10.25 a.m.
It was almost time. The senior judges were en route from the Royal Courts of Justice in a convoy of cars. The adventure scouts listened to their final instruction. The men and women from the BBC ran one final test. Yet not everything was running smoothly. The Vice-Chamberlain of the Household, the government minister who was to be held hostage at Buckingham Palace for the duration of the ceremony, was descending into a state of panic. A fly button on the grey-striped trousers of his morning suit was hanging by the slenderest of threads and would never last the morning. This was his first time; he was nervous, and all but screamed with frustration. His secretary, as always, came to the rescue with a soothing word and a needle and thread, trying not to laugh at the sight of his dangling double cuffs and pale pastry knees.
The benches in the chamber were beginning to fill. The first bishop had already taken his place, and behind him ambassadors and envoys were gathering. The first to arrive was the High Commissioner of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, a portly man dressed in a bright gold and highly decorated achkan, a long coat that ended at the shins. He leaned heavily on a walking stick, and at his special request had been placed at the end of the leather bench rather than being forced to squeeze between many others. The high commissioner had only recently arrived in London, following the turmoil and revolution that had left his country with a second change of government in less than a year. Robert Paine sat nearby, but they exchanged nothing more than the briefest greeting; the weight of his country’s troubles seemed to weigh heavily on the Pakistani’s shoulders. Paine looked up and offered a private smile to Magnus and William-Henry who had taken their places in the gallery. It was a narrow and desperately uncomfortable perch, designed for women of a delicate Victorian stature, but the two friends hadn’t a care, leaning forward to spy on the scene below. They found a sight that was staggering and, to their young eyes, even faintly comical. Television lights danced upon a brimming sea of tiaras, medals, brooches, silks, jewels, decorations and dog collars. Their pro gramme told them they were looking down on Pursuivants Ordinary and Extraordinary, heralds and high men, barons, bodyguards and bishops, earls and ushers, and they thought they could see Pooh Bah and Uncle To m Cobley mixed in there, too.
‘Straight out of Gilbert and Sullivan,’ Magnus muttered in awe.
‘Like one of those fifties films with the colour control on full blast,’ William-Henry replied.
‘Designed to impress the masses, of course.’
‘The cradle of democracy.’
‘Not quite,’ Magnus responded. ‘Technically, this is a royal palace. Funny place. You know, that makes it almost impossible to die here. To have a death certificate record your place of departure as the Palace of Westminster, it’s got to be signed by a royal surgeon. Buggers are never around when you need them. So if you stop breathing, you’re put in an ambulance and carted off across the river to St Thomas’s. Dead on arrival. Somehow takes the splendour out of it all, don’t you think?’
‘Magnus, you are a fount of the most useless information imaginable.’
‘Just wanted to make you feel at home.’
‘Then get me some breakfast! Hey, that one’s a waiter, isn’t he?’ William-Henry said, pointing to a black-clad figure below.
‘I think you’ll find that’s the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod. Good for a brandy but not bacon and eggs.’
‘Then I’m going to die of hunger, no matter what you say.’
The truth was, no one was supposed to die in the Palace of Westminster. It was against regulations. It was yet another of those rules that, in the next few hours, was going to be torn up.
10.30 a.m.
Even as the young men gently mocked their elders, the main gates to the Sovereign’s Entrance were being opened in preparation to receive Her Majesty. At the same time, her hostage was being driven up the Mall to Buckingham Palace, his trousers now intact. He held his top hat on his lap in one hand and his wand of office in the other, and fidgeted nervously.
Heading in the other direction down the Mall, in its own coach, came the Imperial State Crown. It was the finest piece of jewellery in the world. Its sapphire had been taken from the ring of Edward the Confessor, its diamond was the third largest in the world, and the egg-sized ruby had once belonged to the Black Prince, making it one of the oldest known jewels known to man. To add a little sparkle there were more than three thousand other diamonds, pearls and precious stones embedded in it. The Crown was heavy, it could not be otherwise, and too heavy for comfort on most heads. Wearing it required both patience and a little practice. Palace footmen reported seeing Elizabeth wearing the Crown over breakfast, with her newspapers, in preparation.
Along with the Crown came the Sword of State and the Cap of Maintenance, a crimson velvet affair carried on a stick and whose origins lay so far back in the shadows of the past that no one could remember what it was for, although it was still treated in much the same way as if it had been the bones of St Peter. Except that, for some reason no one was entirely clear about, it seemed to have spent the last year tucked away in a drawer of Prince Philip’s desk. No one had been unwise enough to ask the Prince why; he was sick, and in any event probably wouldn’t have a clue how it had ended up there, but he’d be sure to throw one of his castle-cracking fits if he thought they’d been raking through his desk drawers. No telling what might turn up in them.
