by White, Gwynn
“Hark at him,” Lancashire grunted. “No honor, no conscience, and not an ounce of mercy, whatever you say. Mucking up your calculations, am I? Good!”
Oswald shrugged. There had been a very satisfying editorial in the London Times this morning, musing on the dramatic uptick in the Wessex bond index: Has Regent Day Saved House Wessex? The answer of course was yes, and the man in the street seemed to agree. It was the same in the ministries. The rank-and-file were simply carrying on with their jobs. It reconfirmed Oswald’s faith in the common sense of the average Englishman.
As opposed to the handful of egotistical, stiff-necked lords who continued to defy him.
He didn’t need Murdo Lancashire’s homage. He didn’t need to call Parliament. What was acclamation, after all, but a form of words? Facts spoke louder than any words, and the people had already acclaimed Michael in a sentimental gush of adulation. The media had abandoned the sneering tone they had previously taken. Now they sedulously transmitted Oswald’s talking points. As for the intelligentsia, they worshipped power, making them natural allies of a strong Crown.
Strength and flexibility are the keys to the kingdom.
Addressing soldiers, Oswald let himself be the old soldier he was. In the Ivory Towers he played up his wonkish side. On an impromptu stop for lunch at a chip-shop, he bantered easily with the commoners. Unlike Tristan, he was not too proud to bend, and the people loved him for it.
The one thing he could not be was a true lord.
Probably that was why he’d set his heart on forcing Murdo Lancashire to bend the knee to his son.
Hearing a childish laugh, he looked over at Michael, and could not help smiling. Most of the floor of the solar was taken up by a model railway. Michael and Malcolm Stuart knelt amid the tracks, assembling a train from the beautifully-crafted rolling stock.
He does not miss his mother. He simply hasn’t had enough time to play. Too many public appearances. We’ll have to fit more unstructured time into his schedule.
But … he misses his sister.
So do I.
Oswald toyed with the buckle of his arms belt. He could forgive Madelaine for fleeing. In time, he might even be grateful to her for putting an end to the farce of their marriage.
But he would never forgive her for abducting their daughter.
Where the hell are they? His assets on the Continent had come up with nothing.
He shook himself out of his reverie. “If I cannot persuade you that cooperation is in the interest of the country,” he said, “perhaps someone else can.”
Murdo Lancashire sucked his cheeks warily.
“Bring him in, Malcolm.”
While the Stuart scion left the room, Oswald knelt with Michael by the model railway. It was no mere toy, but a lavishly detailed recreation of the English railway system. Murdo Lancashire had taken his job as Minister of Transport seriously, unlike other lords who treated ministerial posts as mere business opportunities. He’d brought to the improvement of Great Britain’s domestic rail network a passion for detail that was reflected in this model. As a result, railway workers throughout the country had gone on strike today out of loyalty to him.
The door of the solar opened again.
“By the Lord of Miracles,” Murdo Lancashire swore.
“Father,” Kim Lancashire said, bowing formally.
45
Leonie
At The Same Time. Belfast
Biggins’s Restaurant was a clamorous, steamy caff catering to shoppers and office workers in the city center of Belfast. A semicircle of windows overlooked the end of Chichester Street where it debouched into Donegall Square. Tides of people scuttled across the intersection below.
“Well,” Leonie said to Pod. “Here we are.”
“Here we are.”
Pod had ben redeployed to Intelligence Company Belfast after the fiasco on Slieve Gullion. She’d contacted him by pretending to be a tout. Was it loyalty to the old team that had brought him here? she wondered. Or just curiosity?
The waitress kindly brought her some warm milk, free of charge. She screwed the teat onto Fiona’s bottle and leaned down to the pushchair where the baby was sitting. “Here you go, ducky.”
“And we all used to think you were a lezzie,” Pod said, snickering.
“Very bloody funny. She’s my little niece. I’m looking after her for my sister who lives here, for her sins.”
