by Trevor Veale
“It looks like the government has fallen and Amis has gone into hiding.”
Letitia dismissed the servant with a curt wave.
“What do we do now?” she asked, wiping crumbs from her mouth.
“I’m going to call a council of war in my study.” He tinkled a little bell beside his cup and, when the servant returned, began issuing orders. Letitia got out her compact from the handbag she kept on the floor by her chair. She anticipated a long, tiring day.
The war council convened as soon as Catheter and Anton arrived from their bedchambers. Catheter had suffered a restless night, one of several he had endured since his wife and son had flown to Bulimia, and look thoroughly disheveled. Anton merely looked sleepy. The joined Godfrey and Letitia around the study table, along with Thomas Lesot, the archbishop, who had come early to the palace to discuss Catheter and Dawna’s marital situation.
“This meeting is called to order,” Godfrey announced. “As Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, I intend to make a number of appointments. Catheter, you will be Secretary of War – so go get your tape recorder, you’ll need to keep a record of this meeting.”
“Um, actually, the minidisc is out for repair,” Catheter said. “Dawna threw it at me the night before she left.”
Letitia gave him a sharp look. “I hope Her Passive-Aggressiveness will pay for the repair when she flies back.”
“It doesn’t look as though she will be flying back,” Catheter replied. “The terrorists have surrounded the airport and all flights are canceled.”
“Bludclaat! The bolshies’re mashing us up!” Anton exclaimed.
Godfrey slammed his fist on the table and made his brandy glass clink. “I won’t tolerate defeatist talk!” he growled. “Those bolshies are scum from the gutter and will be defeated as soon as our armed forces have regrouped and launched a counter-attack. Then they’ll crumble like gorgonzola!”
He paused and smiled. “And I bet they smell like gorgonzola!” he added.
The archbishop, who had been sitting in a semi-inebriated daze, was roused by the king’s voice and hoisted himself to his feet. His head wobbling, he raised his glass.
“I think His Majesty’s words call for a toast,” he croaked.
The others dutifully rose and raised their glasses, except Letitia who was fuming at the thought that her daughter-in-law would remain safely in Bulimia.
“God save the king!” they intoned flatly, and Godfrey bowed his head in acknowledgment.
“All right, now back to business,” he said. “Anton I want you to take – ”
“Okay, Pops, I’ll do it!” Anton interrupted, over-eagerly. “You want me to take command of the air force, right? Seeing as I’m the only one here who knows how to fly the ‘copter.”
The king’s face turned an unsettling shade of puce. “First of all, you address me as Commander-in-Chief or sir. Now, you cheeky young pup, don’t jump to conclusions. I’m putting you in charge of the palace guard. Simpkins will be your second in command.”
Anton pouted and looked deflated. “The palace guard? That bunch of old broom pushers? They’re pants! I want to smoke the bolshies from a chopper!”
“There isn’t enough fuel in the ‘copter, you young whelp!” Godfrey said. “We only have enough fuel to fly us out of here.” “That’s if we absolutely have to,” he added hastily.
Anton began to sulk, staring out the window and taking no further part in the proceedings. Letitia placed her hand firmly on his slouched shoulder. She was worried that, like Catheter, he was beginning to look jittery.
A knock on the study door interrupted them.
“What is it?” Godfrey barked. “Come in, damn you!”
The door opened and Simpkins walked in. His black morning coat and gray pants had been replaced by camouflage fatigues. His face looked pouchy and tired. ”Excuse me, Your Majesty,” he announced. “We’ve just received a fax from the insurgents.”
He went over to Godfrey, saluted, and handed him a roll of paper tied with a black-and-yellow ribbon. Then he stepped a deferential pace back.
Godfrey untied the ribbon and rolled out the paper. He read its contents then looked at the others in angry astonishment. “The bounders are demanding that I meet the leader of the People’s Party under a flag of truce!”