At 10.52 precisely the coach carrying the royal regalia arrived at the Sovereign’s Entrance. Here the Crown was passed to the Royal Bargemaster before being taken under guard to the Robing Room, where were waiting the other necessary props required for the occasion. These necessaries included the Queen’s robe, six yards of it, four page-boys to carry it, and a bottle of sherry which had been brought from the palace by one of the Ladies-in-Waiting. Elizabeth was partial to sherry on such occasions, for medicinal purposes. Great care would be taken to ensure that what remained of the sherry was taken back to the palace afterwards. It wouldn’t do to have a half-empty bottle of oloroso royale popping up on eBay.
Back at Buckingham Palace, Her Majesty was being seen off from the inner courtyard by a group of officials, in the midst of whom stood her ministerial hostage. He bowed his head low. The day was unusually clement for November, the palace basked in the sun like a contented walrus. The Irish State Coach was drawn by four white horses, their hooves echoing back from the walls of the inner archway as, with her son beside her, the Queen set out for that other palace of illusions that lay on the far side of the park. A squadron of the Household Cavalry led the way.
As the noise of the hooves died away, the Lord Chamberlain touched the elbow of his parliamentary guest. ‘You are now my prisoner, young man. Come with me.’ The junior minister was escorted up to the Lord Chamberlain’s offices, walled with bookcases and equipped with several fine cracked-leather armchairs and a television. A bottle of old champagne was standing on a low side table.
‘Now that the Boss has gone, we can get down to business. Will you pour or shall I?’ the Lord Chamberlain enquired.
‘You know, I think I might learn to enjoy being a hostage,’ the young politician replied, at last relaxing.
The Lord Chamberlain offered a modest smile. ‘The House of Windsor does its best.’
As they made themselves comfortable in the armchairs, on the other side of the park, in the heart of parliament, the last of the assassins, who now numbered eight, was taking his own seat.
11.02 a.m.
The Royal Gallery that adjoins the chamber itself is not so much a gallery as a vast chamber, larger even than that in which the peers sit. It is sumptuous, and dominated by two extraordinarily long tableaux that commemorate the British victories over the French at Waterloo and Trafalgar. The paintings are vivid and bloody, with bodies and broken bits scattered everywhere, most of them French. This is where guests who are unable to be in the Chamber itself are seated, and through which, with pomp and circumstance and just a touch of carnival, the
Queen and her royal entourage pass. A tremor of excitement ran through the guests waiting here, for it was their day, too. There were sikhs, sultans, saris, rabbis and minor foreign royalty, commoners black, white, yellow and brown, Nepalese and Nigerians and a couple from Nottingham. The wife wore a creation of plumes and plucked feathers that on a different day would have done as dusters. The hat was also as broad as a London bus, lacking only the advertisement stuck on its rear end.
Without any apparent signal, the Royal Gallery grew still. Expectant. The Yeomen of the Guard stamped their way through to take up their positions. Then sounds of the Arrival began to drift through: much banging of ancient axes, crashing of boots, the shouting of commands that had echoed through these chambers for generations, except, of course, for the instruction to switch off mobile phones. From somewhere outside came the strains of the National Anthem. On the tower above the Sovereign’s Entrance, the Union Flag was struck and replaced by the Royal Standard. She was here.
Then, at 11.27 precisely, the doors to the Robing Room were opened and the Queen, on the hand of her eldest son, advanced into the Royal Gallery, followed by four serious-faced and over-stepping page-boys who carried the train of the royal robe. It was a moment dripping with solemnity, when the English reached back deep into their history and touched their ancestors’ souls. Oh, but the atmosphere was so rich that Ethel, the lady from Nottingham, almost swooned as the play was performed only feet in front of her; so many actors, so many wonderful costumes. Ladies-in-Waiting walked with a Gold-Stick-in-Waiting, a Clarenceux King of Arms marched in time with a Garter King, while an Earl Marshal rubbed shoulders with a Master of the Horse. It was a Queen’s cornucopia.
‘She’s so lovely, bless her,’ Ethel whispered, nudging Arthur, her husband, as she rose from her curtsey. ‘And so close. I swear I could’ve touched her, if only I’d stretched a little. But look at the Prince, hasn’t the poor dear aged so?’
‘Men over sixty do, you silly girl,’ he muttered back from the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s older than Cousin Mavis, and we buried her a year ago. Now shuddup!’
And in a mere heave of Ethel’s bosom, the procession was gone, through to the House of Lords itself. A few moments before the Queen arrived the two large television screens set at height on either side of the throne went blank. Nothing was meant to distract from her entrance, not even her own image. Before the screen in his royal cell, the ministerial hostage raised his glass and offered an extravagant toast of loyalty. He was already a little squiffy. The Lord Chamberlain eyed his guest and quietly wrote him off. No, this one wasn’t for the top, not the very top. Insufficient stamina.
And on the packed benches in the House of Lords, as the screens turned black, Celia Blessing sensed more than heard some form of disturbance behind her, a feeling that was like being shrouded in a mist of pain. She turned and saw that Archie Wakefield’s ruddy cheeks were floating in a sea of ash.
‘Everything OK, Archie?’
‘Never better,’ he lied, struggling.
She looked at him with an expression that was typically sharp but filled more with concern than distrust. ‘Silly man. You shouldn’t be here. Why did you come?’