Pod’s twinkly-eyed, sandy-moustached face told her nothing, but he was probably wearing a wire.
Well, there was nothing she could do about it. Desperation had its own logic: no money, no backup, no choice.
She fell on the sandwiches she had taken advantage of Pod to order. “So what’s the state of play?” she said with her mouth full of tinned ham and tomato. “Any good jobs in progress?”
“Not really. No intel coming in. We’ve not had much of a part to play in the general drama, stuck up here. And now everything’s on hold on account of this railway strike.” Pod tipped milk into his tea and stirred. “What about you? What’re you up to these days?”
“Gone freelance, like.”
Fiona dropped her bottle on the floor. Pod grabbed it, wiped the teat on his jeans, and gave it back to her. “Googly goo,” he said, tickling her under the chin. “Who’s an angel then?” He straightened up. He was still smiling, eyes still twinkling, but something in his face gave Leonie pause.
She picked up her knife and cut the crusts off another sandwich.
Pod’s left hand went into his jacket and came out, after a moment of fumbling, with a packet of cigarettes. “What d’you need?” he said quietly.
He’d switched off his wire. Leonie suppressed the smile trying to spread across her face. “Just the gen,” she said. “Anything odd lately?”
“Where d’you want me to start? Oswild Day’s cleaning house from top to bottom. Not that it didn’t need it. He’s a right ‘un at heart. But I hate being used.”
When were we anything but used? Aloud, she said, “So have you lot been sitting with your thumbs up your arses? Letting the boyos go on their merry way while you wait for London to get sorted?”
“Course not!”
“Well, then? I’m asking because I’d lay money there’s been some unusual activity lately.”
“Funny you should say that. Remember our old friend from Armagh, Alyx O’Braonain?”
“Don’t I just.” Leonie’s heart started beating faster.
“Well, she popped up yesterday. She was seen in a known pub on the Shankill Road. She’s stopping in town. We followed her to an address in the Aching Head.”
“Where? Come on, Pod, tell me where.”
“You’re not going to do anything daft, are you?”
“Of course not,” Leonie said, leaning down to help Fiona with her bottle. “I’ve got my little niece to look after, haven’t I?”
46
Oswald
At The Same Time. Lancashire House, London
There is our king,” Kim Lancashire exclaimed, dramatically pointing at Michael. “To swear fealty to him is neither cowardice nor shame—it is our duty, Father!”
“Did he convince you of that?” Lord Murdo said, jerking his chin at Oswald. “Or have you convinced yourself of it? You always were weak. So different from your brother.”
“He’s right about that, anyway,” whispered Alec Northumberland, who had come in with Kim Lancashire as his escort.
Oswald nodded.
Kim Lancashire had come to him this morning with news of a plot to oust Michael, requesting mercy on the pretext that he did not want to sacrifice his men’s lives. He had never wanted to overthrow Oswald, he said. He had merely been acting on orders from his father.
All in all, it was a relief. Oswald had been holding his breath for the inevitable spasm of aristocratic resistance, and this was nowhere near as bad as he’d feared it might be.
It was not over yet. Guy Sauvage and the Overwhelm were at large somewhere in Wales. But
when they did not receive their looked-for help from Lancashire, they’d slink home to Ireland, Oswald was sure of it.
“Father, we all mourn Philip! But sulking isn’t going to bring him back …”
Kim was not likely to get anywhere with his father. But they had to give him a chance to try.
Oswald examined the model railway. There was the Great Trunk Line and the branch lines curling off it, forking to their respective termina, which were represented by models of famous landmarks associated with each town. The tracks ran through a flat world ornamented with foil rivers and pretty little plastic trees. No tunnels excavated at the cost of scores of lives per hundred yards. No viaducts or bridges that cost a fortune to maintain. No bombs on the line and no barricades. A green and peaceful land.
The model did have one thing in common with reality, though: nothing was moving.
Give the railway workers a pay raise, that’ll do the trick, Oswald thought with an inward sigh. And then the other public monopolies will want the same, and we can forget about reining in inflation this quarter.
