Three Kings

And then she was crying, his Margaret, tears slipping down soft cheeks. Alan’s heart turned over in his chest, listening to her speak on, babbling about this other, lost, child. Was this some figment of her old age, a dream fancy? Margaret had been so strong, so young and beautiful. It was impossible, what she asked. Even if Elizabeth’s child actually existed, the country would never accept some random individual to take the throne of England, however toothless a power that might be in these modern days. A secret heir, and her own sons passed over for him! If Richard found out, he’d be furious.

Alan Turing patted Margaret’s hand helplessly, and listened to his queen ramble on. He couldn’t do much for her now, but as long as she asked him to, he would listen.

The house smelled of food brought from a nearby pub. It was far from Noel Matthews’ first choice of cuisine, but it was infinitely preferable to his mother trying to exercise her culinary skills … which were nil. His father, a stay-at-home invalid, had done all the cooking while his wife went off to teach at Cambridge, but since his death Amanda had relied solely on takeaway and frozen dinners heated in the microwave. It showed in the fact her big frame was now packing more weight than the last time he had seen her. While he set the table she was busy opening the containers and placing serving spoons in the shepherd’s pie, the Brussels sprouts, the blackberry and apple crumble, and the green salad Noel had insisted she add to the order.

‘Darling, while it’s lovely having you home and seeing my grandson, what you’re doing is rotten and you know it,’ Amanda was saying.

A sharp pain at the hinge of his jaw reminded Noel to unclench his teeth. ‘There was an easy solution. Niobe just had to agree to move back to Britain with me.’

‘Her family is all in that New England area—’

‘Yeah, and they’re all complete arseholes. Why she suddenly decided she needed to reconcile with them is beyond me. She seemed to think Jasper changed everything for them, but he’s an ace and they’ll hate him as much as they hate her for being a joker because they hate wild cards. Why she can’t see that—’

‘Because the ties of blood are strong. You’ve separated a child from his mother, Noel. I can’t approve of that.’

‘Can’t I be both?’ he quipped with bitter irony in a reference to his intersex status.

‘Now you’re being an arsehole. Go and get Jasper. Dinner’s ready.’

He checked the cosy study where he had spent so many hours with his father, then Jasper’s bedroom. His son was nowhere to be found. Old habits leapt to the fore and he found himself gripping the butt of the pistol that he always carried and checking the knives secreted about his person. Could this be some of the many enemies he had made as an elite assassin for Britain’s ace spy agency, MI7? Or could it be the Silver Helix itself come for a little payback?

He felt a cold breeze and ran to the back door. It had blown open. His heart was hammering as he rushed into the back garden, fallow now as the final day of a miserable February drew to a close. The fact that it was sunset meant he was unable to teleport if there should be a threat. He cursed under his breath and headed down the slope towards the River Cam, where fog was rising off the water like the waving tendrils of a witch’s hair.

A small figure squatted by the river’s edge. Noel slumped with relief and joined his son. ‘It’s cold and wet out here, Jasper. You should have a coat.’

‘I just wanted to see the fog. It’s so weird,’ the boy said. ‘It’s like it’s alive.’

‘Well, dinner is ready.’

Jasper nodded and stood up. At nine years old he was becoming coltish, all legs and elbows. Noel dropped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

‘Dad, are we going to go home soon?’

‘Well, technically this is home too. I have the flat in London, the place in Paris—’

‘But they’re not really home because … because …’ He looked up hesitantly. ‘I really miss Mom.’

‘We’re … working on it. I just want you to be a good Englishman as well as an American, which is why I want to live here for a while.’

‘So why doesn’t Mom want to come here?’

The memory of wet smears on the carpet where Niobe’s and his three little ace homunculi had died in a hail of bullets flashed across his memory. Niobe pressing a hand to her chest weeping, remembering the pain of the bullets that had killed her children.

‘I’m not sure,’ he lied. She’s also worried I’ll fall back into my old ways, he thought. He remembered how he had reached for his weapons in a moment of panic and had to acknowledge that she might be right.

They stepped into the house to hear a plummy BBC voice on the telly. ‘… Word from Windsor is that it is only a matter of hours now. 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 …’

Jasper looked up. ‘What’s going on? What does that mean, Daddy?’

‘Tomorrow we’ll all be saying God save the King.’

Alan took a quick deep breath before opening the door to the Victorian house he shared with his husband. It was falling down a bit, showing its years, but they’d redone the electrics a decade ago, and it should hold up for some time yet.

‘I’m home!’ Alan called out, letting the door swing closed behind him. It was warm inside – too warm for his comfort, to be honest, but Sebastian was feeling the cold more these days, the arthritis in his joints acting up. Alan wouldn’t ask his husband to turn the heat down, but he was quick in stripping off his coat and cardigan.