“We’re saved! We’re saved!” the archbishop gasped, jowls shaking, as he took up his glass. “The Lord has blessed Your Majesty!”
Godfrey shook his head. “I fear your rejoicing is premature, Archbishop. These people are cunning swine and their leader is an upstart who began his nefarious career inciting riffraff in the back alleys of Shekels. I don’t think he’s ready to surrender. No, it’s something more devious – we’ll need our wits about us when we get out there, Simpkins.”
Simpkins’s expression took on a sickly hue when his name was mentioned, and he rocked on his heels. The others looked relieved that they hadn’t been called on to join the pair, even Letitia.
Turning to the butler, Godfrey said: “I want you to fashion a white flag. We’ll wait at the palace gates and see what Mr Slamil has to say when he arrives.” To the others, he added: “This meeting is adjourned for the time being. I trust you will await our return.”
Then he strode through the study door, leaving Simpkins to close it behind them.
Chapter 31
The Kings’ Humiliation
The normally-bustling Constitution Square was completely deserted when Godfrey and Simpkins walked out through the main gates of the palace, which the two men found unnerving. The total absence of activity was a dramatic indication that everything was far from normal. The heat of the July day was almost unbearable, and both men were soon soaking under their tunics. After the ferocious winter and deliciously mild spring, the summer was like a hot air bath, rising from the ground in waves. Even the weather’s against us, Godfrey thought.
Squinting against the glare, he could just make out a huddle of black figures on the far side of the square. He caught the glint of field-glasses and turned his back sharply. Simpkins, who had marched out of the palace with his white flag held high, propped it against the railings. He attracted the king’s attention with a discrete cough.
“What is it, Simpkins?
The butler pointed to a flag flying from a nearby rooftop. Godfrey stared and did a double take. The royal standard of the Kingdom of Melloria had been replaced by an alien design. In the middle of the six black-and-yellow stripes the white disk now bore a red star at its center. It looked as though a malevolent giant with a nosebleed had gone around using the royal crest as a handkerchief. Godfrey turned to Simpkins. He looked incredulous; then realizing the implications of the upstart flag fluttering so close to the palace, he hung his head in despair.
“Sorry to have to draw your attention to it, sir…” Simpkins began.
“I think we’re finished, Godfrey said.
Simpkins nodded miserably. He felt pity, seeing the bitter desolation on the king’s face, and the few consoling words he might have uttered dried in his mouth. The unrelenting heat was making him feel faint, his mouth was aching with thirst and his stomach rumbled aggressively. He was tempted to ask the king if he would like a long cold drink, but he knew duty required him to stand beside the monarch as long as was necessary.
“How much longer must we have to wait?” Godfrey grumbled. “Are we supposed to stand here until we melt!”
“The fax didn’t say how long they would be, sir,” Simpkins said. He scrunched up his eyes to peer into the distance.
Godfrey decided that he’d had just about enough. “If they’re not here in ten minutes, we’re going back. I’ve got a council of war meeting to finish,” he said briskly.
The next moment a hideous belching roar echoed from the other side of the square as an armored vehicle shot through the haze and rumbled toward them. The black, yellow and red-star flag was draped across its side panels. It screeched to a halt in front of the two men, and its roar dwindl
ed to a cough.
A side door in the vehicle swung open and a man in the black uniform, yellow boots and red cap of the People’s Party emerged. He saluted the men.
“I’ve come to escort King Godfrey to Party HQ. He is to come alone.”
“But what about my servant?” Godfrey mumbled. The man gave him a withering look.
“The servant class has been abolished!” he replied. “Melloria is now the People’s Republic.”
To Simpkins, he added. “You may go back to your workplace, where you’ll receive further instructions from the Party.”
Godfrey looked at the man’s face. It had the strong, square features of a Mellorian peasant, its symmetry balanced by a bushy mustache. Then he shrugged and meekly followed the man to the armored vehicle. The man let him get in first, then climbed in and shut the door. The driver then shifted into gear, and they trundled off. As they passed Simpkins on the curb, the driver gave him a broad wink. Simpkins replied with a guarded smirk. Then he went back into the palace, leaving the white flag behind.
