Marrying Up (24 page)

‘What’s the matter?’ Max asked sardonically. ‘Run out of pet perfume?’

‘Not quite so bad as that, my friend.’ Etienne, for all his faults, at least had a sense of humour. ‘No, I have a cow case.’

‘I thought you didn’t do cows any more.’

There was a deep sigh from the other end. ‘I try not to,’ Etienne groaned. ‘But sometimes there is no getting away from them.
The usual vet is ill, apparently.’

‘What’s wrong with the cow?’ Max asked, as the valet twitched at his white tie. ‘Milk fever? Mastitis?’

Etienne sighed. ‘That’s just what I don’t know, my friend. But I can’t go – I’ve got a poodle with Stockhausen syndrome –
although I could drop you off at the farm on my way. And pick you up,’ he added beseechingly.

‘But I’m not qualified,’ Max pointed out. Inside, however, the excitement was mounting. A cow. A real big farm animal. His
favourite sort. ‘And I’ve got to meet someone,’ he added dolefully, thinking of the forthcoming reception in the throne room.

‘Max, I
need
you,’ Etienne pleaded. ‘A suffering animal needs you!’

‘When?’ Max heard himself saying. ‘Now. I can come and get you? It’ll be quick, I promise.’

In her golden crown and ermine-trimmed robes of state, Queen Astrid looked utterly serene. She felt, however, the opposite.
The chateau throne room, where she sat awaiting the entrance of the Crown Prince, was, with its thick red carpet, blazing
chandeliers and great plump velvet thrones, the hottest room of the hundred-plus in the building. And especially so today,
with the temperature outside in the eighties.

But still it hadn’t stopped the band. Nothing ever did. Even
though the throne room was at the back and faced over the gardens, she could hear them thumping and blaring away, murdering
‘The Skye Boat Song’ in their usual sensitive fashion. It was incredible that they could function at all, given how the heat
must be frying their brains inside their helmets. On the other hand, Sedona’s armed forces had never been known for their
brains. Nor had anyone else in the Sedona establishment, least of all the royal family. It was Max’s misfortune to have been
born with at least twice as many brains as usual; brains with a pronounced scientific bent, into the bargain.

Astrid’s heavy crown felt heavier even than usual; perhaps the gold had expanded in the heat. The fur trim on her cloak, pressed
against her by the weighty gold tassels, made her feel she was either about to melt or else spontaneously combust. Beneath
the cloak, her full-length white satin dress was hot and sticky.

She looked despairingly at the four household staff who stood upright against the tapestried walls, staring stiffly into the
middle distance. If only they could make themselves useful and wave some fans about. She considered suggesting it, but desisted.
Waving fans had never traditionally been a duty of the palace household staff, and in the Palace of Sedona, if it wasn’t tradition,
it didn’t happen.

Red-faced and perspiring under his own crown, Engelbert wore the ceremonial uniform of the Royal Sedona Guards, of whom he
was commander-in-chief. His sky-blue cutaway coat, fringed epaulettes and white breeches were set off by a sea-green silk
sash and an enamelled badge shaped like antlers. This was the Ancient Order of Norwegian Reindeer Smokers (3rd Class), which
had been presented to him many years ago on a state visit to the Scandinavian countries. The ties he had forged then had brought
forth today’s visitor.

The countess from Bergen sat at right angles to the King and Queen in a smaller gilded throne against the wall. The girl was
pretty, Astrid thought, but bored-looking. She had been unimpressed with the chateau. ‘But where are the gym, the spa,
the treatment rooms?’ she had exclaimed. ‘At home we have a heated horizon pool and a Pilates studio.’

Astrid shook her head slightly and fingered her own Royal Swedish Order of the Golden Cod (2nd Class) anxiously. If this particular
fish was to be hooked, she was relying on Max’s glamour and reserved charm to do it.

And he would, his mother knew, look particularly glamorous today. Max in ceremonial uniform was a thing of beauty: tall and
straight, his wide shoulders narrowing to neat hips and long legs, his dark colouring and sculpted face set off wonderfully
by all the white and gold. His obvious loathing of what he wore only enhanced his glamour; his dark blue eyes narrowed resentfully
under his brows. There were photographs of Astrid at state occasions with her parents, wearing exactly the same truculent
look.