Sebastian came through the swing door from the kitchen, letting through the scent of a chicken curry, and Alan’s stomach rumbled in response. Sometimes people assumed that a metal man wouldn’t eat, but Alan’s skin was only metal on the outside. His internal workings were entirely human, every part of him fully functional. And now that functional stomach was reminding him that he’d missed lunch, and breakfast had been much too long ago.

‘Dinner’s ready. I’ve been keeping it warm.’ Sebastian gave him a quick, dry kiss, lips to lips, and then headed back into the kitchen. Alan followed.

‘You didn’t have to wait for me,’ he said. It was late, past ten.

‘I don’t like eating without you. You know that,’ Sebastian said quietly. He climbed onto the step stool, reached down plates from the cupboard. The dishes they’d picked out together on their wedding day, heavy bone china in cream, with a simple gold rim. Alan didn’t usually bother noting such everyday details, but perhaps his time with the Queen was making him more sentimental than usual. Five years ago, he and Sebastian had promised each other they’d use the good china every day. They’d waited long enough to finally be able to marry; there was no point in waiting for anything else.

Sebastian had looked handsome at their St Paul’s wedding, in his morning coat and top hat. Oh, he had the thickness of late middle age, twenty extra pounds lodged solidly in his belly. But he’d still looked good back then. In the last five years, Sebastian had aged visibly; his hair was almost pure white now, with matching bushy white eyebrows, and twenty extra pounds had turned to forty. Alan didn’t really mind: he liked a solid man, and at the age of seventy-four Sebastian had surely earned the right to slow down a little and eat his fill.

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.’

‘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.

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 from 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.

Most satisfactory.

And then, a distant crow heard the peal of bells.

Great crowds gathered around a white cathedral whose dome would have swallowed Belfast City Hall. Security guards pushed back a forest of microphones at the main entrance, but they couldn’t stop Badb drifting down to listen.

Annoyingly, the city had put in those spikes intended to discourage pigeons from landing. But the crow impaled itself willingly and would live long enough to see what came next. She left it to suffer, taking the mind of another bird and then another, circling, circling until she saw what she was looking for: weakness.

A guard absent from his post, mobile phone in hand.

She landed right behind him.

‘Not now, babe,’ he said in a thick accent. He knew nobody could hear him. The crowd was too loud, the reporters too many. ‘What? Absolutely no! They find out I’m Serbian instead of Croat, what then? Home on first plane, that’s what. Marriage? Ha! They’ll read my war record. It will be prison not Belgrade where they send me.’

Fascinating.

‘Of course, I am changed, babe, but only you know. Only you. What?’ He laughed. ‘Crazy bitch. I see you tonight.’

Behind him, the doors of the cathedral swung open. A new king emerged and at his back a wealth of other important people. So handy to have them all gathered here in one place. Leaders she would follow with crows, listening to their every word for hidden cracks in this magnificent city.

It was a raw day with lowering clouds and a cold rain that had ambitions of becoming sleet. Noel tightened Jasper’s scarf, pulled on his gloves and opened his umbrella. ‘Can we wait and watch the King leave?’ Jasper asked. ‘It’s kind of like when I play Dragon Age with all the kings and stuff. I mean, to see one for real is kind of cool.’

Noel scanned the loitering crowd and realized that a lot of people apparently shared his son’s fascination with royalty. And if he was honest, he felt it too. Not for any fanciful sense of brave kings and beautiful princesses but because of what it represented: Magna Carta and Trafalgar and the Battle of Britain and fighting on the beaches. It was that sense of history, permanence and continuity embodied in an institution to which Noel had sworn his allegiance.

He hugged his son. ‘Okay, we’ll wait a bit.’

At the bottom of the stone steps the press and paparazzi lay in wait. Camera lenses stared up at him like dead eyes. There was a growing murmur as Henry and his fiancée emerged, the young woman walking a few steps behind her husband-to-be, which left Noel wondering about that relationship.

‘Answer a few questions, Your Majesty?’ a reporter yelled from the crowd.

‘Certainly.’

Noel noted that the equerry, a man in his fifties with the upright stance of a former military officer, blanched a bit at the response from Henry.

‘So what are your hopes for your reign, sir?’

‘I’d like to bring England back to being England again,’ Henry responded.

‘What does that mean? Exactly, sir’?’ another called.

‘Well, take London. In my youth you heard English spoken everywhere. Now you’d be lucky to hear your own language in amongst all the other gabble.’

Noel thought the equerry was going to have a stroke. The rapid fire of digital cameras was like claws clicking on ice.

‘So you don’t like the fact that London has become a multilingual, multicultural and multi-ethnic city?’ came a third voice out of the crowd.

‘It’s all well and good until it isn’t. If we lose sight of who we are we’ll be done for.’

‘Does that mean white and European, sir?’