Three Kings Read online

  Unfortunately, Sebastian minded, and that had its consequences in their rather desolate bedroom. Now his hand trembled a little, balancing the plate heavy with rice and curry, and Alan reached out to take it from him. Sebastian pulled away. ‘I’ve got it, Alan; don’t fuss.’

  ‘You should’ve eaten. The doctor said—’

  ‘Enough,’ Sebastian snapped. He took a quick breath, visibly steadying himself. ‘It’s almost time for the news – we can watch together.’ He handed Alan a cold beer, and then they were moving back through the door, heading into the sitting room, with its comfortably worn leather furniture and the big TV. ‘How is she doing?’

  Alan let it go, settling down on the couch beside his husband. ‘It won’t be long now, I think. Tomorrow or the next day.’ The curry was sharp and sweet, the way he liked it, with a little vinegar tang to balance the heat. Sebastian dark-roasted the spices, ground them himself, giving the curry a rich flavour surpassing any local takeaway. The TV news was still covering the recent football results: Watford continue their winning run, following recent promotion back into the Premier League … Alan’s days of dreaming of Olympic gold were long past him; no one would call him a serious runner now. But he still enjoyed following sports.

  Sebastian took a long draught of his beer. ‘And the rest of the royals? How are they taking it?’

  ‘Henry is practically chomping at the bit. How Margaret managed to raise a son like that …’ Would Elizabeth’s child have been any better? If they’d given him a chance?

  ‘Well, Richard’s a decent enough chap. Did you see him?’

  Alan answered carefully, ‘Yes, the Duke was there, of course.’

  When he’d first started dating Sebastian, their relationship had been open. Sebastian had an insecure streak, though, and after a few too many angry fights, Alan had agreed to monogamy. It simply wasn’t worth arguing. He’d held to it, mostly, until the affair with Richard. Sebastian had caught him, not long after it first started, and that had almost been the end of their relationship. A crystal chess set, a gift from Richard, had ended up shattered in pieces on the tiled greenhouse floor. Alan’s perfect memory replayed the scene on command: Sebastian shouting, ‘How do you expect me to compete with a fucking prince?’ Tears that he refused to shed stood in his eyes.

  Alan had eventually persuaded Sebastian to forgive him, promised never to slip again. The problem, Alan had reasoned at the time, wasn’t the affair itself – that had gone on quite pleasantly until he’d been caught. He’d been sloppy, that was the problem. That’s why Sebastian had been hurt. He didn’t want to hurt his husband; Alan loved him. But Alan had seen no point in confessing when he and Richard shared a few stolen moments, here and there, over the years.

  Of course, lately, it’d been a bit more than that. Richard had grown ardent, intoxicatingly passionate. Sometimes, Alan thought he should confess it all: confession was good for the soul, they said. Did jokers still have souls? A morbid thought for a sombre night.

  ‘Alan?’ Sebastian leaned forward, tapped Alan’s arm.

  ‘Sorry – just thinking of Margaret,’ Alan said hastily. ‘Her family’s gathered around the bedside in proper fashion. Perhaps I should have stayed …’ The news was shifting now, onto the weather. Cold and rainy, with more cold and rainy to come. Appropriate for mourning at least.

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow. ‘What could you do there, really?’

  All manner of things, like searching for a lost heir. Not that he could discuss that with Sebastian. There had been times over the decades, when little bits of Silver Helix business had slipped out; that was inevitable in a long relationship. But this news was potentially explosive; Alan couldn’t risk a slip of Sebastian’s tongue. It was almost as it had been, back during the war, when they’d worked on the German ciphers at Bletchley in complete secrecy. Alan had long ago learned how to keep his mouth shut.

  Still – ‘There are things I should be working on.’ It wouldn’t hurt if Sebastian thought there was a good reason for his late nights.

