by Trevor Veale
“Lollipop?” He blinked and sat up.
The ringing began again.
“Oh shit! It’s the secret service – I bet they’ve been following us,” he groaned.
She pointed to the bathroom. He slipped quickly across the room and shut himself inside. She shot a terrified gaze around the room and quickly smoothed the rumpled bed. Then she tiptoed downstairs and opened the front door.
Her Royal Highness Princess Dawna stood mirroring her startled gaze.
“Oh hello, um, er, Your Highness, I think we met once before – at an equestrian gala event!” Lucinda babbled.
“Okay, where is he?” the princess asked.
“Where’s who?”
“Look, I’m not a moron, you know. His car’s not outside – but then, he wouldn’t be that stupid.”
She looked over Lucinda’s shoulder into the living room.
“Is he skulking upstairs somewhere?”
Lucinda blushed deeply. “I wouldn’t know,” she stumbled.
“No, you wouldn’t! Oh well, I don’t want to make a scene here – for all I know I might have been followed by the paparazzi. Just tell him from me – if he wants to play around, he’d better be more discrete.”
Lucinda watched the princess turn on her heels and walk away. Then she shut the door and went back upstairs.
“You can come out now,” she said. “It was your wife, but she’s gone.”
The bathroom door swung open. Catheter stumbled out, clutching a towel around his waist.
“What did she want?” His voice was barely a whisper.
She looked at him with surprise, and he returned it with a surly look.
“She knew you were here,” she said flatly.
He looked at her suspiciously. “You told her?”
“Of course not – she’s not stupid. She must have tailed us.”
Grumpily, they both went back to bed. Barely two hours later, Catheter rose and dressed. Lucinda got up, went to him and touched his shoulder.
“Don’t go, Poopsy,” she whispered.
He wrapped his arms around her to contain her, pinning her to him while he squeezed her face into his chest. Tears sprang to her eyes. He held her stiffly while her tears flooded onto his shirt, her shoulders shaking. She burrowed into him, wrapping her arms around his body, and pressed herself against him.
“Catheter, please,” she begged, looking up.
His face twitched, and he dropped his arms and stepped away from her. There was enough pain and regret in his face to make a flower wilt.
“Excuse me,” he said brusquely and pushed past her.
Not even bothering to wipe the tears that made an ugly smear on her face, she hiccupped, “Bye, Darling!” and watched him leave.
She swallowed hard. The divorce of her parents, the pain of her childhood, her own troubled relationship and all her personal miseries welled up inside her. She fell on the bed and wept.
Dawna was hiding candy, but she didn’t conceal her other indulgences. She ate between meals, and at dinner she ate whatever she liked. She gloated as Catheter coldly watched her and grew petulant, and she endured his taunts as passively as she did her mother-in-law’s disapproving looks. “For goodness sake,” Catheter once commented at dinner, “what awful muck you eat! No wonder you look like a skeleton.”
She had been eating tofu, bean sprouts and soy sauce, separately from the others. She ignored his remarks. “It’s difficult to get organic food here,” she told the others. “I have to have boxes of soya milk an organic supplies flown in. Otherwise I make do with what’s available, with supplements. It’s not my fault the local food is so awful.”
A silence fell upon the dining room, and Letitia coughed hard over her pudding until a servant poured her a glass of water. Meanwhile Anton was giggling to himself and Godfrey frowned at he implied insult to Mellorian produce.
“You never touch me any more, so why should you care what I eat?” Dawna suddenly said to Catheter.
“I don’t want to touch you,” he snapped. “why should I? Have you looked at yourself – you’re like a bag of bones, though, God knows, you eat enough!”
Her eyes filled with tears and she threw her fork down.
“You don’t touch me because you’re getting it from your mistress,” she said.
Catheter sat, white-knuckled with anger, and looked across at his mother. Letitia did not meet his gaze, but darted glances at Godfrey and Anton, who were looking down at their plates. In desperation, she fixed a stare on her daughter-in-law.
