Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

  ‘’Lo.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Whatcha want?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone, Boyd-Brackenbury. Does he ever come round here?’ This had not been Noel’s first stop in his search for the would-be joker prince. Turing had provided an address for the man, but Noel discovered Boyd-Brackenbury hadn’t been home for several days, to the evident pleasure of his neighbour who described him as a right old bastard. He had tried bars and restaurants in the area and, after a few pounds had changed hands, got the tip that Boyd-Brackenbury frequented the centre.

  ‘Why you want him?’ asked a handsome black nat kid. He had his arm protectively around a girl with organic and bone paintbrushes for hair.

  ‘I’m a solicitor. He may have come into some money.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll like that,’ a joker snorted.

  ‘So you do know him?’

  ‘Yeah, Seizer comes around,’ said Paintbrush. ‘Tells us all how we need to do something with our lives. Like he ain’t living off a trust fund.’

  ‘Isn’t that why Ms Russell created this place? To help you do something with your lives?’ Noel purred. His mask had slipped and they exchanged uncomfortable glances. ‘Any idea where he might be now?’

  ‘Isn’t he off with Green Man and those other fools at the funeral?’ another joker offered.

  ‘I take it you lot aren’t interested,’ Noel said.

  ‘Nah,’ said the nat kid.

  ‘How would I recognize him?’

  ‘He grows these bumps all over him, especially on his head, like a gross crown. Then they fall off. Stink something terrible.’

  ‘Would Ms Russell know him by sight?’

  ‘Yeah, she knows most of the people who come here.’

  ‘Keeps an eye out,’ another offered.

  ‘Cares,’ the girl with the paintbrushes said softly.

  ‘Thank you.’ Noel pulled out his wallet and handed over a twenty-pound note. ‘Go offer a toast to the old queen.’

  There was no doubt Constance would be at the funeral. He walked away and pulled out his mobile phone, glad that he had paired it with hers. It would enable him to locate her, and then she would point out his quarry.

  Queen Margaret’s coffin was soon to arrive in Westminster. A service would be carried out, the acknowledgement of her long reign and dedication to both duty and family broadcast across the world, and Green Man intended to see it in person rather than on television. Alongside a large chunk of the nation, he was now making his way towards Westminster Abby to pay his respects.

  Seizer walked alongside him, dressed in his finest funeral black. The jokers of England walked with them, hundreds of them, all here to show their love for the Queen. While it was possible that such a concentration of jokers could become a target for some of the hate groups out there, Green Man was confident that even Britain First would behave themselves today.

  He’d given strict instructions that his own people do the same. So far, nothing had been said of Dorothy’s death. Perhaps that was why the thoughts of her sounded so loud in Green Man’s skull, like a ghost seeking release.

  Of course, just because all sides had come to a natural decision to cease hostilities for a day did not mean the war was over. There were many ways to fight after all, and if there was one thing he’d learned about King Henry in their recent dealings, it was that the man had no sense of decency, common or otherwise.

  And so it did not surprise him to find a line of police up ahead, blocking their path. They looked grim behind their riot shields. Each face a little flag of bad news. A few couldn’t quite make eye contact, as if ashamed, and one or two hands hovered near their batons.

  ‘Here we go,’ he murmured.

  ‘They mean to stand in our way,’ replied Seizer, astonished. ‘Those bastards! Well, I’m not going to stand here and take this. We have rights. And we will be heard. And I fully—’

  ‘You will stand here next to me and say nothing. You will stick to the plan.’

  ‘Plan? What plan?’

  ‘Watch.’

  He came to a stop about twenty yards from the police line, which brought the rough lines of jokers to a stop too. More than one of the officers let out a brief sigh of relief, though the tension remained. They waited as several nats went through unmolested, saying nothing. Then, he sent Bethany and Jamila forward, along with one of his oldest jokers, the slowest and most pathetic-looking he could find.

