Beowulf is Back

  Chapter 7

  In which, Louie-Louie does not look forward to looking forward to his eagerly anticipated wedding at a ceremonial dinner. The dinner occurs. Elsewhere Lewis is lost and found and Beowulf tries his luck, and is, for once, appropriately rebuffed.

  Louie-Louie (now officially known as ‘Louis’) the King of France was looking forward to his dinner. At least, he was looking forward to the eating part of dinner, as he was hungry, but he was not so much looking forward to the social part of having dinner. In fact he wasn’t looking forward to that at all. At the dinner would be Cardinal Bull and Marshall Gney. He wasn’t sure which of them he was more afraid of, but he was quite certain that he was seriously afraid of them both. The thought of them both together (and that they would be angry was a certainty, as they did not like each other) made him nauseous with fear. He was also not happy that his adoptive father, Cardinal Mascarpone, would also be there. Louie-Louie had noticed that he had become even more unpredictable (and drunk) recently and it was very likely that he would behave in an embarrassing way in front of Bull and Gney. He tried to feel some loyalty towards his adoptive father, but instead he only felt acutely awkward. This feeling extended to the special guest of the evening, his bride to be, Amarilla De Cassiones.

  He felt very uncomfortable about her. He felt as if he should have approached her, as he was going to marry her. He entertained a meagre hope (which dwindled the longer he dwelt upon it) that she might just like him, at least a little bit. Louie-Louie had very little experience of being liked. His birth father, the late King Jacques, had taken no notice of him; his adoptive father, Cardinal Mascarpone, was really incapable of liking another human being, and everybody else had treated him with the respect and deference that was due to the brother of the putative King of France, but all of that fell far short of affection. He sensed that his brother, whom he was now impersonating, might have liked him a little, having had a similarly strange upbringing, however they had often been apart through childhood and he was certain that his brother would not like him now.

  Returning to the thought of Amarilla, he felt another shudder of unease. She was clever, or perhaps, witty. Louie-Louie knew that he was not. It was going to be hard talking to her; she was sure to find him dull. She might be angry about the wedding. He tried to build up his own confidence; after all, he was the King of France - except his conscience told him that he wasn’t.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. He was small, dark and unappealing,

  ‘Good evening, Amarilla, I look forward to knowing you better,’ he practised. Except he couldn’t say that, because he was supposed to know her better; Amarilla had grown up on the same household as Louis and he was supposed to be Louis.

  ‘Good evening, Mademoiselle de Cassiones, I mean Amarilla; I am happy that you have consented to be my bride. I anticipate with eagerness our wedding night- I mean our wedding. Oh dear!’

  Louie-Louie looked away from the mirror in discomfort; however that had been nearly right. He would say “wedding” and not “wedding night”; that would be fine; it was appropriate, it was regal, it was princely. That caused him another shudder. Why had he agreed to this? He really wasn’t cut out to be a monarch; if he had been, he would have said “no” to Mascarpone and Bull; he would have said, “I don’t want to be the King of France.”

  Glumly, he reflected that he had not done this and so he was stuck with this dinner. With an air of resignation he put on his crown (just the light dinner crown, not the full sitting in state thing) and went down for dinner.

  It was to be an intimate dinner and the other guests had already arrived. Sat clockwise around the King’s oblong dinner table were Cardinal Bull, Cardinal Mascarpone, Eugene D’Orbergene (the lieutenant who had been so useful in the disappearing of the original Louis), Amarilla and her uncle, Marshall Gney. The tension in the room was significant. Gney and Bull were engaged in the staring competition that always occurred whenever they were together, Mascarpone was in the nervous state he generally endured when he had made the effort to get to dinner (relatively) sober and was then compelled to endure, until the first glass was poured. Amarilla had a lot on her mind.

  Since her talk with Boo Dikka her ideas had undergone a profound change. She was still committed to the ideas of freedom and equality for women, but instead of considering these ideals purely for herself, she felt herself to be responsible for the advancement of these principles for a wider group of women. In this light, becoming the Queen of France was an opportunity to press forward this agenda that she could not afford to ignore. On a personal level though, the thought of marrying the uninspiring Louis, or his brother, was deeply disappointing, particularly having just met the much more interesting Lewis; but Amarilla had been raised on Marshall Gney’s values of ‘personal sacrifice for the common good’ and she was preparing herself to do her duty. The Marshall himself had been very surprised when she had returned home and said that, on reflection, she consented to the marriage and thought that it would, perhaps, be a good thing.