“You’re overwrought,” she said. “Get a grip.”
Dawna’s lips trembled. She glanced at her father-in-law, who thought she looked achingly beautiful in her vulnerability. He had a sudden urge to embrace her and take her away from this madness. In a stew of confusion, he merely shrugged, and emitted a weak smile.
Dawna turned to Catheter. “You love her more than me, don’t you?”
“Love doesn’t have anything to do with it,” he replied coldly.
“You spend all your time plotting ways to see her alone – ”
“– and you spend all your time eating slop and moping around the place like a depressed diva!”
Her cheeks flamed red and she spat out the word: “Bastard!”
“All right, I love her, dammit!” Catheter snarled, feeling everybody’s eyes on him. “A man can have a lover, can’t he?”
“So much for your denial!” she cried.
“Huh! You’re a fine one – you’ve been bedding Mr Dipp for the last month!”
“Don’t accuse me of infidelity, you hypocrite! If I am having an affair, it’s you who drove me to it!”
Blinded by tears, she stumbled to her feet and clattered unsteadily to the doors. Catheter tore off his napkin and followed her. Catching up with her he tried to clutch her hand, but she pushed him away.
He reached out again, but she shuddered at his touch. “I don’t want you to come near me!” she screamed. He protested that she was creating an unnecessary scene.
Hearing raised voices from the doorway, servants appeared and Letitia rose from her seat to shoo them away.
“It’s all right – you can go about your business,” she said. “We won’t be needing any more dessert.”
Dawna ran sobbing down the corridor.
Chapter 29
The Plot Thickens
In a press release to the media two days later King Godfrey and Queen Letitia let it be known that though it grieved them to contemplate losing their daughter-in-law, a period of rest was deemed necessary by Princess Dawna’s doctors to relieve her from nervous exhaustion brought on by the recent birth of their grandson. Accordingly the princess would shortly be flying to Bulimia, accompanied by her son, Prince Angus, for an extended period, not expected to be less than six weeks. This announcement was reported in the Bugle and on Mellorian TV and radio, and the news brought a buzz of interest to the Central Committee of the People’s Party, who were meeting in a different basement in East City.
Paul Slamil, Joe Steel, Caspar (who now bore the title of Special Operations Liaison officer), Stella Mastoid, Mickey Miskiss, Dolores Unchain and Penny Slam had been discussing the timetable for the revolutionary overthrow of the monarchy, beginning in a week’s time.
“Well, now that she’s gonna be out of the country for the next six weeks, it should be even easier,” Slamil said. The basement room they were in was unusually spacious, and they all sat on chairs around a large coffee table.
“Yeah, that’s one less royal to round up,” Steel replied.
“And the kid’ll be out of the way, too,” Dolores Unchain added.
Slamil picked up a pencil and made a few slashing lines across a notepad’s open page on the table. Then he gazed at Steel’s heavy features.
“You know what I mean, Joe,” he said, smiling. “She’s the one point of resistance, around which the people might rally. I say might. She’s an unknown quantity, but we don’t want to be taking c
hances – and now we won’t have to.”
Mickey Miskiss, her bushy hair bristling, looked at her partner, the ethereal-looking Stella Mastoid, and laughed.
“So what’s the master plan for after we take over?” she asked. “Do we take the royals out or lock ‘em up and throw away the key?”
“Neither,” Slamil said. “We’ve got a much better fate lined up for them. They’re going to fight an election against us and lose – and the shame of that will drive ‘em into exile!”
Steel gave a brittle laugh. “What the hell do we need an election for? Once we’ve seized power, the whole country’s in our hands.”
“That’s the beauty of the plan, Joe. If we simply take control by force and leave it at that, we’ll be branded as totalitarians, like the North Koreans and the Cubans – ”
“To name but two,” Penny Slam said.
“Right. So to legitimize our government and show that it’s a true government of the people, we going to win an election. Only one. After that, we’ll pass laws to secure our rule in perpetuity.”