  Seizer scoffed when he saw them. ‘I don’t think they’re going to do much to persuade the police. What did you send Montgomery for? He’s got about as much bite as a damned lettuce. Let me go. I’ll wake the buggers up.’

  The hands on Jamila’s head were gesturing plaintively as she begged to be let through, but it was clear from the way the lead officer glared that there was no pity going spare.

  No jokers allowed. Green Man narrowed his eyes. He’d been forewarned by his contacts but it still stung to have the truth confirmed. The orders had been couched in terms of security and safety, but these were just a smokescreen for King Henry’s hate. Excluding the jokers from paying their respects to Margaret was the next step in the war. A powerful statement that they were not seen as normal people. Were not seen as true British citizens. Were not welcome.

  Indeed, some papers would probably note the lack of jokers in Westminster Abby and accuse them of being unpatriotic. Green Man could imagine the headlines already.

  He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he’d briefed his people well. They would be asking, politely and repeatedly, to be let through. Two nice young girls and a gentle-faced old man who only wanted a chance to show their love for the Queen. They’d get the officers to spell out why they were being blocked. And while there was an argument that a joker, no matter how small or sweet, could be very dangerous, it wouldn’t hold against what was being caught on camera.

  In total there were twelve cameras he was aware of recording the exchange. Three hidden ones on the jokers themselves, and nine others wielded by journalists that either owed him a favour or were faithful to the cause.

  When it became clear that their efforts had failed, Bethany, Jamila and Montgomery turned away, sobbing. Perhaps Jamila was overplaying it a little, perhaps Montgomery was underplaying it – he had little love of the royals, after all – but the images were pure media gold.

  He saw the police tense again as the three distributed the news to the hundreds of other jokers present. He could see them wondering if this was the moment when violence would break out.

  ‘Take my lead,’ he said to Seizer, making eye contact with one of the policemen. He held the other man’s gaze for a while, then shook his head and walked forward.

  Seizer did the same, and he was aware of many others moving behind them.

  Several of the police took an involuntary step back, though several others took out their batons. No doubt they’d been hand-picked for this duty specifically because of their anti-joker sentiments.

  He closed the distance slowly. From twenty yards to fifteen.

  ‘Hold there!’ called one of the officers.

  From fifteen to ten.

  ‘Hold there, I say!’

  Then he paused, turned ninety degrees to the left, and marched to the side of the road. Bethany led a different section of their group to the other side of the road, taking up a post opposite Green Man.

  With a mixture of slow shuffles, hops and slides, the jokers lined the street. He knew that others would be doing the same in smaller numbers elsewhere; flash mobs organized by Wayfarer. Together they formed an honour guard, standing ready to pay tribute to their queen.

  They watched as a string of armoured cars roared by, en route to the Abbey. The windows were blacked out but he knew that King Henry sat in one of them.

  After the noise had faded, they heard the clop of hooves on the road as a horse-drawn carriage approached, decked out in funeral black. Within was the Queen’s coffin. Guards marched alongside, their eyes fixed firmly ah
ead. Behind them was Prince Richard, who walked slowly, the very picture of reverence. Many nodded as they saw him: a true prince, a good man, mourning his mother.

  Richard paid no attention to Green Man and his people, seemingly too wrapped up in his own personal grief to make a political statement. But it didn’t matter. While Richard would likely steal tomorrow’s headlines, the jokers would form the backdrop for the iconic image. They would be seen.

  Hundreds of mourners passed them by. A never-ending train of black-clad bodies. Some ignored them or scowled at the floor, but more met their eyes, nodding in solidarity. A lot of them had phones too, videoing as they went.

  Let them film, he thought. Let the word go out on as many platforms as possible.

  Looking at the long lines of his people, all of them quiet, dignified, strong, he realized he had never felt prouder than at this moment. Tomorrow, the normal rules of engagement would resume, but today was his. He wished he could be a fly on the wall when the news of what had happened reached the bigots in the Palace and in Britain First. He wished that very much indeed.

  Your move, Henry.