  A herald announced the arrival of the King and the guests stood.

  The King entered; welcomed his guests and the dinner began. Mascarpone delightedly grabbed himself a glass of wine and felt as good as he had all day. Cardinal Bull began the conversation,

  ‘It is now two days until the wedding,’ he boomed, ‘I trust all is prepared?’

  Mascarpone should have been able to reassure his superior that all was in hand, but, having downed his own glass with a swift flick of the wrist, he had managed to pick up D’Orbergene’s ‘by mistake’ and had his nose firmly buried within it.

  ‘All is in hand,’ said Gney, stonily, ‘My niece is ready.’

  ‘Is she?’ asked Louie-Louie, who then realised he had shown an un-regal excitement in this news, ‘I mean, that is good to know.’

  ‘His Majesty seems very keen,’ drawled D’Orbergene quietly to Amarilla. He had decided it would be quite the thing to flirt with the Queen to be. Amarilla ignored him,

  ‘The King does me a great honour.’

  ‘Every King needs a good woman to help him in the state!’ exclaimed Mascarpone, inappropriately, ‘Otherwise the Royal mind can wander!’ He was wondering if he could ‘mistakenly’ snatch anyone else’s drink.

  ‘And that would be against the teaching of the Holy Church!’ asserted Bull, with his usual vehemence.

  ‘While that is not a good thing; a King should be free to rule as he sees fit. That is clearly what God intended,’ contradicted Gney, his dislike of Bull quite plain to be seen.

  ‘But that is not as God intended! God intended that Kings should listen to the Pope!’ shouted Bull.

  ‘I think you are exactly as God intended,’ whispered the amorous D’Orbergene to Amarilla.

  ‘Rubbish!’ argued the Marshall, ‘The Pope says that Kings should listen to the Pope. God never said any such thing!’

  The arguing and shouting were putting Louie-Louie off his duck soufflé.

  ‘Please,’ he said, with an almost kingly diplomacy, ‘I’m sure I shall listen to the Pope, and try to rule France to the satisfaction of the Marshall.’ Before the pillars of state could pick up the cudgels of wrath again, he tried to change the subject.

  ‘Amarilla, I mean, Mademoiselle de Cassiones, I am so pleased that we are to be married.’

  ‘I bet he is,’ mouthed D’Orbergene, ‘If I were him I wouldn’t be able to wait.’

  Amarilla glared at him, but managed a smile at Louis-Louis,

  ‘I am conscious of the honour you do me, your Grace. I shall, try to be a good wife and help you at the helm of state,’

  Mascarpone spluttered, (on another glass he had somehow acquired, but from where?)

  ‘That isn’t quite the job, my dear! This isn’t Britain. The Queen helps the King with appropriate things, such as deciding the menu for state banquets, not the actual running of the state! I mean, that’s a bit more important than soft furnishings or recipes!’

  T
he men of the party laughed at the ridiculous idea of ‘women running the state.’ Amarilla did well to keep her temper. It looked like being a long night.

  Elsewhere, Beowulf, Roscow and Gareth had reached Monte San Carlos and, following the instructions of Caractacus Carruthers, they had presented themselves at the tent of The British Queen. When they arrived Boo Dikka and Dorf were in a state of some anxiety; it appeared that they had misplaced their heir to the Throne of France.

  ‘He is off after the chicken girl,’ declared Dorf, ‘Since she came here, he has not been the same. We must go and find him.’

  So, Beowulf, Roscow, Gareth, Dorf and Boo Dikka set off across the fairground in search of Lewis. When they reached the chicken tent they found a small, sullen, white-haired, old man sat on a wooden bench outside. He was smoking a pipe and looked startled by the sudden arrival of Beowulf and his companions.

  ‘Service!’ he shouted, in a peremptory tone.

  Emsie came out of the tent carrying a large iron pan.