“Sounds like the present regime,” Slam said cynically.
Slamil laughed, then he glanced at Steel, who continued to look disapproving.
“I think the idea’s crackers, Paul,” he said. “You can’t predict the outcome of an election like you can the barrel of a gun.”
Slamil doodled on his notepad, his face strained. “We’ll make sure this election is in the bag. We know a lot about winning the people’s hearts and minds.”
“You win ‘em best when you’ve got ‘em by the balls!” Steel replied.
Slamil looked at him dismissively. “And how long do you think that will last? We don’t have the resources to run a police state . We’re strapped for cash as it is.”
“And you ain’t getting no more from our lot,” Caspar said in a thick whisper.
Steel shrugged and reached for the brandy bottle. “Okay, I’ll go along with it, but I’m warning you –if we lose, then we’re really fucked. We might as well be shoveling snow in July.”
“We might as well be whistling Dixie through the keyhole,” Caspar said.
Slamil was unmoved. “Don’t worry, the way we’ll fix it the royals won’t stand a cat in hell’s chance.”
Hugely relieved by the imminent departure of Dawna for Bulimia, Letitia surprised everyone at lunch by giving a speech on the joys of marriage, especially the boon of children and the closeness which the ripening years can bring. She directed her gaze at Catheter and Dawna, who sat at opposite ends of the table, and stressed her wish to see the blessings of matrimony bestowed on her son and daughter-in-law, expressing the hope that they preserve their sacred union,
Dawna, her ears burning, squirmed in her seat and awkwardly toyed with her fork. She was thinking Should I put up with this crap or walk out? She decided it would be easier on her frayed nerves to leave, so she suddenly rose, and with a mumbled “By your leave” stumbled out of the room. Everyone remained silent, although Catheter gripped his knife and fork extra tightly. Letitia turned to her husband.
“Either you or Catheter must talk to that woman – somebody will have to!”
A number of thoughts passed through Godfrey’s mind – none of them happy ones. Personally he didn’t give a damn whether Catheter and Dawna attempted to make a go of their marriage or threw in the towel. He held out the hope – constantly pushed to the back of his mind – that if the luscious princess ever did come to her senses and give Catheter the boot, she’d cast a glance in his direction. He tried to blank out the tempting thought of a liaison with his own daughter-in-law. The main problem was political. If the couple divorced, it would mean the future king and head of the church would be a divorced man, and that had never happened before. He knew the archbishop would be opposed to it, even if he was a drunken old sot. Diplomatic issues were also involved, since the marriage created a union between the Houses of Gorm and Lattis, and since Hector had no son to succeed him, the kingdoms of Melloria and Bulimia would be joined upon his death. The union would be a perfect defense against the Slobodians, who would think twice before attempting to invade a country as large as Melloria and Bulimia combined. A divorce would bring this alliance crashing down and open the door to the Slobodians. With that thought in mind, Godfrey swallowed his piece of venison and rose from his chair.
He walked out of the palace and looked around for the princess. He figured she was likely to be in the garden where servants didn’t venture, and discovered her in the rose garden. She was sitting on a bench, her eyes wet and her hands folded in her lap. At Godfrey’s approach she raised her head and flushed with embarrassment. She didn’t want anyone to see her in her present visible distress.
Godfrey sat down beside her and patted her folded hands. “Come, come, there’s no need for tears,” he said with guarded tenderness. “I know how upsetting this whole business is for you – and God knows, you have reason to be upset. Wasn’t that speech the queen gave absolutely awful? It’s just that – ”
She turned her face to him and interrupted. “I can’t go on like this – the marriage is a farce. I’ll go crazy if I have to stay with Catheter any longer. We quarrel every day and whenever I speak to Her Majesty, she makes me feel it’s all my fault. I think divorce is the only option.”
A terror-stricken look distorted the king’s face.