  It was the same dreadful weather for Margaret’s funeral as it had been for Glory’s. Constance resented it even more, if such a thing was possible. She and Bobbin were making their way to Parliament Square Garden. They’d been informed the jokers were congregating there for the funeral. Rumour had it that the police had instructions not to let any joker close to Westminster Abbey. However, Bobbin was insisting that Constance go and pay her respects, since she had an invitation. Green Man had offered an escort for them to the park, but they’d declined. It seemed unlikely they’d need the protection.

  They could see the crowd now, but the streets were almost silent. Just the occasional sound of people weeping. And then the aroma of flowers hit her. It made sense, she realized. There probably wasn’t a flower shop in London that hadn’t been stripped bare of its contents so that mourners could express how much they would miss their queen.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said suddenly, tugging at his hand. She led him to the edge of the street. ‘We can go to the funeral together.’

  ‘Constance,’ he replied with a sad smile. ‘You know I can’t. They’ll never allow it.’

  ‘It will be fine. You’re with me and I have an invitation!’

  They were close to the barricade now and as she stepped forward, a policeman stopped them.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said coldly. ‘No jokers allowed.’

  She pulled the invitation out of her pocket. ‘I’ve been invited.’

  The policeman glanced at it, then shrugged. ‘You can go in, but not him.’

  ‘But … I need him.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ the man replied, not unkindly. ‘You know the rule. His Majesty was clear.’

  ‘You go,’ Bobbin urged. ‘You’ll let her through, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No,’ Constance said stubbornly. ‘I’m not going to. Let’s go.’ She slipped the invitation back into her coat pocket and took Bobbin’s arm again.

  ‘You’re quite horrible,’ she said, glowering at the policeman.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said as they began walking along the pavement again.

  In a few moments, they entered Victoria Tower Gardens. It was eerily silent. There was a pocket of jokers they strolled by who closed ranks as they approached. She couldn’t blame them. After all, she looked like a nat and even with Bobbin by her side, she still didn’t look as if she belonged.

  There was a light touch on her shoulder. ‘I’d have thought you’d be at the funeral by now.’

  She turned and saw Noel. Like Constance, he looked out of place.

  ‘Hello, Noel,’ Bobbin said brightly, giving Noel a happy smile, and put out his hand. Noel shook it and a flicker of respect crossed his face. Constance was always surprised by Bobbin’s ability to see the good in other people and how they reacted to the fundamental decency of him. Even Noel wasn’t immune.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here, too, Noel,’ she replied cautiously.

  ‘You know I had a great amount of respect for the Queen,’ he replied.

  ‘No,’ she said acerbically. ‘Why are you here? This doesn’t seem like your sort of place.’

  ‘You wound me.’ He said it lightly with a slight smile. ‘I want to pay my respects among the people who loved her best.’

  It was, and yet wasn’t, the Noel she knew. There was an underlying tension about him.

  ‘What’s going on, Noel?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘You’re being a wee bit melodramatic now.’ He glanced around the crowd. ‘I don’t suppose you could point out Boyd-Brackenbury for me?’

  Constance frowned. ‘Why do you want him?’

  At the same moment Bobbin pointed and spoke up. ‘He’s right over there, standing close to the Green Man.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Noel said, then slipped away into the crowd.

  ‘I didn’t like that at all, Bobbin,’ she said.

  Bobbin gave her a puzzled look and she realized that while he had known Noel over the years he didn’t really know him. She was now worried that Noel’s retirement was as conditional as her own.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Bobbin said. He patted her arm again. ‘Now, you should go on to the funeral. I’ll be fine here.’

  The vellum invitation, tucked into the pocket of her coat, felt both comforting and oddly heavy. With it, she could walk across the street and be in Westminster Abbey. In only a few more moments she could be sitting in one of the chairs waiting to pay her respects, but suddenly she found she couldn’t bear the idea of leaving.

