispered, Townsend never said a word, and so neither could anyone else. He’d loved her to his grave, his wild girl, and now, finally, she would follow. Alan turned the doorknob, pushed open the heavy door, and entered.

  The Queen’s crimson bedchamber, crowded with relatives and quiet murmurs of conversation, was lit by candles. Electric lights hurt her eyes. The flickering light caught the gilt of framed paintings on the walls, a long pageantry of prior kings and queens, with Elizabeth prominent in the room. Had Margaret spent her entire reign under her sister’s stern gaze? Never quite good enough, proper enough, to satisfy? Yet Margaret had held England together, through the advent of the wild card, where other countries had faltered – surely Elizabeth would give her points for that? The candles lit shadows in the forest-green curtains that draped the bed, edged in royal purple and gold. On the flower-embroidered coverlet, the Queen’s hand lay, the thickness of middle age dissolved through her long years, until it was thin again, the skin gone papery.

  Alan Turing had served George through the war, and Elizabeth after, served as well as he knew how, but it was Margaret he had loved. Something in her wild heart called to his own, though so few could see it, cloaked as it was in his skin gone metallic, and his mind that had always worked more like a computer’s than most. Yet Alan
was human after all, and when the Queen called to him in a thin voice, his heart squeezed in his chest. Ah, this hurt.

  ‘Alan?’

  He spoke over the tightness in his throat. ‘I’m here, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Ah, look at you.’ The Queen’s eyes filled with the easy tears of age. ‘You’re two decades older than I am, Alan, but you look in the prime of life. What I could do for England with those extra years! Henry – Henry, take them all away … need to speak to Alan.’ Margaret had to pause between breaths, but decades of command held, and the family dutifully filed out. Henry, soon to be king, with his young fiancée. Richard and Diana and their children as well. Richard’s young grandchildren had been spared this death-watch. Finally they all left Alan alone with Margaret.

  ‘Come here.’ She raised a hand, and Alan hurried across the room to take it in his, careful not to press too hard.

  He listened as Margaret spoke, her words slipping out of coherence, rambling at times. But he’d known her a long time; even if she dropped words here and there, it was easy enough for him to fill in the gaps. ‘Henry is too rigid … blinkered. He clings … to pride and privilege … might have pulled a kingdom … on the battlefield, but … not what England needs now.’

  Turing couldn’t disagree with her assessment of Henry. Yeats had said it best: The best lack all conviction, while the worst / are full of passionate intensity. But Henry would be king; somehow, England would survive.

  Margaret’s soft voice rambled on. ‘And my Dickie’s … an attractive man – you know that, Alan …’

  Intimation in her voice – she couldn’t possibly know, could she? His metallic skin could not flush, but Turing felt the heat rise in his face. But the Queen was already moving on.

  ‘But I don’t know … the strength to hold the throne … the figure that England needs … symbol of our past, our future. When the throne falters, England falters!’ She sighed, a pale hand fluttering on the richly worked bedspread. ‘I didn’t understand that … a girl … Elizabeth worked so hard to show me … almost too late by the time I learned. Alan – you must find the other.’

  There was a gap Turing didn’t know how to fill. ‘The other, Majesty?’

  ‘The other heir. Lizzie’s little boy. He wasn’t right, you know. But still. Maybe better than my boys.’ Margaret was pushing herself up in the pillows, her eyes blazing now, almost feverish. Her words came fast and sharp, despite the tears trembling in her eyes. ‘You can assess, Alan, better than anyone else. You have seen decades of history, fought in our wars, served multiple rulers. You will likely see many more – you can judge better than any other living man. How would he be, for England?’ Margaret sank bank on the pillows again. ‘… such hopes for my sons, I tried to raise them right, but the demands of the throne …’

  And then she was crying, his Margaret, tears slipping down soft cheeks. Alan’s heart turned over in his chest, listening to her speak on, babbling about this other, lost, child. Was this some figment of her old age, a dream fancy? Margaret had been so strong, so young and beautiful. It was impossible, what she asked. Even if Elizabeth’s child actually existed, the country would never accept some random individual to take the throne of England, however toothless a power that might be in these modern days. A secret heir, and her own sons passed over for him! If Richard found out, he’d be furious.

  Alan Turing patted Margaret’s hand helplessly, and listened to his queen ramble on. He couldn’t do much for her now, but as long as she asked him to, he would listen.

  The house smelled of food brought from a nearby pub. It was far from Noel Matthews’ first choice of cuisine, but it was infinitely preferable to his mother trying to exercise her culinary skills … which were nil. His father, a stay-at-home invalid, had done all the cooking while his wife went off to teach at Cambridge, but since his death Amanda had relied solely on takeaway and frozen dinners heated in the microwave. It showed in the fact her big frame was now packing more weight than the last time he had seen her. While he set the table she was busy opening the containers and placing serving spoons in the shepherd’s pie, the Brussels sprouts, the blackberry and apple crumble, and the green salad Noel had insisted she add to the order.

  ‘Darling, while it’s lovely having you home and seeing my grandson, what you’re doing is rotten and you know it,’ Amanda was saying.

