Honour be Damned

by David Bishop

  "Nikolai Dante," she sighed. "Why hasn't someone had the good sense to end your worthless, pathetic life once and for all?"

  "Do you think anybody would mind terribly if I murdered the king?" Flintlock asked loudly as he strode into the servants' dining hall at the Palace of London. "I mean, if I accidentally stabbed him to death with one of those blasted paint brushes, or arranged for him to be impaled on something large and fatal - do you think anyone would raise a finger to object? I doubt it, I bloody doubt it!"

  Spatchcock was next into the room and dismayed to discover half the palace staff had heard his associate's petulant outburst. "He's joking, he's joking..."

  "I bloody well am not," Flintlock replied. "Henry may be king, but he is madder than a badger in a hot air balloon. We could pay an assassin to finish the king off - call it a mercy killing. How much money have you got?" The former aristocrat plunged his hands inside Spatchcock's pockets to search for cash but quickly withdrew them again. "My word, what is in there? Are you keeping worms now?"

  "Just the one," Spatchcock replied with a smirk. "He's my best friend."

  Flintlock shuddered with revulsion. "Don't tell me anymore, I don't want to know." He spun round to find dozens of staff glaring at him with ill-disguised disgust. "I say, what's the matter?"

  A pageboy folded his arms, a sour expression on his face. "You are! Since you two arrived with your lord and master, the whole palace has been in uproar - routines disrupted, the king doing whatever he pleases, the Queen Mother amok amongst the pages - it's a nightmare!"

  "What's your name, boy?" Flintlock demanded.

  "Fitzwilliam. Darcy Fitzwilliam."

  "Well, Master Fitzwilliam, our arrival may have upset the rhythm of your working day but that's as nothing to the indignities I've been subjected to! Your royal highness has required me to pose nude as a subject for him to paint in watercolours."

  "Is that what he was trying to paint?" Spatchcock asked. "I wasn't too sure."

  Flintlock ignored this comment. "When I got a glimpse of the painting in question, it transpired King Henry had me posing like a fool for nothing - he choose to paint a banana!"

  "Are you sure it was a banana?"

  "Look, you vile little man, I think I know a banana when I see one!"

  Spatchcock shrugged. "I thought it looked more like a painting of your pen-"

  "Don't be ridiculous. The thing in the portrait was shaped like a banana!"

  "So's your-"

  "It was covered in little black spots!"

  "Still sounds like-"

  "And it was yellow from one end to the other!" Flintlock concluded, glaring at Spatchcock. "And before you said another word, no, my willy is not yellow and it does not look like a banana!"

  Spatchcock nodded gravely, waiting for his friend to calm down. Only when Flintlock's nostrils finished flaring did Spatchcock speak again. "Not a full-sized banana, anyway."

  The two men were still fighting on the dining hall floor when a footman came in, saying the Queen Mother requested their presence. "Any idea why she needs us?" Spatchcock asked.

  "Something to do with a corset, a crowbar and a pot of lubricant," the footman replied, struggling to keep the grin from his features. "And a feather duster, too."

  Flintlock wailed bleakly. "Why did I ever let Dante talk me into coming home again? And where is that Russian rapscallion in our hour of need?"

  Dante smiled blandly as the princess cursed his name, questioned his parentage and mocked the size of his reproductive organs. "It's a pleasure to see you again, too, Your Highness," he replied once her rant had come to an end. "Yes, I am a bastard. No, I don't mind you taking my name in vain. And as for the contents of my pants..." Dante paused to look down appreciatively at his groin, then grinned broadly. "I haven't had many complaints in that department lately."

  "Because no woman is fool enough to sleep with you, most likely!" the princess replied.

  "You've been behind bars too long," Dante observed. "Prison has coarsened you."

  Marie-Anne hurled another mouthful of abuse and obscenities at him. "See what I mean?"

  "Why are you here?" she demanded.

  "Your beloved father invited me to Britannia."

  "My beloved father is a simpering dolt who doesn't know one day from the next. He isn't fit to lead a dog, let alone rule a country!"

  "King Henry is a delightful eccentric," Dante countered.

