The throne room was empty.
They eventually found Verence II, King of Lancre, in the stable yard.
Some people are born to kingship. Some achieve kingship, or at least Arch-Generalissimo-Father-of-His-Countryship. But Verence had kingship thrust upon him.{6} He hadn’t been raised to it, and had only arrived at the throne by way of one of those complicated mix-ups of fraternity and parentage that are all too common in royal families.
He had in fact been raised to be a Fool, a man whose job it was to caper and tell jokes and have custard poured down his trousers. This had naturally given him a grave and solemn approach to life and a grim determination never to laugh at anything ever again, especially in the presence of custard.
In the role of ruler, then, he had started with the advantage of ignorance. No-one had ever told him how to be a king, so he had to find out for himself. He’d sent off for books on the subject. Verence was a great believer in the usefulness of knowledge derived from books.
He had formed the unusual opinion that the job of a king is to make the kingdom a better place for everyone to live in.
Now he was inspecting a complicated piece of equipment. It had a pair of shafts for a horse, and the rest of it looked like a cartful of windmills.
He glanced up, and smiled in an absent-minded way.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said. ‘All back safe then?’
‘Um—’ Magrat began.
‘It’s a patent crop rotator,’{7} said Verence. He tapped the machine. ‘Just arrived from Ankh-Morpork. The wave of the future, you know. I’ve really been getting interested in agricultural improvement and soil efficiency. We’ll really have to get cracking on this new three-field system.’
Magrat was caught off balance.
‘But I think we’ve only got three fields,’ she said, ‘and there isn’t much soil in—’
‘It’s very important to maintain the correct relationship between grains, legumes and roots,’ said Verence, raising his voice. ‘Also, I’m seriously considering clover. I should be interested to know what you think!’
‘Um—’
‘And I think we should do something about the pigs!’ Verence shouted. ‘The Lancre Stripe! Is very hardy! But we could really bring the poundage up! By careful cross-breeding! With, say, the Sto Saddleback! I’m having a boar sent up — Shawn, will you stop blowing that damn trumpet!’
Shawn lowered the trumpet.
‘I’m doin’ a fanfare, your majesty.’
‘Yes, yes, but you’re not supposed to go on. A few brief notes are a sufficiency.’ Verence sniffed. ‘And something’s burning.’
‘Oh, blow … it’s the carrots …’ Shawn hurried away.
‘That’s better,’ said Verence. ‘Where were we?’
‘Pigs, I think,’ said Magrat, ‘but I really came to—’
‘It all comes down to the soil,’ said Verence. ‘Get the soil right, and everything else follows. Incidentally, I’m arranging the marriage for Midsummer Day. I thought you’d like that.’
Magrat’s mouth formed an O.
‘We could move it, of course, but not too much because of the harvest,’ said Verence.
‘I’ve had some invitations sent out already, to the more obvious guests,’ said Verence.
‘And I thought it might be a nice idea to have some sort of fair or festival beforehand,’ said Verence.
‘I asked Boggi’s in Ankh-Morpork to send up their best dressmaker{8} with a selection of materials and one of the maids is about your size and I think you’ll be very pleased with the result,’ said Verence.
‘And Mr Ironfoundersson, the dwarf, came down the mountain specially to make the crown,’ said Verence.
‘And my brother and Mr Vittoller’s Men can’t come because they’re touring Klatch, apparently, but Hwel the playsmith has written a special play for the wedding entertainment. Something even rustics can’t muck up, he says,’ said Verence.
‘So that’s all settled then?’ said Verence.
Finally, Magrat’s voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.
‘Aren’t you supposed to ask me?’ she demanded.
‘What? Um. No, actually,’ said Verence. ‘No. Kings don’t ask. I looked it up. I’m the king, you see, and you are, no offence meant, a subject. I don’t have to ask.’
Magrat’s mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.
Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away. And he’ll probably come after you.
Very probably.
Um.
Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice little man with gentle runny eyes but he’s also a king and he’s been looking things up. But very probably quite probably.
But …
Do you want to bet the rest of your life? Isn’t this what you wanted anyway? Isn’t it what you came here hoping for? Really?
Verence was looking at her with some concern.
‘Is it the witching?’ he said. ‘You don’t have to give that up entirely, of course. I’ve got a great respect for witches. And you can be a witch queen, although I think that means you have to wear rather revealing clothes and keep cats and give people poisoned apples. I read that somewhere. The witching’s a problem, is it?’
‘No,’ Magrat mumbled, ‘it’s not that … um … did you mention a crown?’
‘You’ve got to have a crown,’ said Verence. ‘Queens do. I looked it up.’
Her brain cut in again. Queen Magrat, it suggested. It held up the mirror of the imagination …
‘You’re not upset, are you?’ said Verence.
‘What? Oh. No. Me? No.’
‘Good. That’s all sorted out, then. I think that just about covers everything, don’t you?’
‘Um—’
Verence rubbed his hands together.
‘We’re doing some marvellous things with legumes,’ he said, as if he hadn’t just completely rearranged Magrat’s life without consulting her. ‘Beans, peas … you know. Nitrogen fixers. And marl and lime, of course. Scientific husbandry. Come and look at this.’
He bounced away enthusiastically.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘we could really make this kingdom work.’
Magrat trailed after him.
So that was all settled, then. Not a proposal, just a statement. She hadn’t been quite sure how the moment would be, even in the darkest hours of the night, but she’d had an idea that roses and sunsets and bluebirds might just possibly be involved. Clover had not figured largely. Beans and other leguminous nitrogen fixers were not a central feature.
On the other hand Magrat was, at the core, far more practical than most people believed who saw no further than her vague smile and collection of more than three hundred pieces of occult jewellery, none of which worked.
So this was how you got married to a king. It all got arranged for you. There were no white horses. The past flipped straight into the future, carrying you with it.
Perhaps that was normal. Kings were busy people. Magrat’s experience of marrying them was limited.
‘Where are we going?’ she said.
‘The old rose garden.’
Ah … well, this was more like it.
Except that there weren’t any roses. The walled garden had been stripped of its walks and arbours and was now waist high in green stalks with white flowers. Bees were furiously at work in the blossoms.
‘Beans?’ said Magrat.
‘Yes! A specimen crop. I keep bringing the farmers up here to show them,’ said Verence. He sighed. ‘They nod and mumble and smile but I’m afraid they just go off and do the same old things.’