Page 37 of Beowulf is Back

Chapter 18

  In which (not necessarily in this order) the rightful (?) king of France gets married, the Parliament hears the plan for the distribution of the Holy Gambling money, the British plot bears fruit (although not quite the apples they were expecting), Norbert finds a follower, the chicken business spreads its wings, Gretza the Angel completes her mission (or at least the first part), Beowulf makes a decision and a fraternal understanding is reached.

  Amarilla and King Lewis were married the next day in the large church that adjoined the Monastery. Fortunately, the church had not been damaged by the fire, although the Monastery had suffered significant damage: a considerable part of the revenues from Holy Gambling were going to need to be reinvested to restore the place to its former glory.

  Marshall Gney, who appeared on crutches, gave the bride away and a sobered up Cardinal Mascarpone led the Wedding Mass under the stern direction and watchful eye of the Marshall. It turned out the Cardinal Bull had survived the cart accident, but had promptly and prudently retreated to the Papal State. It was rumoured that the Pope was ready to go to war.

  Despite this threat, the old Marshall had remained on hand for the service, and a non military tear was clearly visible in his crusty old (yet still watchful) eye. The British delegation was very noticeable, having been promoted up the guest list by Amarilla.

  ‘It’s like they are the in-laws,’ she had explained to the Marshall.

  Amarilla’s parents were also in attendance in a lofty, noble but rather indifferent way. Amarilla had organised it that they should be seated next to Roscow and Beowulf,

  ‘After all, they did save the King!’ she explained. Her parents nodded politely and privately pitied themselves for being placed on a level with uncivilised barbarians.

  Roscow was so perplexed that he had forgotten to adopt an appropriate accent,

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he whispered, ‘hadn’t you decided that Louie-Louie was going to be King? I thought you wanted to aggravate the Duke?’

  ‘I do, I will,’ Beowulf replied, ‘there’s plenty of time for that. I just thought…’ but he did not finish the thought.

  ‘You thought…’

  ‘I thought it would be good for France.’

  Roscow snorted, drawing a very disapproving glare from Amarilla’s mother.

  ‘France? You don’t care about France.’

  Beowulf smiled,

  ‘No, not really; I thought it would be good if true love triumphed for once.’

  This Roscow found even funnier, which drew more displeasure, this time from Amarilla’s father.

  ‘It wasn’t that either. I was outwitted,’ said Beowulf.

  There was a silence.

  ‘You were outwitted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you admit it?’ Roscow smiled, happily.

  ‘Yes; it can happen. I’m not infallible.’

  This caused Roscow so much merriment that he was able to draw condemnation, not just from Amarilla’s parents, but from nearly half the church. When he had regained his composure he whispered,

  ‘That must really annoy you.’

  Beowulf considered this.

  ‘Not as much as you would think. I mean, who cares who rules France? I don’t think even the French care that much. One Louis seems much the same as another. I like the idea that the King can’t speak the language and that the Pope and the Duke won’t get their money. The thing about it that does annoy me is Caractacus Carruthers.’

  This surprised Roscow,

  ‘Caractacus? Why?’ he asked.

  They both peered over at the grinning Englishman, who was smiling contentedly, as the wedding service progressed.

  ‘His plan worked. He has placed his imposter on the French throne, they’ll get some of the money and he thinks that he is ever so clever. I hate people who think they’re so smart; don’t you?’

  Roscow thought about it.

  ‘I don’t know anyone like that,’ he said.

  After the Wedding Amarilla and King Lewis, accompanied by many of the guests went directly to the Parliament to hear the newly married King give his judgement on the disposition of the revenues from Holy Gambling.

  Norbert remained to clean up the church. He was feeling very pleased with himself: he had found an assistant. After he had found that the Cardinal had been missing all night, he had gone out to look for him, and in the forest, he had found a strange foreign man, dressed in black leather. The man had clearly been hit over the head a number of times and seemed to have no memory of who he was or what he was doing. He had been very grateful to be taken in by Norbert, who had appointed him as his assistant. Suddenly Norbert’s life looked a lot brighter; he could send someone else to wake the Cardinal in the morning! Norbert had not yet been able to introduce his protégé to Mascarpone, who had turned up at the church, but he was sure the Cardinal would approve; he was very strong, quick, and, as far as Norbert could tell, not very dangerous at all.