  "King Henry is a doddering lunatic. The sooner he's dead the better."

  "When have you scheduled the assassination?"

  "What?" The princess glared at her visitor as if he was the madman.

  "Your father believes there is a plot to have him murdered, something that would conveniently clear the way for you as heir to the throne." Dante folded his arms. "The king summoned me to Britannia to prevent that from happening."

  Marie-Anne stared at him in disbelief, then a grin slowly spread across her pert, pretty face before she dissolved into a fit of giggles. "Y-You?" she spluttered between gasps for air. "P-Protect my father?"

  "I've done it before," Dante protested. "I can do it again!"

  The princess sniggered with quiet satisfaction. "The sole reason you saved his life last time was thanks to the intervention of an entire platoon of airborne Romanov troops. But for them I would now be in my rightful place as ruler of Britannia."

  This bickering is getting you nowhere, the Crest pointed out. If there is a plot to kill the king, you need details.

  "When will the assassination take place?" Dante demanded.

  "I don't know," Marie-Anne replied smugly. "Not precisely."

  "But you admit there will be an attempt on the king's life?"

  She shrugged. "I certainly hope so. He's an embarrassment to the entire country."

  "Answer the question!" Dante bellowed.

  "Why should I?" the princess spat back at him. "I've been in this place for six years now, Dante. I know they'll never ever let me out while my father is still alive. What possible reason would I have for preventing his murder, assuming I even knew anything about this alleged plot?"

  Game, set and match to her royal highness. New balls, anyone?

  "Shut up," Dante said.

  "Make your mind up," Marie-Anne replied, not realising his comment had not been directed at her. "Either you want me to talk or you don't."

  "What I want doesn't seem to matter, does it?"

  "Perhaps not, but I'm going to give you a piece of advice anyway," she said. "I may be a captive but I still have friends in high places. A whisper of conspiracy has reached my ears, no doubt the same whisper that has penetrated the befuddled mind of my dear, soon to be departed, father. In the next twenty-four hours I expect to be released, due to the untimely death of a royal personage not too far from this godforsaken prison. Is that what you wanted to know? Has that made your task any easier, you repulsive piece of Russian excrement?"

  "No, but it should make your trial much shorter if I fail to stop the assassination," Dante replied. "You've admitted to complicity in planning a murder."

  No, she hasn't, the Crest interjected. The princess is no fool. She gave you hints without foundation, a glimpse of the truth but nothing more.

  "We'll see," was all Marie-Anne said, but her smile spoke volumes.

  "If an attempt is made on the king's life in the next twenty-four hours, I'll make sure your neck ends up on an executioner's block," Dante vowed.

  "If the king dies in the next twenty-four hours," she replied, "my first royal proclamation will be to have you hunted down like the dog you are. All the armies in the Empire will not be able to protect you from my wrath!"

  "I've been hunted by the best," he said. "The idle threats of a disgraced royal jailbird don't frighten me, princess. You want to see me dead? Get in line. I'm Nikolai Dante and I'm too cool to kill! Or hadn't I told you?" He strolled away from her cell, ignoring the torrent of abuse that followed him along the corridor. Within minutes he was back inside the roy
al skimmer as it returned to the Palace of London.

  Well, that was pleasant, the Crest commented. It's safe to say her royal highness could swear for Britannia if she took it up professionally.

  "How did she seem to you?" Dante asked.

  You're asking my opinion?

  "Yes, how did she seem?" Dante waited but the voice in his head did not reply. "Crest?"

  Sorry, I was calculating how many days had elapsed since we were first bonded together.

  "Why?"

  To see how long it has taken you to ask for my view on something, anything.

  Dante sighed. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

  Better to have some wits than only possess half of one.

  "Crest!"

  Sorry. What was the original question?

  "The princess - how did she seem to you?"

  Dr Malvern's diagnosis was partially accurate. She may be a sociopath, but her narcissistic personality disorder is a greater problem. As for her hatred of you, well, obviously, that's quite understandable in the circumstances. The remarkable thing there is how quickly she reached such a fever pitch of antagonism - most women need to meet you four times before their dislike reaches murderous levels.