“Pleased to meet you, King Godfrey,” Paul Slamil said, looking up from his desk. “As Melloria is now the People’s Republic, I’ll dispense with the royal form of address if you don’t mind.” Godfrey, who had been brought under guard into the office, grunted: “As you wish.”
Godfrey sat down before Slamil, who wore a faded denim shirt, and gazed at the desk. It was the former prime minister’s desk and was strewn with official papers bearing the royal crest. Slamil noticed Godfrey’s gaze and pushed the papers off the desk. “As you see,” he said, laughing. “Mr Amis left before he could clear his desk.”
Slamil’s craggy features continued to look amused as Godfrey said: “Mr Slamil, I have come here to hear your terms of surrender.”
“I love your optimism, King Godfrey,” he said. Then he nodded for Godfrey’s escort to stand in front of the door.
Slamil leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
“Now these are my terms,” he said. “The People’s Party is committed to making far-reaching changes for the benefit of the people, and to holding an election at the end of the year which will determine the future government of the country.”
“I see,” Godfrey said. “And where do I come in?”
“As you know, in order to hold an election, there have to be at least two opposing candidates. King Godfrey, I want you to be my opponent.” Slamil gave a tight smile. “And if you win, then you will be free to restore your glorious monarchy - if you wish.”
“And if I lose?” Godfrey said.
“Then you and your family remain simple citizens of the Mellorian People’s Republic,” Slamil said. “So, what do you say?”
Godfrey drew himself up stiffly. “At my coronation, I swore an oath before God that I would remain king of Melloria until my dying day. If you want my kingdom, Mr Slamil, you’ll have to kill me first.”
Slamil’s face became serious and he leaned forward. “You know, we could have put you and your tribe up against a wall and gunned you down. That’s how the people got rid of Ceausescu, the Romanian dictator, and his wife… then there was Colonel Gaddafi – I could go on!”
“Why didn’t you shoot us then?” Godfrey said flatly.
“Because we the people of Melloria are not brutal and because our party is fully committed to the democratic process. We believe in the ballot box, not blood, bullets and bombs – we want what’s best for the country, not just for ourselves…” He stopped, seeing Godfrey yawn.
“As potential enemies of the state,” Slamil continued, “you and your family will be removed from the People’s Palace and placed in secure custody. The length of the custody will depend on whether you are willing to cooperate with the government. Accept my offer, and you and your family will enjoy much better conditions. It’s your best chance of avoiding extreme discomfort .”
“And your best chance of avoiding a charge of treason is by calling off your revolution and surrendering to my armed forces!” Godfrey snarled.
A burst of laughter escaped Slamil’s mouth and his shoulders shook. “Armed forces? The army and the palace guard are already on our side. They’re fighting under the People’s flag, where they’ll be well-paid and their families looked after. You haven’t got a pot to piss in, mate!” He stopped to compose himself.
“Now, whether you agree to run against me or whether I have to find another candidate, there will be an election! The Party will abide by the result of the election, that whoever wins will form a new government. This is your only chance of getting back in power. You should take it!”
Godfrey grunted. He was getting tired of hearing politician’s speeches. “Do you happen to have some brandy?” he asked.
Slamil nodded and rummaged in the drawers of his desk. He found a bottle of cognac and passed it to Godfrey.
“I’m putting you under guard now, so think about my offer. You have a limited period of time to change your mind. Remember, if you do, you and your family will be much better off. In the meantime see how much you like your secure accommodation! Enjoy your cognac, King Godfrey – courtesy of your last royal prime minister!”