“Papa! Look at my train.”
“What a marvelous train,” Oswald said, smiling.
“It’s all automated. I’m trying to work out how it switches on,” Malcolm said, fiddling with the control box.
“He’s a qualified military pilot,” Oswald whispered to his son. “That’s why he’s so good with electronics.”
“Get stuffed,” Malcolm said, grinning.
Michael let out a peal of laughter.
Kim Lancashire said to his father, “At least call off the railway strike! Half the country is paralyzed.”
“And my railwaymen are not of that part. They wish to see an independent inquiry into the death of the king. Their protests are perfectly spontaneous and uncoordinated. I cannot ‘call them off,’ I’m afraid.” Lancashire smiled smugly.
It’s a game to him. He doesn’t give a damn about the country, or about anything except winning atteints against me.
“Can’t you work the trains, boy? I’ll show you.” Lancashire shuffled over to the model railway. Michael fell back, round-eyed.
“‘Boy? Your Majesty,” Alec Northumberland rasped.
Lancashire ignored him. “It won’t work without the key, you see, which I have here.” He motioned Malcolm away from the control box.
In the split second it took Murdo Lancashire to fish a tiny key out of his pocket, Oswald realized that the control box was actually a bomb. He started to move—
—and Lancashire turned the key and the points went clickety-click, and all over the railway, the carriages Michael and Malcolm had placed on the tracks started to move.
Oswald breathed out, his head spinning.
“Oh, super!” Michael cried. Then, remembering his manners: “Thank you, my lord!”
“There is no other model railway like this in the country. Perhaps in the world,” Lancashire said. “It has taken me twenty years to build. Most of the rolling stock is custom-made: one of a kind. You have put too many engines on the track. You must switch that one onto a different line.”
“How, how?”
“Look out!” Malcolm shouted. “Collision imminent!”
Barely had he spoken when Michael’s train crashed head-on into another locomotive. Both fell off the track. Some of the more delicate carriages broke, pieces spinning across the green flat world and knocking London down. Michael wailed in horror. Malcolm fell about laughing.
“For Heaven’s sake, Father,” Kim Lancashire said. “That set is worth thousands!”
“And you shall not have it, nor anything else that I have the power to dispose of. I can’t stop you from inheriting the title and the entailed assets, worse luck, but as of this morning, my personal fortune is going to the Church.”
“Oswald!” One of the ROCK knights left on guard outside the attic rapped on the door and stuck his head in. “Phone.”
Lancashire said, “You insist that I accord the boy a title he has not yet formally inherited, but you allow your men to call you by your given name?”
“It’s the Coenobite way,” Oswald said.
Leaving the room with Alec, he ordered the guards into the attic. The two were Ben Flint, a ROCK knight of few words with the build of an ox, and Jem Northumberland, Alec’s half-brother. Both carried short swords and P&K semi-autos. No harm would come to Michael as long as they were there.
The phone call was from Rhys Llywelyn in Wales.
The news was devastating.
His mind a ferment, he went back upstairs. Malcolm met them halfway. “Quick!”
Impatience flaring into urgency, Oswald climbed the stairs three at a time. They passed Jem Northumberland and Michael on the landing. Incoherent shouts came from within the solar. Oswald burst into the room, closely followed by Malcolm and Alec.
Kim and Murdo Lancashire were wrestling, reeling back and forth. Ben Flint watched them with one hand on his weapon. A table and chair had been knocked over, strewing papers across the floor.
“I’ll not—not let you—” Kim appeared to be trying to pull the signet ring off his father’s hand.
Murdo Lancashire broke free. He clutched his fingers as if they hurt, and turned a gaze on Oswald that was suddenly the cloudy, uncomprehending stare of an old man.
Oswald hit Kim on the shoulder. “Out.”
The door closed. Oswald faced the man who had once owned him—who by right of law owned him still. “Swear fealty to my son. There is nothing else left for you.”