  Dante gritted his teeth. "Putting to one side her feelings towards me, I wanted to know what you thought of her general demeanour."

  I would have to say calm. Yes, cool, calm and collected.

  "That's what I thought too. Her raging at me was a smokescreen, a sideshow to distract from her real feelings. She fully expects to be Queen of Britannia before noon tomorrow."

  I'm glad to discover all the years I've spent grooming you are finally beginning to pay off. You are, at last, showing some hints of perceptiveness and intelligence.

  "Of course," Dante added with a smile, "it might just have been her sexual frustration at never having slept with me that fuelled all that rage and anger."

  I take it all back, the Crest muttered despairingly.

  As the skimmer approached the royal residence, Dante noticed black smoke rising from one of the windows on the palace's northern face. "Pilot, do you know what's inside that room?"

  "It's one of the royal apartments, sir, where King Henry and the Queen Mother live."

  "Bojemoi," Dante gasped. "We're too late. The assassins have already attacked!"

  Dante sprinted through the palace, shouting for the nearest pageboys and footmen to follow him. By the time he reached the royal apartments smoke was billowing from beneath the doors. Dante kicked them open and threw himself inside, bio-blades already extended in anticipation of a battle to the death. Instead he found King Henry dancing naked around a pyre of burning furniture and paintings in the middle of the carpet. An equally undressed and somewhat sheepish Spatchcock was flinging more fuel on to the flames.

  "Nicola, there you are!" the king proclaimed happily. "Come and join us, we're performing a rain dance to summon Cumulonimbus, the god of torrential downpours!"

  Dante retracted his bio-blades. "If you don't mind my asking, sire - why?"

  "Why? Well, why not? The more the merrier, eh, Cocksplutch?"

  "Yes, your majesty," Spatchcock replied, throwing another painting onto the roaring fire before joining in the king's gyrations with gleeful abandon.

  Dante folded his arms. "No, sire, I was asking why you were doing a rain dance indoors. Isn't it more traditional to perform such rituals outside?"

  "I can hardly venture out with assassins lurking behind every corner, can I?"

  "I suppose not," Dante agreed. "Then perhaps you could have foregone the fire?"

  "I've never heard such arrant nonsense," the king spluttered, coming to an abrupt halt. Spatchcock blundered into the back of the monarch, unable to stop his forward momentum in time. Henry gasped in surprise before looking over his shoulder unhappily. "I say, old chap, careful where you're sticking that thing - I don't mind a bit of sport but there's a time and place for buggering about, Cockscratch, and this isn't it!"

  "Sorry, your majesty," Spatchcock said apologetically, retracting the rolled up canvas he had accidentally jabbed into Henry's back.

  "I should think so too!" The king turned back to Dante. "I was hoping to watch the annual cheddar cheese chasing championships from Cheshire, but the Britannia Broadcasting Corporation will insist on covering the real tennis tournament at Wombledin."

  "Wimbledon?"

  "That's the chappy! So I decided to summon some rain clouds to wash out play for the day." Henry peered through the smoke to the view outside. "No sign of success yet, alas!"

  "And the broken window?" Dante asked.

  "That was me," Spatchcock admitted. "The room started filling up with smoke, so I decided to create some ventilation. Smashing the glass seemed the only sensible option."

  "I'm surprised you didn't set off every smoke alarm in the palace."

  "Disabled the ones in here before we started, old chap," the king replied, absentmindedly scratching his dangling scrotum. "We're not madmen, you know!"

  "Of course not, your majesty," Dante sighed. "But there are smoke detectors in other rooms besides this one." Not sooner had the words left his mouth than an alarm started ringing nearby. A monsoon of cold water gushed from the apartment's overhead sprinklers.

  "By Jove, it worked!" The king resumed his rain dance, waving his arms in triumph. "I told you, Cocksnitch! Dull old Nicola didn't believe us, but we proved her wrong, eh?"

  "Yes, your majesty!" Spatchcock replied, shouting to be heard above the deluge. Pageboys and footmen were racing round the apartment, trying to rescue antique furniture and artworks from the indoor rainstorm. Dante remained by the doorway, slowly shaking his head.