  ‘Have you seen Lewis?’ asked Boo Dikka.

  ‘Do you mean the great oaf that can’t speak French?’ asked the old man, who was clearly Emsie’s Grandpa.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  There was a pause, while Grandpa sucked his pipe noisily and the others stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘You have not seen a tall, blond Briton, who speaks no French?’ asked Beowulf, politely.

  ‘’s right; haven’t seen him at all.’

  ‘Yet, you clearly recognise of whom we are speaking.’

  ‘Oh yeh! You couldn’t miss him. He’s like a yellow headed tree. Can’t speak the language at all and he’s barking mad!’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Beowulf began top look less friendly. Grandpa took the hint.

  ‘Well, now that I think of it, I may have seen him briefly, but I can’t divulge his secrets.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Beowulf.

  ‘Customer-retailer confidentiality,’ explained the old man, tapping his nose, ‘What’s said in the tent stays in the tent.’

  ‘But you weren’t in the tent!’ interrupted Emsie, ‘and you don’t speak his language.’

  ‘Yes,’ argued her cantankerous Grandpa, ‘but if I had’ve been, then I wouldn’t be able to pass on nothing because of the sacred relationship that exists between the chicken purveyor and the purveyee.’

  At this point Dorf tired of the debate and pulled out a hatchet,

  ‘Which way?’ he asked.

  ‘Hang on a minute!’ said Grandpa.

  ‘No!’ shouted Emsie, swinging the pan with some force. Dorf was unprepared to be panned by a chicken girl and so was struck firmly on the jaw. He dropped the hatchet in shock and his hands came up to his bloody mouth.

  ‘Don’t you threaten my Grandpa; even if he is wrong!’

  The party, as one, took a step away from Emsie (and her chicken pan). Dorf groaned unhappily and Grandpa grinned gleefully.

  ‘That’s my girl!’ he said.

  Boo Dikka decided it was time she took over negotiations.

  ‘No one will hurt your Grandpa, girl. We just need to find Lewis, as he may be in danger.’

  Seeing as no one was now threatening Grandpa, Emsie decided to co-operate, (despite customer-retailer confidentiality!)

  ‘He came in to get some chicken, which he thinks is called “pulley”. Then he said it was a “Pretence for Amarilla, something something Amour” and that he was going to “climbey le Gateaux Wallys for her to see to.”

  ‘He went that way!’ added Grandpa, ‘And his French is horrible!’

  Dorf groaned again and spat out a tooth,

  ‘I think it is improving,’ he observed, ‘some of the words are nearly right!’

  ‘You take him back to your tent and we will retrieve him,’ said Beowulf to Boo Dikka, who agreed.

  ‘Oi could give Gareth a sniff of that there chicken,’ said Roscow, in his ‘down on the farm’ accent, ‘And then he could track ‘im, loike a rabbit!’

  Beowulf stared at Roscow in horror and disbelief.

  ‘No,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Oh yes!’ continued Roscow happily, ignoring Beowulf’s stare, ‘’Ee’s a regular tracker dog is Gareth! Go on Miss!’

  Emsie gave Gareth a sniff of the chicken pan, which sent him into a paroxysm of delighted anticipation.

  ‘Seek!’ shouted Roscow. Gareth bounded off across the fairground towards the monastery. Beowulf and Roscow followed on while Boo Dikka helped the injured Dorf away from the site of his defeat.

  Grandpa looked happily up at Emsie,

  ‘You’re coming along!’ he said, ‘that was a proper panning!’

  Emsie ignored him and returned to the tent.

  Lewis was not very far away; he was trying to get directions to find Amarilla,

  ‘Je seekey le belle girl with le chapeau black,’ was the phrase that he was trying on some confused farmers when Beowulf, Roscow and Gareth found him. To celebrate the joy of meeting, Gareth snatched Lewis’ chicken. Beowulf and Roscow stopped to watch.

  ‘We do not understand your French,’ one of the farmers explained to Lewis.

  ‘Je need de finder mon amour vraiment!’ he protested.

  ‘He is English,’ confided Beowulf to the farmers.

  ‘That explains it.’

  ‘How can we help him? We cannot understand him.’