  A sharp pain at the hinge of his jaw reminded Noel to unclench his teeth. ‘There was an easy solution. Niobe just had to agree to move back to Britain with me.’

  ‘Her family is all in that New England area—’

  ‘Yeah, and they’re all complete arseholes. Why she suddenly decided she needed to reconcile with them is beyond me. She seemed to think Jasper changed everything for them, but he’s an ace and they’ll hate him as much as they hate her for being a joker because they hate wild cards. Why she can’t see that—’

  ‘Because the ties of blood are strong. You’ve separated a child from his mother, Noel. I can’t approve of that.’

  ‘Can’t I be both?’ he quipped with bitter irony in a reference to his intersex status.

  ‘Now you’re being an arsehole. Go and get Jasper. Dinner’s ready.’

  He checked the cosy study where he had spent so many hours with his father, then Jasper’s bedroom. His son was nowhere to be found. Old habits leapt to the fore and he found himself gripping the butt of the pistol that he always carried and checking the knives secreted about his person. Could this be some of the many enemies he had made as an elite assassin for Britain’s ace spy agency, MI7? Or could it be the Silver Helix itself come for a little payback?

  He felt a cold breeze and ran to the back door. It had blown open. His heart was hammering as he rushed into the back garden, fallow now as the final day of a miserable February drew to a close. The fact that it was sunset meant he was unable to teleport if there should be a threat. He cursed under his breath and headed down the slope towards the River Cam, where fog was rising off the water like the waving tendrils of a witch’s hair.

  A small figure squatted by the river’s edge. Noel slumped with relief and joined his son. ‘It’s cold and wet out here, Jasper. You should have a coat.’

  ‘I just wanted to see the fog. It’s so weird,’ the boy said. ‘It’s like it’s alive.’

  ‘Well, dinner is ready.’

  Jasper nodded and stood up. At nine years old he was becoming coltish, all legs and elbows. Noel dropped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

  ‘Dad, are we going to go home soon?’

  ‘Well, technically this is home too. I have the flat in London, the place in Paris—’

  ‘But they’re not really home because … because …’ He looked up hesitantly. ‘I really miss Mom.’

  ‘We’re … working on it. I just want you to be a good Englishman as well as an American, which is why I want to live here for a while.’

  ‘So why doesn’t Mom want to come here?’

  The memory of wet smears on the carpet where Niobe’s and his three little ace homunculi had died in a hail of bullets flashed across his memory. Niobe pressing a hand to her chest weeping, remembering the pain of the bullets that had killed her children.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he lied. She’s also worried I’ll fall back into my old ways, he thought. He remembered how he had reached for his weapons in a moment of panic and had to acknowledge that she might be right.

  They stepped into the house to hear a plummy BBC voice on the telly. ‘… Word from Windsor is that it is only a matter of hours now. If so, it truly is the end of an era. An unprecedented time of peace and prosperity for mainland Britain for which she deserves some of the credit …’

  Jasper looked up. ‘What’s going on? What does that mean, Daddy?’

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll all be saying God save the King.’

  Alan took a quick deep breath before opening the door to the Victorian house he shared with his husband. It was falling down a bit, showing its years, but they’d redon
e the electrics a decade ago, and it should hold up for some time yet.

  ‘I’m home!’ Alan called out, letting the door swing closed behind him. It was warm inside – too warm for his comfort, to be honest, but Sebastian was feeling the cold more these days, the arthritis in his joints acting up. Alan wouldn’t ask his husband to turn the heat down, but he was quick in stripping off his coat and cardigan.

  Sebastian came through the swing door from the kitchen, letting through the scent of a chicken curry, and Alan’s stomach rumbled in response. Sometimes people assumed that a metal man wouldn’t eat, but Alan’s skin was only metal on the outside. His internal workings were entirely human, every part of him fully functional. And now that functional stomach was reminding him that he’d missed lunch, and breakfast had been much too long ago.

  ‘Dinner’s ready. I’ve been keeping it warm.’ Sebastian gave him a quick, dry kiss, lips to lips, and then headed back into the kitchen. Alan followed.

  ‘You didn’t have to wait for me,’ he said. It was late, past ten.

  ‘I don’t like eating without you. You know that,’ Sebastian said quietly. He climbed onto the step stool, reached down plates from the cupboard. The dishes they’d picked out together on their wedding day, heavy bone china in cream, with a simple gold rim. Alan didn’t usually bother noting such everyday details, but perhaps his time with the Queen was making him more sentimental than usual. Five years ago, he and Sebastian had promised each other they’d use the good china every day. They’d waited long enough to finally be able to marry; there was no point in waiting for anything else.

  Sebastian had looked handsome at their St Paul’s wedding, in his morning coat and top hat. Oh, he had the thickness of late middle age, twenty extra pounds lodged solidly in his belly. But he’d still looked good back then. In the last five years, Sebastian had aged visibly; his hair was almost pure white now, with matching bushy white eyebrows, and twenty extra pounds had turned to forty. Alan didn’t really mind: he liked a solid man, and at the age of seventy-four Sebastian had surely earned the right to slow down a little and eat his fill.