It was, she remembered, this very expression that had caught the attention of the handsome student with whom she had fallen
in love all those years ago. He had been fascinated by her unease with her position. The Reluctant Royal, he had called her
. . . How times had changed, mused Astrid, forcing her thoughts back to the here and now. No one watching her this morning,
in the throne room, would suspect she had ever been anything but the most dutiful and content of consorts.

‘Where
is
the blasted boy?’ grumbled the King. He consulted his fob watch, bringing it right up to his eye to squint at it.

The Queen reached over and patted his hand. ‘He’ll be here any minute,’ she soothed. There was an itch beneath the tiara that
she longed to scratch. She longed even more to be in her garden. But it was her duty to be sweating in the throne room waiting
for Max to come and meet his latest possible bride.

Astrid had, countless times over the past few weeks, longed to reach out to Max and tell him she knew how he felt. Tell him
the whole story about herself, even. Caution had held her back; the information was sensitive, and Max’s mood was wild and
volatile. If he broadcast it, it could be disastrous.

And what was the point of telling him anyway? Irrespective of what had happened in the past, Astrid accepted she now owed
her loyalty to her husband and position. This being the case, and the King remaining firm about Max’s marriage, it must follow
that Max must submit, as she herself had done.

It was not easy. Seeing Max’s astonishment, then his hurt, and finally his anger had tested her resolve and her legendary
self-possession to the limit. More than once she had left the room during a particularly tense lunch or dinner and shut herself
away to weep. Or Max would come to see her in her room, where over and over again she forced herself to explain where his
royal duty lay. Only for him to look at her sadly and say, ‘I thought you’d be on my side, Mum.’

And I am, Astrid would think. I
am
. But what can I do about it?

Further down the room, Prince Giacomo slumped against the purple velvet back of his throne. He was horribly hung-over.

‘Sit up, Giacomo,’ snapped Engelbert from the throne, annoyed by his son’s semi-somnolent posture. Giacomo shuffled himself
upright slightly, yawned loudly and stared through the window opposite his chair. It offered a superb view of the mountains
and sea beyond. White spots were afloat in the blue; yachts from their luxury Riviera moorings further up the coast.

Giacomo whistled softly. ‘There’s some serious hardware out there today,’ he remarked admiringly. ‘Two seventy-two-footers,
at least. One with two helicopters.’

More minutes dragged by, each apparently lasting an age. Astrid was beginning to despair of ever seeing her elder son when
something tall and wild appeared at the door of the throne room. As it strode forward, a strong smell of manure followed.

‘Who the . . .’ Engelbert stood up in alarm. He glared at the Lord Chamberlain. ‘Who
is
this? Who let him in?’

‘Nice you could make it, bro,’ drawled Giacomo, holding apart his golden curtains of hair. He was nearer and had better eyesight
than his father.

The Countess, on her seat, gasped with horror.

‘Max!’ Astrid scrambled up and started hurrying across the carpet.

‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’ The Crown Prince lowered his dirty dark head to hers. ‘I got delayed. I was helping Etienne with a cow
case and—’

‘Cow case?’ Astrid echoed.

‘I couldn’t not go.’ His eyes searched hers, pleading for understanding. ‘The animal was in pain. It was just mastitis, quite
simple really—’

‘But your clothes!’ Astrid gasped in horror. Filth caked the formerly polished gold butons, and there were various slimes
of unimaginable origin on the epaulettes. Max’s shoes, previously gleaming with a mirror-like brilliance, were now covered,
along with his trouser bottoms, with something brown, squishy and evil-smelling. His hands were smeared with mud – or worse
– and his fingernails were black.

‘The problem is, dairy cows tend to fire from behind without warning . . .’ Max was saying apologetically.

Engelbert was apoplectic. It was an insult to the crown, the throne, the armed services and everything else he could think
of. And most especially to himself. He ground his teeth within his jaw.

But he was the King. He must not reveal his feelings. If he affected not to notice the mess, it followed that no one else
could either. He cleared his throat and turned to the guest as if nothing had happened. ‘Countess, may I have the, ahem, pleasure
of presenting my, ahem, son . . .’

He looked around him. Where was she? The ice blonde with the glum expression was nowhere to be seen. Engelbert glared at the
Lord Chamberlain. ‘Well?’