  Sebastian shrugged. ‘I’m sure, but I’m also sure the Crown can spare you for a few hours. It’s not as if you’re running the Silver Helix. You can have a decent meal, and get some sleep, and in the morning, maybe you can sort out that leaf mould?’ He gestured out of the window to where the summer house sat at the far end of a row of trees. The birdfeeders had all been recently filled, and Alan knew that in the morning a host of birds would be swooping down and squabbling over the bounty. Robins and goldfinches, starlings and crows. ‘You promised you’d take care of that this weekend – the snowdrops will be smothered if you don’t, and my shoulder …’

  Alan frowned. ‘You’ve been overdoing it.’ He took a long draught of his beer, savouring the bitter taste that lingered on his tongue. Sebastian’s new brew was even better than his last. ‘Maybe it’s time to talk about retirement again? I make plenty for both of us, you know.’ Alan idly calculated the odds – yes, if he stopped work tomorrow, they could live quite comfortably on his investments. Probably indefinitely, barring catastrophes – but with the mind that the wild card had gifted him, Alan should be able to avoid any of those.

  Of course, Sebastian probably wouldn’t make it that much longer. Seventy-four. Sebastian’s parents had died in their seventies, and his grandparents notably earlier. Alan couldn’t help calculating the odds. Mortality tables had a certain grim fascination to them. Yes, his husband probably had no more than ten or fifteen years left – Alan’s mind flinched away from that thought. He couldn’t quite picture his life without Sebastian in it.

  As for Alan himself – who knew? He was one hundred and eight this year, but didn’t feel old yet – he felt, in fact, much as he had in his twenties. His card’s turning might have brought him many more decades of life – or he might drop dead tomorrow. There was no way to calculate that.

  Sebastian was frowning at him. ‘Make plenty for both of us? What are you saying, Alan – that your work is more important than mine? Just because you get paid more?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything of the sort, Sebastian, and you know it.’ Alan fought to keep his tone even, not letting the irritation through. That would just escalate marital snippiness into an actual squabble. Alan did get frustrated with the imprecision with which most people spoke. Sebastian should know better by now.

  His husband turned away, and was staring at the TV screen now, deliberately. Punishing him. ‘I care about what I do, Alan. I may not be a human computer, but I’m good at my work, one of the best.’ His voice rose a little. ‘Have you seen the new maze garden at Buckingham Palace? You can view it from Margaret’s windows – have you even bothered to look? It’ll take several years to fill in properly, of course, but I designed it specially for her to enjoy …’

  ‘I’m sorry – I just haven’t had time …’ to look at plants, was what Alan carefully didn’t say out loud. ‘But I’ll look tomorrow. Maybe I can find enough time to go for a walk in it …’ with Richard, which he also didn’t say.

  Sebastian brightened, turning back to him. ‘Come at noon – I can show you around.’

  Oh, he’d walked into that one, hadn’t he? ‘If I can get away.’ Alan regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth; Sebastian’s eyes had gone bleak. ‘No, I’m sure I can. Tomorrow. We can have lunch together – when you came to work at the Palace, we said we’d have lunch all the time …’

  ‘Yet somehow, we never do,’ Sebastian said.

  Alan counted to ten, at human speed. He had to try harder. Sebastian was just so much work. Richard was easy by comparison … ‘Maybe we can pick some flowers for our lunch, add them to a salad, or to a bit of dessert? Remember that cake you made me for my birthday, with the crystallized rose petals on top? That was delicious. I’m sure the Queen wouldn’t mind …’

  Sebastian sniffed. ‘The only things blooming in the garden right now are hellebores and snowdrops. If you put hellebores in my dessert, I’ll drop down dead.’

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nbsp; ‘Well, we wouldn’t want that.’ Alan put a hand on Sebastian’s cheek, leaned in for a quick kiss. After a brief moment, his husband responded, lips warming under his, opening. The kiss lingered, longer than any had in some time, and when Sebastian finally pulled away, his eyes were bright.

  ‘No,’ Sebastian said, softly. ‘I suppose we wouldn’t.’ He snuggled into Alan’s shoulder, turning back to the television, and increasing the volume a bit. Even with the closed captions on, Sebastian liked to hear as much as he could.

