Cheers of high relief rang up to the roof and echoed back. ‘Hear, hear!’ someone shouted. ‘Hear, hear!’
‘“We are resolved that discussion and dialogue will be the means we shall use to deal with any outstanding questions that concern our two countries and to resolve all possible sources of difference in order to maintain the peace.”’
There were hip hip hoorays for Chancellor Ikard and a chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ all round.
During the commotion, IdrisPukke was able to mutter in Vipond’s ear. ‘You must say something.’
‘Now is not the time,’ replied Vipond.
‘There won’t be another. Stall it.’
Vipond stood up.
‘I am prepared to say without any hesitation or doubt that Pope Bosco has another paper,’ said Vipond. ‘And in this paper he sets out the general scheme for the attack on Switzerland and the destruction of its king.’
There was the distinctive murmur of people who had heard something they didn’t care for.
‘We are negotiating acceptable peace terms,’ said Bose Ikard, ‘with an enemy we know to be violent and well prepared. It would be astonishing only if Pope Bosco did not have such a plan.’
The murmur was now one of sophisticated approvaclass="underline" it was reassuring to have a man negotiating for peace who was such a cool realist. Such a man would not have his pocket picked by wishful thinking. Later, as the meeting came to an end and the conference filed out, mulling over what they’d heard, King Zog turned to his chancellor. Ikard was hoping, with good reason, to be complimented for dealing so skilfully with an opponent like Lord Vipond.
‘Who,’ said Zog, tongue aflutter in his mouth, ‘was that striking young man standing behind Vipond?’
‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘That was Conn Materazzi, husband of the Duchess Arbell.’
‘Really?’ said Zog, breathless. ‘And what kind of Materazzi is he?’ By this he meant was he one of the clan in general or of the direct line of descent from William Materazzi, known as the Conqueror or the Bastard, depending on whether he had taken your property or given it to you.
‘He is a direct descendent, I believe.’
There was a wet sigh of satisfaction from Zog. From Lord Harwood there was a thunderous look of resentment. The royal favourite, who signed his letters to the King as ‘Davy, Your Majesty’s most humble slave and dog’, now had a rival.
An equerry, somewhat hesitant, sidled up to the King. ‘Your Majesty, the people are raising a clamour to see you at the great balcony.’ This impressive platform, known as El Balcon de los Sicofantes, had been built two hundred years before to show off King Henry 11’s much adored Spanish bride. It looked out over a vast mall on which more than two hundred thousand could gather to praise the monarch.
Zog sighed. ‘The people will never be satisfied until I take down my trousers and show them my arse.’
He walked off towards the great window and the balcony beyond, calling out to Bose Ikard casually, ‘Tell the young Materazzi to come and see me.’
‘It would send a wrong signal to many, including Pope Bosco, if you were to see Duchess Arbell personally.’
King Zog of Switzerland and Albania stopped and turned to his chancellor. ‘Indeed it would be a mistake. But you are not to teach me to suck eggs, my little dog. Who said anything about seeing Arbell Materazzi?’
Conn had barely returned to his wife’s apartments when Zog’s most important flunky, Lord Keeper St John Fawsley, arrived to command him to attend the King in two days’ time at three o’clock in the afternoon. The Lord Keeper was known to the older princes and princesses as Lord Creepsley On All Fawsley – like royalty everywhere, they demanded servility and also despised it. It was said that on hearing his nickname Lord St John was beside himself with delight at the attention.
‘What was that about?’ wondered a baffled Conn after he’d left. ‘The King kept looking in my direction and rolling his eyes at me with such distaste I almost got up to leave. Now he wants to have an audience with me on my own. I’ll refuse unless he invites Arbell.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Vipond. ‘You’ll go and you’ll like it. See what he wants.’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious. Did you see him fidgeting about in Harwood’s groin? I could barely bring myself to look.’
‘Don’t fash yourself, my Lord,’ said IdrisPukke. ‘The King was badly frightened in the womb and as a result he is a very singular prince. But if he’s mad about you then it’s the best news we’ve had in a long time.’
‘What do you mean – mad about me?’
‘You know,’ taunted IdrisPukke, ‘if he looks on you with extreme favour.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Vipond. ‘The King is eccentric, or at any rate, given that he is a king, we’ve all agreed to call it nothing more. Except for a certain over-familiarity with your person you’ve nothing to worry about. You’ll just have to put up with his strangeness for the reasons my brother has referred to.’
‘I thought I wasn’t supposed to listen to IdrisPukke?’
‘Then listen to me. This is a chance for you to do all of us a great deal of good. God knows we need it.’
Arbell, still plump but pale after the birth of her son, reached up from her couch and took Conn’s hand. ‘See what he wants, my dear, and I know you’ll use your good judgement.’
4
Kevin Meatyard might have looked like a sack of potatoes with a large turnip resting on the top but he was tack-sharp and his malice had a subtle ring to it. In other circumstances – if, perhaps, he’d had a loving mother and wise teachers – he might have made something remarkable of himself. But probably not. Murdering a baby in its cradle is, of course, something that should never be done – except in the case of Kevin Meatyard.
We all know we should not judge people by their appearance, just as we also know that this is what we generally do. And this weakness in us all makes this regrettable reality a self-fulfilling prognostication. The beautiful are adored from birth and they become shallow with the lack of effort required in life; the ugly are rejected and become angry. People rejected Kevin Meatyard for the wrong reasons but there were those, not so shallow, who were ready to show him some human sympathy despite his giftless appearance and character. One of these kind people was Headman Nurse Gromek. If he’d never met Meatyard and felt sorry for him then he would have carried on being the blandly good man that he’d been all his life: harmless, competent, pleasant enough, a little blank.
Sensing Gromek’s open-mindedness about him, Meatyard began to make himself useful, making cups of tea, cleaning tables, fetching and carrying, listening and watching for any occasion to lighten Gromek’s considerable load. Gromek began to realize that mealtimes, always an occasion for the awkward among the patients to kick up a fuss, became much easier when Kevin Meatyard was helping him with the serving-up. How was he to know that Meatyard was issuing threats to his fellow lunatics (‘I’ll tear off your head and remove your bollocks through the hole’) and backing them up at night, most successfully, using a twelve-inch piece of twine and the smallest of stones? Whatever pain you’ve ever felt was unlikely to compare with that inflicted by Meatyard putting a tiny pebble between your two smallest toes, wrapping string around them and squeezing tight. He liked best of all to do this to Little Brian in the bed next to the one he had instructed Thomas Cale to sleep in.