“Go to hell, you filthy peasant.”
“Then I’ll leave it up to you.”
Oswald took his revolver from its holster, checked that it was loaded, held it out to the old man.
“Out, out!” he shouted at the other knights.
An age later he reached the door.
They clattered down the stairs and halted on the landing. “You bloody maniac,” Alec said devoutly.
Michael was crushed among the men’s legs, white-faced and looking very small. Oswald picked him up and thumbed a smear of chocolate off his cheek. Jem Northumberland had been feeding him sweets again.
“Papa?” Hiding fear behind grabbiness. “I want a train set like that.”
“You shall have a better one.”
“How did you know he wouldn’t shoot you in the back?” Malcolm said.
Before Oswald could answer, they heard a single shot from behind the closed door at the top of the stairs. Oswald reflexively pressed Michael’s head into his shoulder.
“Because he was a knight,” he said wearily. “Because he was a man of honor.”
“Because he was a selfish old cunt,” Kim Lancashire said, his thin face red with emotion. At long last his formality had crumbled. “You read him aright, Oswald: he preferred to die rather than live to see his will thwarted.”
“Well, he’s dead now,” Malcolm said. “What’s going on, Oswald? You looked pretty rattled when you came back upstairs.”
Oswald started down the stairs again, carrying Michael. “Guy Sauvage has blown the Craig Goch Dam. The river is sweeping away towns and villages as we speak. I’ll have to go myself. it’s not enough just to deplore such a catastrophe, I must be seen deploring it.”
He turned to the Northumberland brothers, Alec and Jem.
“Which means you will have to take care of Guy.”
“My pleasure,” Jem said, grinning.
Alec rasped, “On the bright side, if this doesn’t sway the Crown Army solidly behind Michael, nothing will.”
“Let’s hope.”
47
Leonie
That Evening. Belfast
Crumlin Road was a besieged and decaying royalist island among the estates of North Belfast. Leonie had dropped Fiona off here after her meeting with Pod. She had spent the afternoon fruitlessly observing the address Pod gave her. Now she was back for the night, carrying a meager bag of groceries, as well as the Myxilite and the ammo-less Z4 in Madelaine’s voluminous black lea
ther handbag.
The rain had turned into wet snow, splattering the terraced houses. She turned a corner and came to a larger building, sooty brick, with a weak lamp over the embrasured door. A sign said: Crumlin Road Shelter for Women. By Mercy of His Sovereign Majesty Tristan Wessex.
The shame of staying at a Mercy shelter settled on her like a cold, wet, piss-smelling blanket as she went in. It got heavier as the warden ticked her off for missing curfew. It smelled worse with every step she took down the hall.
The lights of the Mothers & Children dorm were still on, too dim to read by, too bright to get to sleep easily. They stayed on all night, as if this were a prison not a shelter, which wasn’t far wrong. Unlike in the single women’s dorm where Leonie had been assigned a bed, the mothers and children had cubicles made from cloth screens on castors, such as you saw in your better class of hospital. Little prisons, fourteen by seven.
A baby was crying. Day or night, there was always at least one—they seemed to take it in relays. Women stuck sleepy heads out of their cubicles, smiled at Leonie or just stared in alcoholic boredom. She slipped around the screen with Travis, Mrs. E. & Fionet (9 Mos.) printed on the card in the clip-on holder. She’d given out to the warden that she and Ella (Madelaine) were sisters. She’d been living with Ella, who’d married an Irish freeman, but the husband had started abusing Ella, so they’d taken the baby and run. Didn’t even stop to take their papers, sorry, sir. Her genuine desperation had borne out the story. No one had looked at her shoulder. She no longer looked like the sort of woman who might be bonded to a Great House.
Madelaine’s eyes opened when Leonie entered the cubicle. Leonie ignored her, went straight to the wobbly bassinet at the foot of the bed. Fiona was asleep, with tears and snot still wet on her cheeks …