“Oh my God, you can’t – it would be catastrophic. The monarchy might never recover. As it is, we will have to be very careful in announcing the separation. Are you sure you can’t reconsider – perhaps you could both try marriage counseling?”
Her misery turned to anger. “And I want custody of my son,” she said. “I want him to be brought up a Bulimian!” Godfrey looked as though he were about to collapse, which softened Dawna’s anger. She composed the semblance of a smile.
“All right, Daddy, I won’t divorce him, but we’ll have to have a complete separation. I need to be free to get myself together.”
Godfrey smiled back. “That’s my girl – I’m sure we can arrange something.”
Daddy, he thought happily. She called me Daddy.
Reconvening in the drawing room, the others were told Godfrey’s good news.
“It’s all right – she’s not going to divorce, just separate for a while so she can go away and get better. Now, where’s my brandy?”
“Ho-hum,” Letitia mused. “Let’s see how long this interlude lasts.”
Chapter 30
The Insurrection
Queen Letitia awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. She was sweating, having dreamed that she was about to have dinner in the banqueting hall. Godfrey, Catheter and Anton were seated around the table, and an enormous cut-glass chandelier was directly over her head. Suddenly she heard a gigantic crack, looked up and noticed that every glass drop of the chandelier was broken. It startled her beyond imagination.
She was relieved to catch sight of the familiar objects in her bedchamber. As she looked around at the tapestries, dark furnishings and high arched windows, an image of the broken chandelier came vividly back. Why was each piece of glass cracked like that? She asked herself. There must be a meaning to the dream, but she couldn’t fathom it. She closed her eyes to try to recapture something of the dream, but it was too far away now, leaving only a sense of extreme disquiet and foreboding.
A sharp knock at the door brought her back.
“Who is it? Who is it?” she mumbled.
“Your Majesty, terrorists have struck – the mob is at the gates!”
“Not again!”
The plaintive yet ripe tones of Agatha Armstrong-Pitt reminded her of the times the duchess had brought bad news to spoil her morning. She pulled the silk sheets over her head.
“Go away!” she cried in a muffled voice.
“Ma’am, I beg of you, awaken!” Agatha bleated. “The whole country has been seized!”
“I don’t care – let the police and the army deal with it!” Letitia groaned. The w
retched woman had broken her concentration on the puzzling dream – it was all too much.
“It’s not my wish to alarm you, ma’am,” Agatha’s voice trembled, “but the police and the army have lost control!”
At that moment, the telephone, which rested on its onyx base on the nightstand, began to warble.
“Oh, this is getting beyond!” Letitia snatched the phone off its hook and held it with distaste a few centimeters from her ear.
“Well?” she said.
The cultured tones of King Godfrey vibrated from the earpiece.
“I think you should come downstairs, my dear. It seems we have an insurrection on our hands.”
Half an hour later, a thoroughly frazzled Letitia sat nibbling a croissant in the lightly-curtained drawing room. Dazzling shafts of sunlight played on the regency table as she ate, while the ruins of Godfrey’s breakfast was removed from the table by silent servants. He was on his last cup of coffee and the medals on his commander-in-chief’s uniform jingled as he lifted his arm.
“Isn’t your uniform a little ornate, dear?” Letitia said, indicating the coils of gold braid looping around the row of medals.
“We’re at war!” he spluttered. He was in the foulest of moods, she realized, and decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
He slammed down his cup. “If we don’t show these ruffians what we’re made of, there’ll be hordes of them trampling through the palace!”
A white-haired servant with parchment skin approached the king and stood trembling in his black and gold livery, while Godfrey wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Your Majesty, we have received a communique from the Prime Minister,” he said. He produced a scuffed white envelope from behind his back.
“When did this arrive?” Godfrey said and tore the envelope open.
“A page dressed in civvies managed to smuggle it from Government House, which is under enemy occupation, sir.”
Godfrey grunted, then his eyes widened as he read the note. He gasped, and gripped his stomach. Letitia almost told him to take one of his painkillers.