  ‘You can help me,’ said Norbert encouragingly.

  ‘I think that I might like to help people,’ replied Naiman.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be very good at it. You can start by helping me clear the Cardinal’s room.’

  ‘Oh, I think I might like that.’

  ‘I’m sure you will; it’s a very…interesting job.’

  Norbert was not the only one to miss going on to the parliament; Marshall Gney had sensed an opportunity and ordered some of his troops to help him onto a horse and escort him to the fairground. When he arrived he found that the village of tents had begun to pack up.

  ‘What is going on?’ he asked a labourer.

  ‘Weddings over and there might be a war, sir. It’s time to move on.’

  After a bit of searching he found what he was looking for; Emsie was packing away the chicken tent and Grandpa was watching.

  ‘That’s the way we did it girl; when we was on campaign against the Batavians. Pack it up good and neat.’

  He stopped when he saw the Marshall.

  ‘I hope the chicken was all right?’ he said.

  ‘Better than that,’ said the Marshall, ‘it gave me an idea. We need to talk.’

  ‘Carry on here, then,’ said Grandpa to Emsie.

  ‘No,’ said the Marshall, ‘I want to talk to her, too.’

  In the anteroom of the Parliament building King Lewis was nervous; and understandably so; he had been brought up to raise sheep in Britain, not make speeches to the Parliament of France. Caractacus had pushed his way in as ‘the King’s advisor’ and Amarilla was there ‘for moral support.’

  ‘It’s all written down,’ said Caractacus, handing Lewis a scroll, ‘you just have to read what’s on the paper.’

  Lewis looked edgy.

  ‘Don’t worry about the French, the letters are the same. If you get a few words wrong it won’t matter.’

  ‘It isn’t the French,’ confessed Lewis.

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘I can’t read.’

  ‘What?’

  There was a silence as Caractacus looked at Lewis in amazement.

  ‘There weren’t any books on the farm. There were just sheep. A lot of sheep. No books. Sheep. I can’t read.’

  Caractacus grasped his forehead.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he cried, asking no one in particular.

  ‘Stay calm,’ replied Amarilla, ‘I think that I can help.’

  ‘Pzzt.’

  ‘What was that? A fly?’ asked Beowulf. Having nothing else in particular to do, they had gone to hear the King’s speech to Parliament.

  ‘After all,’ Roscow had said, ‘at the very least, when we know what he says, we can get ahead and sell the news.’

  ‘At the very least we can have a good laugh at Lewis speaking French,’ Beowulf had observed, with predictable unkindness, ‘and then we’d better go, before the Duke, the Pope, or the Marshall get onto us.’

  So they had gone on to the Parliament building, while thinking what directio
n they should head in next. On the way they had collected Gareth, the former Royal dog who Pedro had been looking after. It was while they were standing waiting for the King that they had been interrupted.

  ‘Pzzt.’

  ‘Is there something in my ear?’ asked Beowulf, ‘I keep hearing this buzzing, is it a bee?’

  ‘More likely a wasp,’ said Roscow, ‘it’s that time of year.’

  ‘Pzzt,’ hissed Gretza the Angel, who had squeezed up next to them in the crowd.

  ‘Pzzt yourself,’ remarked Beowulf, ‘why are you pzzting us?’

  ‘She wanted to save you from the Troll,’ said Roscow suddenly recognising the small, black-clad woman.

  Beowulf looked at her with some doubt.

  ‘She was going to save me from the Troll?’

  ‘I already have, vonce,’ replied Gretza the Angel, ‘in zhe snow, vhen you vas buried. I vas the Troll knocking out, even so, I think zhat she has a right to vengeance. I vaz alzo zhe one showing your dog vere to dig vor you. Zhat iz my mission and completing it is vhat I am doing now.’

  ‘The Troll’s still alive?’ Beowulf asked Roscow, ignoring Gretza the Angel.

  ‘No body found,’ confirmed Roscow.

  Beowulf swore quietly.

  ‘Beovulf, I muzt tell you of my mission,’ said Gretza.

  ‘If you must,’ said Beowulf amicably, ‘there seems to be a delay with the speech.’