An aide in the same uniform as the prince hurried into the room. He tried to bow and salute at the same time and made a mess of the whole lot. His urgency made Aubrey uneasy. ‘Your highness! Sir! It’s
…’ He worked his mouth for a moment, then snatched a leather satchel from under his arm and thrust it at the prince. ‘Sir!’
Prince Albert studied the satchel for some time before opening it and Aubrey’s unease grew. A muffled commotion came from the open doorway, where wagonloads of brass glinted from the shoulders of officers who were gathering at the door the aide had neglected to close behind him. The officers were muttering ominously. In the distance Aubrey was sure he could hear shouting.
He glanced at his friends to see that they, too, were alarmed. Caroline, holding his jacket on a coat hanger, looked out of the window then turned, open-mouthed, toward him.
I really don’t want to be lounging around right now, Aubrey thought, but decided that it would be poor timing to fling back his bedclothes while Bertie was reading a letter that made him frown so deeply.
The prince folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. For a moment, he looked into the middle distance, then he glanced at the envelope again before slipping it into the satchel, which he gave back to the aide, who was quivering at attention.
The prince stood. Carefully, he shook out the creases in his trousers and straightened his jacket. He placed his cap on his head and spent a moment making sure that it was neatly settled. He cleared his throat. ‘I regret to have to tell you, but His Majesty passed away this morning.’
Inevitably, one of the generals at the door said it: ‘The King is dead!’
The response came loud and clear from the others. ‘Long live the King!’
They took this as permission to pour into the room, a horde of brass-laden officers, all wanting to get close to the new monarch.
The prince took this calmly. He nodded, then saluted. A score of arms snapped back a salute. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We have much to do. Albion has lost a great king.’
Aubrey saw it all. It was an impressive display of self-control from someone who had been taught, ever since he was old enough to understand, about the importance of duty. Bertie had known that this day would come, the day where an ancient tradition would swing into action and sweep him away, turning him from what he was into something else. The prince was thoughtful, grave, but very much in command. A young man, but one who was ready for this moment.
Despite this, Aubrey wanted to reach out to his friend, to acknowledge that there was something personal in this moment, something that was being lost in the overwhelmingly public ritual.
We may have lost a king, Aubrey thought, but you’ve lost a father.
58
Aubrey darted behind a screen to change as the prince was whisked away by the generals, colonels and other nabobs who had congregated, aware of the significance of the moment.
Aubrey’s head popped up and down as he grappled with trousers and boots, providing a series of glimpses of the hullaballoo as he bent and straightened, so that Bertie’s progress stuttered along, shuffling across the room only to become bogged at the door by a crowd that was managing the difficult task of cheering solemnly.
A familiar figure detached himself from the flotilla around the ex-prince and strode toward them, moustache a-bristle. ‘Fitzwilliam?’ General Apsley said. ‘You’re up and about? Good. Planning meeting in the conference room on the ground floor. Five minutes.’
59
The conference room had probably been a dining room when the chateau was new. It overlooked the remains of gardens that, on this side of the estate, now seemed to be growing sandbags and tents as the chateau continued its transformation into a regional headquarters. An extensive hospital had been set up with a summer house as its central building and Aubrey wondered how this new location signalled a shift in the ebb and flow of the war. It was certainly a move up from the farmhouse that General Apsley had been using, but Aubrey wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
With lunchtime approaching, George volunteered to reconnoitre the chateau, taking Sophie to help in case he ran into anyone who didn’t speak Albionish. Aubrey was about to suggest that Caroline go with them, but her stern expression hinted that she wasn’t about to be left out of what promised to be a top-level planning meeting.
Bertie was at the head of the table, looking – understandably to Aubrey’s way of thinking – somewhat distracted. General Apsley was at the new King’s right hand. He conducted the meeting while aides scurried about adjusting charts and maps on the easels that stood on the dais at the end of the room.
‘The Holmland build-up is in disarray,’ General Apsley announced to the assembly of field commanders, intelligence operatives, Directorate agents, deputy quartermasters-general and one young King. ‘Their army is holding the line at Fremont, but their recent reinforcements have been pulled back instead of pressing forward.’
Ex-Prince Albert looked over his hands, steepled in front of his chin. ‘I think you’ll find that this is the result of Fitzwilliam’s work.’
As every gaze around the table swivelled around and locked on him, Aubrey felt as he imagined a small patch of ground in no-man’s-land would, the patch of ground that happened to be the centre of the coordinates of a massed artillery bombardment.
‘Fitzwilliam?’ General Apsley said. ‘Your friends declined to say much about your doings until you were with us again. Best if you report now, I’d say.’
Aubrey took a deep breath. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said and outlined the events at Fremont before finishing with: ‘and I’m hoping that’s why the troops have pulled back. To escort the Chancellor and the others away from the front.’
General Apsley stared at him, mouth half-open, and he wasn’t the only one in the room to adopt such a pose. ‘My sainted aunt,’ the general said eventually. ‘You magicked the Chancellor and all of his crew into the middle of a battleground? Astonishing.’
‘Fitzwilliam here is regularly astonishing,’ Bertie said. ‘We’re lucky to have him on our side.’
Aubrey blushed. ‘Just doing my duty, your highness. Your majesty.’
‘At any rate, Fitzwilliam, you’ve struck a fine blow. Good show.’ General Apsley glanced at a map of the battlelines behind him and beamed. ‘The Chancellor and the others are bound to fall back to Stalsfrieden, where they can join the train. You’ve bought us some time, but I’m afraid they’re not giving up. We have reports that more reinforcements are coming from the Central European Empire and from the eastern front. The Holmland generals aren’t going to leave anything to chance, this time.’ He glowered at the map before brightening. ‘But we have some news of our own, let me tell you. Our reinforcements have arrived.’
Spontaneous cheering greeted this, most emphatic from the weariest, least well groomed of those present, the ones who Aubrey assumed had been spending time at the front.
General Apsley patted down this applause. ‘We should have the last of ten thousand fresh men here by nightfall, including regiments from Antipodea and the subcontinent.’
This was greeted with murmurs of approval. The reputation of the Antipodeans had preceded them, while the sub-continental regiments were experienced and deadly.
The talk soon veered around to matters of supply and deployment. Aubrey’s attention began to wander, but he snapped to alertness when two black-uniformed operatives slipped into the room. One took a satchel straight to General Apsley. The other, after looking about for a moment, made a bee-line for Aubrey.
‘Fitzwilliam?’ he whispered once he’d made his way close enough.