  ‘Je is trying to communicate!’

  ‘Fortunately, I speak his language,’ said Beowulf.

  ‘That is lucky for him,’ said one of the framers, moving off.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed his friend, ‘why do they never learn?’

  Deserted by the farmers, Lewis turned to Beowulf and was clearly preparing for another assault on the Gallic tongue, but before he could start Beowulf put up a hand.

  ‘It’s fine, I speak English. The Queen has sent me to retrieve you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lewis, ‘I was looking for the girl.

  ‘Aren’t we always?’ replied Beowulf, ‘However, she will not be found tonight. We need to be getting back, in order to plan how you become King of all of this tomorrow.’

  ‘You must be Beowulf!’ observed Lewis to Roscow, ‘who is your small friend, he seems to be quite helpful?’

  Roscow worried about the state of France, if this was the kind of King they were getting then the French, he thought, should be worried too.

  Back at the dinner, the lady had retired. That is to say Amarilla had left the men to it. For once she had welcomed the stupid custom of leaving the men to their brandy and pipes. She had endured enough of D’Orbergene’s heavy handed flirtation, Bull’s aggressive self assertion (that was rather like her uncle’s; but religious rather than military) and Louie-Louie’s (for there was no point her pretending to herself that she didn’t know) feeble attempts to steer a diplomatic course. As for Cardinal Mascarpone; she preferred not to think about Cardinal Mascarpone at all.

  She paused for a minute and looked out of the window. In two days time she would be the Queen of France; she would make a difference. She was cleverer, stronger and more determined than Louie-Louie. It was a sacrifice to marry him, but, inspired by Boo Dikka, she thought that she could make that sacrifice in order to change the world. She was also aware that a part of her wanted no part of this whatsoever. She could run away, perhaps; however she knew that running away was not in her nature. If there was a way to fight, she would fight, but she could see no way to do this. She was trapped, but would do what she could within the trap. That was what she resolved as she went upstairs to bed, thankful at least to be away from the men.

  The men were in the last throes of manliness; they had realised that there was only one more day until Louie-Louie’s wedding and had decided that he must, absolutely must, have a stag party tomorrow and that they would all come.

  ‘But what shall we do and where shall we have it?’ asked D’Orbergene, ‘There must be wine and girls!’

  Gney was not
so sure that he wanted girls; after all it was his niece who the King was getting married to. Louie-Louie was also not so sure that girls were appropriate, he was very aware that he was in front of two high up members of the clergy.

  ‘Absolutely!’ agreed Bull, didactically, ‘no need for girls when a man is marrying.’

  Mascarpone did not want to be left out,

  ‘I know a farmer,’ he began and then thought better of it.

  ‘And?’ demanded Bull.

  Mascarpone was flustered, his drunken brain recognising that an interest in farmyard animals may not be a quality that Bull valued in a fellow Cardinal.

  ‘He has these pigs…’ confided Mascarpone, while he desperately tried to find a different ending to his sentence.

  ‘And?’ demanded Bull, his red countenance glowing with drink and anger.

  ‘And… he makes home brewed cider, as well!’ concluded Mascarpone with a terrible sigh. If they demanded home brewed cider he would have to send Norbert to find somewhere where they made it in the morning.

  ‘Strange,’ observed Gney, ‘I haven’t seen any orchards.’

  Fortunately for Mascarpone, Bull had moved on.

  ‘Holy Gambling!’ he roared, ‘We should go to the Monastery of Monte San Carlos and have an evening at the tables. No need for women or farmers or home brewed cider. We could have an evening of drinking and gambling and a fair bit of profit would accrue to the Holy Church!’

  ‘Unless,’ contested Gney, ‘the King revokes the Papal Tribute!’

  This caused Bull to go completely scarlet and his outcry was joined by Mascarpone,

  ‘The King would never be so ungodly!’

  The Marshall looked most displeased by this and the King looked very anxious. He really didn’t want to talk about this.

  ‘Holy Gambling!’ he squeaked, ‘At the monastery of Monte San Carlos. What could be a better bachelor party?’

  D’Orbergene liked gambling and so said,

  ‘The King has spoken. It is decided.’