  Alan brushed his husband’s hair with his fingers, letting the strands slip past, one by one. He should’ve felt reassured, but there had been something in Sebastian’s eyes, a bleakness, that worried him. He couldn’t possibly know about Richard, could he?

  The TV cut away, and then there was a sombre-faced announcer on the screen, all in black, announcing that the Queen had passed away. Oh, Margaret.

  ‘I’ll have to go in,’ Alan said, pulling away from his husband and rising to his feet.

  ‘Right now?’ Sebastian asked. He followed Alan back to the main entry.

  Alan said, as he bundled up again in cardigan, coat, scarf, ‘I’ll have to meet with the Lion at Windsor, set up Henry’s security detail for his return to London and Buckingham Palace. It will take some time – don’t wait up.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ Sebastian said quietly. ‘Though I don’t sleep well until you’re safely home beside me.’

  Alan repressed a sigh. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can.’ Time to make an effort. ‘The curry was delicious, love. Thank you.’

  Alan let the door shut behind him, and headed out into the cold.

  That night, the killings of the crows continued. There wasn’t so much as a word spoken of it on the news channels, even though now, adults were joining in. Gunshots rang out and even in the nearest barracks she felt crows die at the hands of common soldiers, while officers turned a blind eye.

  And that’s when the goddess understood.

  Like any dying organism, the city stirred its antibodies to free itself of the disease. It knew, perhaps only through the shared subconscious of its inhabitants, who she was, what she was. Perhaps the time had come to spread her wings. To bring some other city to its knees so that the land might drink the blood of its heroes.

  On the news, an item about farm subsidies was brought to a sudden halt.

  ‘We apologize to viewers for the interruption, but we’re hearing that Windsor Castle will be making an announcement in the next five minutes or so. The programme will stay on the air, but it looks as if the sad news we’ve been expecting about the Queen is about to be confirmed. If so, it truly is the end of an era. An unprecedented time of peace and prosperity for mainland Britain for which she deserves some of the credit …’

  Badb stayed up watching for hours. ‘Unprecedented peace and prosperity,’ she thought. ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘And what about the succession?’ said one royal correspondent to another.

  ‘Frankly, the polling prefers Richard by a wide margin. His opinions are less … troubling.’

  ‘Quite!’

  ‘But just imagine the chaos if he were to try for the throne!’

  Imagine the chaos. Unprecedented peace.

  Badb left that very night.

  Sunday

  March 1st

  ST PAUL’S CATHEDRAL WAS packed with worshippers – correction, make that ‘gawkers’, Noel thought. There were some obvious tourists among the crowd but it seemed to be predominately locals filling the chairs. The boys in the choir were doing their best to draw attention away from the family in the front pew, as were the various participants leading the congregation in prayer, and everyone was failing utterly.

  This was the first opportunity for people to see their new king and his young bride-to-be and they were taking full advantage. Noel studied the man: his bald pate shining in the light through one of the transept windows, the black mourning armband wrinkling the material of his suit jacket. In place of his now-divorced, rather horse-faced wife of forty-three years sat a young woman in a chic little hat with a net veil. Her family was also present, but the whole thing was grotesque. She could have been his granddaughter.

  Henry’s only son, Edward, had been killed sixteen years ago while serving in one of those periodic conflicts that flared up in British colonies, and Edward’s wife had lost her baby, leaving only Henry’s other child, the royal daughter, Gloriana. But she had married a Norwegian prince and agreed to be removed from the succession. It amused Noel to think he had been part of the reason for that marriage. He stifled a laugh.

  Gloriana was not present on this cold, grey Sunday but Noel assumed she would attend the funeral. As for Henry, Noel could not fathom why he hadn’t remained at Windsor and attended services at St George’s chapel rather than returning to London. Maybe he wanted to bask in the moment and show off his bride. Christ knows he’s waited long enough for the crown, but Richard …

  Noel stole a glance across the aisle where Richard, Duke of York, sat stony-faced with Diana and their brood. Despite the rumours about his proclivities, Richard had sired an outrageous number of kids. Although based on some of the hair colours it was questionable if all of them were his.