11.30 a.m.
She walked slowly up the steps to her throne as behind her the page-boys nervously laid out her train upon the carpet. ‘My Lords, pray be seated,’ she commanded as soon as she was settled. The voice sounded a little cracked and tired; she was, after all, well into her eighties and she had been fighting a cold. Beside her, on her left, sat the Prince of Wales, but on a throne an inch lower; no one, not even he, allowed to sit as high. As the rustling died away and the room was returned to stillness, she gazed through her glasses at a scene that stretched back through more than fifty years of her life, to the time when she was a young woman. This was not what she had wanted or least of all expected. It wasn’t meant to be, not for her, not until Uncle David – Edward, the Eighth and Most Wanton of that name – had just . . . given up! Abdicated! Thrown away the love of an entire Empire for the dubious affections of a pinched-face American divorcee who had, according to some reports, honed her feminine wiles in a Shanghai whorehouse. Her uncle’s desertion had cast her beloved father into a task he hadn’t wanted and for which he was ill-prepared, woefully, but which he had taken to his heart and fulfilled to his last breath, a dedication that had, year by year and speech by stuttering speech, worn him down until it eventually killed him. How different things might have been, not just for him, but for her, too. What opportunities she might have had, in another life, the life she had been born to. A chance to breed horses, or to fish the streams, to watch the flowers blossom. Simple pleasures. But it was never meant to be, not after bloody Uncle David.
She raised her eyes. Around the walls at the distant end of the chamber stood eighteen sombre statues of the barons and bishops who had forced King John to sign the Magna Carta, a reminder of how vulnerable is any throne. Even today she was required to make this speech – the Queen’s Speech as it was called, yet not a single word of it would be hers, all written down to the last comma and little conceit by politicians. Her life was spun round in many golden threads, and so tightly that they formed the most confining of cages.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, that she was ready. It was the signal for Black Rod to summon the Commons. Dressed in black tailcoat, breeches and stockings with his sword at his side, he set out on his task, striding towards the House of Commons, only for the great oak doors to be slammed in his face in the traditional act of defiance to the monarch. He raised his black rod, struck three times upon the door, and slowly it opened to allow him entrance.
The House was crowded, in gentle humour. A voice was raised. ‘Oi, look, here comes the Black Magic man,’ and the Members dissolved into laughter that had Black Rod himself struggling to keep a straight face. He bowed, and advanced.
‘Mr Speaker, the Queen commands this honourable House’ – a polite nod in the direction of both sides – ‘to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers.’
And so they came, filing through, side by side, the Prime Minister and Leader of the Opposition, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, all the most powerful men and women in the land – all, that is, except Tricia Willcocks, who was lying down in her darkened bedroom, hiding behind eyeshades. Many other Members of the Commons came for the trip, for while in the Lords the occasion is treated as high ceremony, in the lower house it’s not much more than a bit of a show. Light entertainment. A morning off.
The Bar of the House of Lords is a barrier erected just inside its entrance that is designed to prevent visitors progressing any further into the chamber. For the State Opening the Bar had been moved forward to allow as many members of the Commons as possible to have a sight of the proceedings and they crowded in, spreading out and standing like spectators at a football match. It was uncomfortable, but it wouldn’t be for long. Apart from the Cabinet, only around a hundred MPs bothered; there was no point standing outside like naughty schoolboys, but for those who succeeded in getting a view, it was magnificent. At the far end of the chamber the Throne and its glittering gold canopy stood like a temple that had been snatched from the timeless world of Shangri-la. No one did this better than the British. At Elizabeth’s left hand sat the heir, and on either side stood the four page-boys and her ladies-in-waiting, while at the foot of the steps that lead to the Throne were gathered her closest advisers and courtiers. Before her stretched the sea of scarlet that were her barons, viscounts, earls, marquises, even a couple of dukes. And those who would be her assassins.
11.36 a.m.
Harry had filed along with the crowd. He was passing through the Central Lobby, that echoing Gothic crossroads that stands between the two houses of parliament, when he saw an old friend, one of the doorkeepers, nodding in his direction.
‘Morning, boss,’ the doorkeeper mouthed.
‘Hello, Brains,’ Harry responded. ‘Brains’ Benjamin had been one of Harry’s NCOs in the Lif
e Guards, a former Corporal Major and one of the finest horsemen in the regiment, so good, he was said to have his brains in his backside. It was a characteristic of Harry’s life in the army that for every senior officer he had exasperated beyond endurance, he had made a hundred loyal friends among the troops he led. Brains Benjamin had been one of them. ‘Good to see you,’ Harry called out as he passed. ‘We must have a jar; it’s been too long.’
‘As long as it’s not north of the Arctic Circle again, you’re on, Boss.’
Harry managed a smile – the first time the warmth of human contact had begun to melt the morning’s ice – and was about to reply when he felt his mobile phone vibrating. He’d left it on for Melanie, just in case. He stepped to one side in order to answer it. He caught his breath; it was Melanie. A text: If u insist. 8 pm The Ivy.