Chapter 32
The Incarceration
Queen Letitia looked down from Godfrey’s study window at the curiously-camouflaged truck fluttering red-star flags above its cabin. It came to a halt after trundling through the unlocked palace gates, and she was at first shocked at the brazen effrontery of the driver. Then she started to panic. It had been over an hour since Godfrey had been taken away in the armored car. Now she was beginning to wonder if he was ever coming back. Lurid images of Godfrey being held to ransom in some dripping cellar played on her mind, interspersed with grimmer ones of him slumped against the wall of a ghastly yard, his blindfold askew, the smoking rifles of his firing squad lowered. Have they come to shoot us too? she wondered, watching black-clad men pouring out of the truck that stood in the palace courtyard. Isn’t that what they did to the Romanovs?
In the time since Godfrey had left them, the other members of the council of war had drifted away from the table and hung about like passengers in a fogbound airport lounge during a layover. Catheter and Anton had unearthed a chess board and were playing a badtempered game, while the archbishop took the brandy decanter to the couch and hunkered down, muttering to himself. Letitia had left the study for some fresh air, made her way to the garden and found a bench beneath a cypress tree where she sat down to collect herself. She looked sadly at the red roses that were wilting in the heat at the tops of their spiky stalks a few meters from where she sat. She felt more depressed at the poor state of the flowers than at the day’s turn of events, which she knew was not sensible. So she went back to the study and stood gazing at the faultless sky, its startling blue stroked by a few wispy clouds. It might have been snowing for all she cared. I just wish the bolshies would make it quick if they’re going to drag us out and shoot us, she thought wearily.
Now from the floor below them came the sound of a shot, followed by raised voices and the noise of scurrying feet rushing up the stairs. Without knocking, a young page burst in and stood, white-faced, before the shocked assembly.
“They’re all over the palace!” the young servant said. “They shot Trash!”
A loud pounding on the study door made everybody jump. Catheter, who had taken up a poker from the hearth, cautiously asked: “Who’s there?” Rough voices told them the door would be broken down if it wasn’t opened quickly. Catheter put the poker back on the fireguard and opened the door. He was almost immediately pushed back as the door burst open.
A squad of black-uniformed men and one woman, all wearing yellow boots and red caps, fanned out inside the study. They carried assault rifles, and their ranks parted to allow a potbellied man in the faded blue shirt and jeans of a party high-up to elbow his way forward. He had a droopy black mustache and he looked at the royals with disdain.
“You are all under arrest as enemies of the people!” he barked
. “You must leave this building at once and await transportation to your new quarters.”
Letitia’s first impulse was to laugh, hysterically. What right had this jumped up little nobody to barge into their private room in their private palace and throw his weight around? Then her royal conditioning kicked in, and she gave the man an icy look.
“Certainly not!” she said, contempt vibrating from her lips. “We are waiting for the return of His majesty the King and will stay put until he arrives.” The potbellied man looked pained, like a walrus with tooth decay, and turned to the black-uniformed woman.
“This one thinks she can stay here all night,” he said. “Tell her where the king is now, comrade.”
“The king is waiting for you, love,” the female party worker said. “He’s in protective custody – which is where you’re going.”
Letitia turned the withering force of her iciness on the woman. “By whose authority?” she asked, her lips at full sneer.
“By the authority of the people!” the woman screeched. “Resist and you’ll all be put in chains!”
Letitia’s lips were drawn in a tight line. In spite of her outward sang-froid, she was trembling and sweat stood out on her forehead.
“I’m afraid we need a little time to ourselves first. The archbishop is leading us in a prayer for our dear king.” She made a gesture toward the archbishop, who had been dozing before the commotion but was now awake and blinking at the others.
“How devout of you all!” a new voice said.
Paul Slamil, after uttering these words, stepped into the study with the hint of a swagger and sauntered toward the queen. His faded denim shirt, wellworn jeans and yellow workman’s boots marked him out as the party leader.
“The Gorm family is a very devout one,” Letitia countered. She remained aloof and impassive, although her heart was fluttering. Slamil approached her, his lips curled in a smile, and nodded a quick touché.