  She loved Margaret and had been lucky enough that Margaret seemed to consider her a friend, or at least enough of one that she’d allowed her many intimacies that no one but the two of them ever knew of. Even so, Constance stayed where she was. She was an ace, but she was just like the jokers here. They’d all been infected with the virus.

  And then there was Bobbin. She didn’t want to leave him, not at this moment. She needed him. And she knew he needed her. ‘I belong here,’ she replied. It felt right. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone, and these are my people. I want to be here with them.’

  Bobbin nodded. ‘I’m glad you’re staying. You belong to us, too.’

  Constance gave him a faint smile, then she took his hand and squeezed it. A light rain began to fall.

  Alan’s MI7 ID had allowed him to slip in and take up a position among the security details. His heart seemed to be living in his throat. Richard had glanced at him as he entered – is it done? – and Alan had given the tiniest of nods in return. Richard went back to looking mournful, and perhaps he truly was; his mother lay before him in state, after all, and she had loved him. Perhaps she had loved her sons too much, unable to see their faults until it was too late. Perhaps Alan had done the same. It was hard to even look at Richard right now; the hypocrisy seemed painted on every handsome feature. Alan had kissed those downturned lips, had traced fingers across those frowning eyebrows, painted in bushy gold. Alan’s hands fisted at his sides, undoubtedly smearing the make-up, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It had been so important to him, for so long, that he pass as just another human among them. So many thought of him as a calculating machine, during the war and after, naming him after his most famous creation. He was Enigma, but to Richard, he’d just been a man, for a little while. What had Alan betrayed in his yearning for that human connection?

  The Archbishop was leading them through the ceremony of reconciliation now. Almighty God, our heavenly Father, we have sinned against you, through our own fault, in thought and word and deed, and in what we have left undone. We are heartily sorry, and repent of all our sins.

  By now, Alan’s sins would fill a book as thick as that Bible that rested on the lectern … forgive us all that is past. Was there mercy and forgiveness waiting for Alan Turing?

  … grant that we may serve you in newness of life. All he’d wanted was to serve
his country. Once he’d thought that living for a hundred years and more, with the face and form of youth, was the greatest gift of the wild card. Now, Alan wasn’t so sure. Looking at Richard made it hard to breathe.

  But looking at Henry wasn’t any better. Stiff and erect, with his fiancée beside him, not yet knowing that his grandchild had been taken. And Gloriana – oh. She wore a simple black dress, hat topped with a little veil, and when she tilted her head to listen to the Archbishop’s words she looked more than a little like Margaret in those long-gone hoyden days. Those fine-painted features that could stop a heart. Alan squeezed his eyes shut, turned away.

  They were singing now, the words of an ancient hymn filling the air. The King of love my shepherd is, whose goodness faileth never. If only Alan could have such faith in Henry, or Richard, or even Richard’s children. If he could be sure that eventually, England would be safe with young Thomas, Richard’s eldest – in his thirties now, a handsome lad, with Margaret’s eyes. But did he have Margaret’s strength, Margaret’s good heart? Alan didn’t know. And the three younger children – Alan wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they weren’t even Richard’s get. Did that matter? They’d been raised as royals, with the expectations of duty to the throne.

  But duty could lead you terribly astray; England’s history was full of bloody crimes, slaughters committed in the name of duty, by good men who thought they were doing good things. Take up the White Man’s burden, send forth the best ye breed, go bind your sons to exile, to serve your captives’ need. Kipling had surely known how fraught that endeavour was, had judged in story after story these failed attempts of kings. The silent, sullen peoples shall weigh your gods and you. In that final weighing, how would Enigma be judged? Alan Turing bowed his head before God and his dead queen, waiting for judgement to fall.

  With luck Constance and her elderly beau would never know that he had identified the man that Noel was about to kill. The long leather trench coat brushed against Noel’s legs as he moved through the crowd. From beneath the brim of his hat he watched the top of Boyd-Brackenbury’s head with its growths. He and his daughter were in close conversation, though her head kept turning this way and that. Looking for celebrities? A good place to stand?