  The prayer of preparation began and Noel found his memory of the words returning. ‘Almighty God to whom all hearts are open, all desires known …’ Please let me keep my son. ‘And from whom no secrets are hidden …’ Please don’t let him ever find out what kind of man I really am. ‘Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy name; through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  Despite himself, the music and language was having an effect even though his belief in any sort of divine, guiding and loving god had vanished years ago. Yet how quickly one returned to a hope that entreaties to an imaginary friend in the sky could actually help. He glanced down at Jasper, who sat with rapt attention listening to the music. The boy’s fingers were playing with the light flowing through the stained-glass windows, weaving the different colours into a fanciful design. Noel laid a hand over Jasper’s and leaned in to whisper. ‘Not in here. There’s a lot of security.’ He nodded towards the various agents positioned around the church, and the three Silver Helix agents. ‘They might view what you’re doing as a threat.’

  The boy gave a small gasp and released his construct. It shattered into slivers of light that flew in all directions. Rory Campbell, known to the world as Archimedes, who was up in the Whispering Gallery, stiffened and peered down. Noel caught his eye and gave him a brief salute. The ace gave him a dirty look but relaxed.

  The service continued with prayers and hymns, readings and a sermon. Noel shifted a bit on the hard pew, attempting to ease the ache in his backside. The things I do to prove I’m a fit parent, he thought. At last it was time for the Holy Eucharist. The royals received communion first and their security detail closed in to block access and even much of a view of the family from the passing worshippers.

  Noel, hand on Jasper’s back, guided him forward. All six foot six of Ranjit Singh blocked the entry into the royal pew, his turban adding to his towering presence. He had been Noel’s firearms instructor when he had been recruited into the intelligence service, and the Lion had become the head of the Silver Helix after Flint’s conviction for war crimes. Noel gave him a nod as they passed and received a glare in return.

  He and Jasper knelt at the altar rail as the Bishop of London, assisted by a pair of priests (no mere altar boys for a bishop), made his way down the line dispensing the host. The dry wafer caught in the back of Noel’s throat, which caused him to take a rather large sip from the chalice being offered by the trailing priest. That earned him another frown. Nobody seemed to be happy with him today. The thought amused him.

  Once back in their seats there was more singing and more praying and then blessedly, mercifully it was over. There was a brief remonstration with Henry, the gestures fro
m the agents – both nat and wild card – indicating that they would prefer the King to leave through a more private exit, but Henry was having none of it. He sat stubbornly still until the bishop announced that the congregation should leave. Noel and Jasper joined the throng shuffling slowly out of the cathedral. Noel contemplated transforming into his male avatar and just teleporting them out of the crowd, but decided that might cause an uproar and rather undercut his image as a responsible father.

  The crows of London welcomed Badb as well as any had in Belfast. More so! She’d stowed away on a lorry, hiding under a pallet of frozen fish. When the vehicle came to a stop in a place called Billingsgate and she had tumbled out of the back, exhausted and dehydrated, a spiral of crows had descended around her to pay homage.

  They did not flinch as she bit through the skulls of the two closest, swallowing the brains, sating her thirst on their blood. She sent the rest of them flying again, watching the glory of London through their eyes. Oh, this city! This unfamiliar city! Its might swept out below her in all directions. How it had ripened until such a time as she could come for it.

  She flitted from one bird to the next, learning the shape of the river. There were towers tall enough to house every soul in Belfast. Glass glittered, steel shone. But not everywhere. She landed outside a room where twelve immigrant workers snored beside their own washing. She soared over a knot of narrow streets where only jokers walked or slithered or hopped. Divisions. Yes, there were divisions here too. Poverty lived within stabbing distance of wealth.

  Down there, in a place called Greenwich, the IRA had a safe house. Less than a mile away, their sworn enemies in the UVF kept a hidey-hole of their own. She knew all their secrets. They would do as they were bid.