  And so it was.

  In the tent of Queen Boo Dikka it was late. The recaptured Lewis had been sent to bed with the promise of a Royal Wedding as soon as he was substituted. Dorf had gone to nurse his injury. Gareth was asleep; having consumed a good quantity of Lewis’ chicken and Roscow had gone out to try his accent out on strangers. (The truth of this was that he could no longer bear Beowulf’s furious disapproval. Beowulf was convinced that Roscow had promised never to use the ‘down on the farm’ disguise accent again and was keeping up a resentful low growling complaint that used phrases such as ‘reneged on his word’ and ‘betrayal of trust’.)This left Boo Dikka and Beowulf to sit on the royal cushions, in the candle light and drink the Queen’s wine and plan.

  For the first time in a long time, Beowulf felt himself to be in the right place. There was a plot, a beautiful Queen, a royal pavilion, it provided him with a rich backdrop; this was where he was born to operate.

  ‘Your boy’s no good, you know?’ he said confidentially to the Queen, who smiled in return.

  ‘I think he’ll do. He is the legal heir to the French Throne, after all.’

  Beowulf laughed,

  ‘You surely can’t believe that! I mean, look at him.’

  ‘But I do. He is. I mean look at us. I-’

  Beowulf interrupted,

  ‘You look like a Queen,’ he said. He felt he managed both warmth and sincerity in his tone, but the Queen just laughed again.

  ‘But the Queen of Britain?’ she asked, ‘I mean, the other Britons are so pale! And you? You don’t look like either an Evil Genius or “the most feared man in Europe”.’

  Beowulf was tempted to argue this. He was a little touchy about his appearance; however, in the interest of enjoying the Queen and candle light he let it go.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said.

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘The most feared man in Europe. I’m the deadliest, the cleverest and the most resourceful.’

  ‘Are you?’ the Queen’s eyes widened, ‘I’m so impressed. So you will have no trouble substituting Lewis for whichever of the Louis’ is about in time for the Royal Wedding and the Parliament?’

  ‘No trouble at all,’ promised Beowulf and then he laughed.

  ‘He can’t even say two words of French, can he?’

  ‘Is that going to be a problem?’ asked the Queen, ‘I thought you were “most resourceful”’

  ‘No, it’s not and yes, I am,’ said Beowulf.

  ‘I like a man who is resourceful,’ purred Boo Dikka. Beowulf’s hand snaked out to explore.

  ‘Then you like me?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Boo, trapping the wandering hand, ‘But I think I would need to see the man in action, before I could commit to anything. After all, not many survive their dealings with you.’

  Beowulf retrieved his hand.

  ‘That just adds to my attraction,’ he boasted, ‘I’m a real lady killer.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ she agreed, rather more coldly than he would have liked, ‘and that means I should be cautious. How will you steal the Louis and swap in Lewis?’

  Beowulf smiled,

  ‘Although the substance of this substitution is your business; how I achieve it is mine. I have a bit of an idea, but I will need to find out where people will be tomorrow night.’

  The Queen nodded,

  ‘I can find out in the morning. Dorf has spies.’

  ‘Then there is little more we can do about this business tonight,’ said Beowulf, ‘however-‘

  ‘However, a Queen needs her sleep when an important plot is on hand; even when the deadliest, cleverest and most resourceful man in Europe is on hand.’ Boo Dikka smiled and got up.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning’ she said and before Beowulf could reply she was gone.

  ‘Oi think you’ll be a-staying up hoif the noight thinkin’ aboit that one!’ observed Roscow who had just entered the tent, ‘Oi think that that there old Queen ‘as got the measure of you.’

  ‘Please stop using that voice,’ said Beowulf, ‘it drives me mad.’

  ‘Oi think that ain’t the only thing a-drivin’ you mad tonoight,’ replied Roscow, ‘sweet dreams!’

  Beowulf thought that inappropriate; it was unlikely he would sleep well. There was a lot to think about; three potential Kings of France, the Pope, The Duke and the Queen of Britain. Who was he going to help and who frustrate and how would he get it done, just the way he wanted? Honestly, he was really still quite unsure which outcome he would prefer; there was such a lot of choice.