The Lords' Day (retail) (7 page)

Without any apparent signal, the Royal Gallery grew still. Expectant. The Yeomen of the Guard stamped their way through to take up their positions. Then sounds of the Arrival began to drift
through: much banging of ancient axes, crashing of boots, the shouting of commands that had echoed through these chambers for generations, except, of course, for the instruction to switch off
mobile phones. From somewhere outside came the strains of the National Anthem. On the tower above the Sovereign’s Entrance, the Union Flag was struck and replaced by the Royal Standard. She
was here.

Then, at 11.27 precisely, the doors to the Robing Room were opened and the Queen, on the hand of her eldest son, advanced into the Royal Gallery, followed by four serious-faced and over-stepping
page-boys who carried the train of the royal robe. It was a moment dripping with solemnity, when the English reached back deep into their history and touched their ancestors’ souls. Oh, but
the atmosphere was so rich that Ethel, the lady from Nottingham, almost swooned as the play was performed only feet in front of her; so many actors, so many wonderful costumes. Ladies-in-Waiting
walked with a Gold-Stick-in-Waiting, a Clarenceux King of Arms marched in time with a Garter King, while an Earl Marshal rubbed shoulders with a Master of the Horse. It was a Queen’s
cornucopia.

‘She’s so lovely, bless her,’ Ethel whispered, nudging Arthur, her husband, as she rose from her curtsey. ‘And so close. I swear I could’ve touched her, if only
I’d stretched a little. But look at the Prince, hasn’t the poor dear aged so?’

‘Men over sixty do, you silly girl,’ he muttered back from the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s older than Cousin Mavis, and we buried her a year ago. Now shuddup!’

And in a mere heave of Ethel’s bosom, the procession was gone, through to the House of Lords itself. A few moments before the Queen arrived the two large television screens set at height
on either side of the throne went blank. Nothing was meant to distract from her entrance, not even her own image. Before the screen in his royal cell, the ministerial hostage raised his glass and
offered an extravagant toast of loyalty. He was already a little squiffy. The Lord Chamberlain eyed his guest and quietly wrote him off. No, this one wasn’t for the top, not the very top.
Insufficient stamina.

And on the packed benches in the House of Lords, as the screens turned black, Celia Blessing sensed more than heard some form of disturbance behind her, a feeling that was like being shrouded in
a mist of pain. She turned and saw that Archie Wakefield’s ruddy cheeks were floating in a sea of ash.

‘Everything OK, Archie?’

‘Never better,’ he lied, struggling.

She looked at him with an expression that was typically sharp but filled more with concern than distrust. ‘Silly man. You shouldn’t be here. Why
did
you come?’

11.30 a.m.

She walked slowly up the steps to her throne as behind her the page-boys nervously laid out her train upon the carpet. ‘My Lords, pray be seated,’ she commanded as
soon as she was settled. The voice sounded a little cracked and tired; she was, after all, well into her eighties and she had been fighting a cold. Beside her, on her left, sat the Prince of Wales,
but on a throne an inch lower; no one, not even he, allowed to sit as high. As the rustling died away and the room was returned to stillness, she gazed through her glasses at a scene that stretched
back through more than fifty years of her life, to the time when she was a young woman. This was not what she had wanted or least of all expected. It wasn’t meant to be, not for her, not
until Uncle David – Edward, the Eighth and Most Wanton of that name – had just . . . given up! Abdicated! Thrown away the love of an entire Empire for the dubious affections of a
pinched-face American divorcee who had, according to some reports, honed her feminine wiles in a Shanghai whorehouse. Her uncle’s desertion had cast her beloved father into a task he
hadn’t wanted and for which he was ill-prepared, woefully, but which he had taken to his heart and fulfilled to his last breath, a dedication that had, year by year and speech by stuttering
speech, worn him down until it eventually killed him. How different things might have been, not just for him, but for her, too. What opportunities she might have had, in another life, the life she
had been born to. A chance to breed horses, or to fish the streams, to watch the flowers blossom. Simple pleasures. But it was never meant to be, not after bloody Uncle David.

She raised her eyes. Around the walls at the distant end of the chamber stood eighteen sombre statues of the barons and bishops who had forced King John to sign the Magna Carta, a reminder of
how vulnerable is any throne. Even today she was required to make this speech – the Queen’s Speech as it was called, yet not a single word of it would be hers, all written down to the
last comma and little conceit by politicians. Her life was spun round in many golden threads, and so tightly that they formed the most confining of cages.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, that she was ready. It was the signal for Black Rod to summon the Commons. Dressed in black tailcoat, breeches and stockings with his sword at his side, he set
out on his task, striding towards the House of Commons, only for the great oak doors to be slammed in his face in the traditional act of defiance to the monarch. He raised his black rod, struck
three times upon the door, and slowly it opened to allow him entrance.

The House was crowded, in gentle humour. A voice was raised. ‘Oi, look, here comes the Black Magic man,’ and the Members dissolved into laughter that had Black Rod himself struggling
to keep a straight face. He bowed, and advanced.

‘Mr Speaker, the Queen commands this honourable House’ – a polite nod in the direction of both sides – ‘to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of
Peers.’