  "Twenty-four hours," he told himself. "Just keep this lunatic alive another twenty-four hours and then we can get out of this madhouse."

  Congratulations Dante, the Crest said. For once in your adult life you are the most sensible person in the room. I suggest you savour the sensation while it lasts.

  Dante waited until Spatchcock danced within reach and then pulled him to one side. "I doubt the answer to this question will make me happy, but I don't suppose you know where Flintlock is right now?"

  The grubby-faced runt shrugged. "Last time I saw his lordship, he was trying to escape the amorous advances of the Queen Mother."

  A terrified scream from out in the corridor got Dante's attention. He looked out in time to see a naked Flintlock race past with what looked like a feather duster protruding from between his buttocks. Moments later Babs appeared clad in black stockings and a crimson corset, her not inconsiderable bosom bouncing playfully as she scuttled by, a crowbar in one hand and a large pot of lubricant in the other. "Come here, you little tease!" she shouted after the fleeing Flintlock. "You know you love it!"

  Four hours later Dante had finally got the rampant royals back under some sort of control. King Henry grudgingly agreed to resume wearing trousers and stop setting fire to priceless Britannia heirlooms, while the Queen Mother was given a fresh dose of royal jelly to calm her down. The Crest had analysed the viscous purple foodstuff and marvelled at its restorative qualities. One spoonful of this is enough to halt the ageing process - temporarily, of course. Two spoonfuls actually reverses the process. How much is the Queen Mother consuming?

  Dante had already checked with the royal chef Ramsey. "Two litres a day, every day, for the past twenty years apparently."

  No wonder her behaviour is somewhat erratic. This jelly contains trace elements of mind-altering chemicals. After eating so much for so long it's astounding she can still form sentences.

  "Try telling that to Flintlock." The beleaguered Brit had spent three hours hiding in a broom cupboard and was only coaxed out with the promise that Babs would be suitably restrained. Now Flintlock, Spatchcock and Dante were all gathered in the palace's opulent drawing room on the tenth floor, watching the king and his mother bickering on a chaise longue.

  "I keep telling you to cut down on that blasted jelly, Babs!
It's sending you doolally."

  "That's rich coming from a man who wears a gorilla suit to the opening of Parliament!"

  "At least the only lovers I chase were born in the same century as me-"

  "Enough!" Dante bellowed, his patience utterly exhausted. "I've listened to you two fight, squabble and rant long enough! Bojemoi, you're meant to be mother and son, not competitors in a constant contest to outdo each other in acts of lust-addled lunacy!"

  The abashed pair stared at the rich oriental rug on the floor in the front of them.

  "Well?" Dante demanded. "What have you got to say for yourselves?"

  Henry and his mother mumbled something inaudible under their breath.

  "I can't hear you!"

  "We're sorry," the royals admitted.

  "That's better," Dante agreed. "Now, if the urge should take either of you to start a fire in the middle of a room, what should you do?"

  "Ask for help from one of the servants?" Henry asked sweetly.

  "No! You never start fires in the middle of a room!" Dante thundered, his fists shaking.

  "Oh," the king replied sulkily.

  "And what about sexually molesting the royal staff? And before anyone mentions penises, by staff I mean the household retainers - chambermaids, pageboys and footmen."

  Babs stuck out her bottom lip. "We shouldn't exploit our status for our own gratification."

  "Exactly."

  The Queen Mother folded her arms. "But what's the point in having all this power and status if we can't exploit it?"

  "Dash it, you're right, Babs!" Henry agreed. He jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth in front of a large picture window that offered a glorious view of central London. In the late afternoon sun the city gleamed like a trophy, light glinting off the towers and spires. "I won't be told what to do in my own kingdom, not even by you, Nicola. We may be betrothed but King Henry Windsor McKray takes orders from no woman!"

  "Oh, do sit down and shut up," his mother sighed.

  "Yes, dear," the king said meekly, returning to the chaise longue. Dante's attention was caught by a flash of light outside the window.