The Lord Chamberlain had been a senior soldier; he did not baulk in the face of bad news. ‘She’s gone, Your Majesty,’ he confessed,
jerking his head erect and meeting the monarch’s eye with his own unflinching orb. ‘Made rather a hasty exit. Don’t think
she appreciated the smell.’

The King slapped his forehead in exasperation. ‘Damn it.
Damn
it!’ He turned furiously to his son. ‘Six o’clock,’ he snapped. ‘In my office. I think we’d better have another talk.’

Back to square one, Hippolyte thought dolefully as he scuttled back to his own office and sought protection behind the bastion
of his desk. It was large and ornate, with bulging sides and gold handles, festooned with inlay and topped with gold-tooled
green leather to which his fleshy arms tended to stick in hot weather like this.

He had taken his jacket off in concession to the boiling heat and it hung on the back of the antique dining chair before his
desk. He stared, unseeing, at the smart Parisian label. What now? the private secretary wondered in terror. What could he
do?

The small gold ormolu carriage clock on the mantelpiece had been a gift from the monarch to mark his tenth year at the Palace,
and it was at this that Monsieur Hippolyte now glanced. It was only eleven in the morning. A depressingly long way from cocktail
time.

On the small bar in the corner, rows of cut-crystal tumblers winked invitingly from behind a small decorative rail. Behind
them were stoppered decanters of gin and whisky. In seven hours’ time, a footman bringing a small silver ice bucket would
rap at the oak double doors. Then Hippolyte would take the silver tongs and the sliced lemon and pour himself a stiff one.
Then another.

But Monsieur Hippolyte could not wait until then. He desperately wanted a drink now. He needed one, and if he didn’t have
one he’d be down at Madame Whiplash’s later, and he absolutely had to stop
that
. If he didn’t, eventually it would reach the ears of the King. Perhaps it would anyway. Perhaps it
had
. . .

Seized by a sudden hysterical panic, Hippolyte staggered to his feet and lurched towards the bar.

‘There is another possibility, you know,’ Astrid said that night as she sat at her dressing table, brushing her pale blond
hair over her shoulders.

‘There is?’ Engelbert groaned from the great four-poster where even two large double brandies had been unable to soothe the
agitation of the day. The interview with Max had been inconclusive. Even though he had been the one doing all the talking
– or shouting – Engelbert had a feeling he had not won the argument.

Astrid replaced the silver-backed hairbrush on the gilt and walnut dressing table. ‘I was talking to Stonker Shropshire this
afternoon,’ she remarked neutrally.

Beneath the linen sheets, the King stiffened, as always when Stonker Shropshire was mentioned. That smooth-tongued English
bastard. ‘What did he say?’ he growled.

‘You know he has a daughter, Tara?’

‘Ye-es,’ Engelbert said carefully. Desperate though he was for his son to marry, he drew the line at any offspring of Stonker
Shropshire’s. The thought of the urbane British aristocrat swanking around Sedona, dominating events and attracting all available
attention, was too hideous to contemplate. The King hoped Astrid was not about to suggest that the two families unite. His
fear that they might have already was never far from the surface these days as his wife got ever more testy and withdrawn.

‘Tara’s engaged to Lord Kensington,’ the Queen continued, much to her husband’s relief.

‘Oh. Pity.’ The King tried to sound sincere.

‘But Stonker tells me she has a very pretty friend.’ Astrid shook her hair and leant forward to rub in a blob of night cream.
‘Well connected, single, very beautiful and apparently perfect for our purposes.’

‘Titled?’ demanded the King.

‘Yes.’

‘Beautiful?’

‘Very.’

‘Rich? She’s got to be rich. No point otherwise.’

‘Very rich.’

‘Who?’ demanded Engelbert excitedly.

Astrid took a deep breath. ‘She’s English. She’s young. And yes, before you ask, she’s almost certainly capable of child-bearing,
but of course it’s a bit difficult to check that sort of thing these days . . .’

‘Name?’ demanded the King, waving all this aside impatiently.

‘Her name,’ the Queen said, ‘is Lady Florence Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe.’

After the disaster of the auction, having extracted from Alexa a promise that she would henceforth do exactly as instructed,
Barney was soon busily plotting their rise upwards again.

They were both in Barney’s sitting room, which was shaking under the force of Richmond’s bass speaker from above. Alexa was
attempting for the umpteenth time to get the Highcastle mud off her suede boots.