And so they came, filing through, side by side, the Prime Minister and Leader of the Opposition, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, all the most powerful men and women in the land – all,
that is, except Tricia Willcocks, who was lying down in her darkened bedroom, hiding behind eyeshades. Many other Members of the Commons came for the trip, for while in the Lords the occasion is
treated as high ceremony, in the lower house it’s not much more than a bit of a show. Light entertainment. A morning off.

The Bar of the House of Lords is a barrier erected just inside its entrance that is designed to prevent visitors progressing any further into the chamber. For the State Opening the Bar had been
moved forward to allow as many members of the Commons as possible to have a sight of the proceedings and they crowded in, spreading out and standing like spectators at a football match. It was
uncomfortable, but it wouldn’t be for long. Apart from the Cabinet, only around a hundred MPs bothered; there was no point standing outside like naughty schoolboys, but for those who
succeeded in getting a view, it was magnificent. At the far end of the chamber the Throne and its glittering gold canopy stood like a temple that had been snatched from the timeless world of
Shangri-la. No one did this better than the British. At Elizabeth’s left hand sat the heir, and on either side stood the four page-boys and her ladies-in-waiting, while at the foot of the
steps that lead to the Throne were gathered her closest advisers and courtiers. Before her stretched the sea of scarlet that were her barons, viscounts, earls, marquises, even a couple of dukes.
And those who would be her assassins.

11.36 a.m.

Harry had filed along with the crowd. He was passing through the Central Lobby, that echoing Gothic crossroads that stands between the two houses of parliament, when he saw an
old friend, one of the doorkeepers, nodding in his direction.

‘Morning, boss,’ the doorkeeper mouthed.

‘Hello, Brains,’ Harry responded. ‘Brains’ Benjamin had been one of Harry’s NCOs in the Life Guards, a former Corporal Major and one of the finest horsemen in the
regiment, so good, he was said to have his brains in his backside. It was a characteristic of Harry’s life in the army that for every senior officer he had exasperated beyond endurance, he
had made a hundred loyal friends among the troops he led. Brains Benjamin had been one of them. ‘Good to see you,’ Harry called out as he passed. ‘We must have a jar; it’s
been too long.’

‘As long as it’s not north of the Arctic Circle again, you’re on, Boss.’

Harry managed a smile – the first time the warmth of human contact had begun to melt the morning’s ice – and was about to reply when he felt his mobile phone vibrating.
He’d left it on for Melanie, just in case. He stepped to one side in order to answer it. He caught his breath; it was Melanie. A text:
If u insist. 8 pm The Ivy
.

He stared at the cold, formal response – so different from just twelve hours ago in the lift. It was clear that her heart wasn’t in it. She was playing a game, and forcing him to
play along, too, at least until Friday morning.

He began punching buttons. ‘Looking forward to it,’ he began, then hesitated before adding: ‘Sorry about this morning.’ He didn’t mean it, of course, but his
training screamed for caution. He knew his anger, if left raw and unrestrained, would play into her hands, all the way up the steps of the divorce court, so buck up, Harry, fight the battle on your
ground, not hers, if you can. And yet it was a battle he didn’t want and couldn’t win. It seemed such a waste, a marriage over in a morning. One bastard of a day. And as he looked up,
he saw that he had lost the moment. The entrance to the Lords with its exquisite, one-and-a-half-ton brass doors designed by Pugin was now awash with MPs trying to peer over the shoulders of those
in front. No more room at the inn. Bollocks. Still, it just couldn’t get any worse. Not unless the Ivy was fully booked. He decided he’d better call the restaurant and see if he could
claim at least one small victory.

11.38 a.m.

From the back of the Chamber a doorkeeper lifted his head to indicate that the MPs behind the Bar had settled. This signal was picked up by the Earl Marshal, who in turn nodded
to the Lord Chancellor. In dark black cloak and wig he stepped slowly forward and began mounting the steps to the Throne. He was a portly figure, not as agile as once he was, and he trod with
considerable caution. Not the moment to stumble. In his right hand he held an embroidered purse that held the speech, and with suitable humility, he withdrew it and handed it to his sovereign. She
offered a barely perceptible nod.

She gazed at the booklet she had been handed. The Queen’s Speech, yet not a word of it her own. She prepared herself, but first turned to her son, sitting beside her. This was a deliberate
gesture, full of symbolism. She wanted to remind them that soon, in God’s time, he would be here, in her place, and he had waited so long already, almost longer than any other heir in British
history. It was why she had brought him here today, kept him at her side so that people could grow accustomed to the idea. Charles. On the throne. Perhaps they would never grow to love him, but
they might yet learn to accept him, and he to be at ease with them.

It was time. She looked over her glasses, and every one of the three hundred-and-sixty-two souls crowded into this one room returned her gaze.

‘My Lords and members of the House of Commons. My Government will—’ She hesitated. Her eye was being dragged away from the letters on the page. A little to her right, close at
hand, she became aware that there was some form of disturbance . . .

11.42 a.m.

I
T WASN
’
T THE FIRST TIME
that Elizabeth had felt threatened. When she was a young girl
there’d been all those bloody Luftwaffe bombers, dropping incendiaries and high explosives on the palace. Made a mess of the swimming pool. And she’d been shot at six times in the Mall
while riding her horse towards the Trooping of the Colour. She’d ducked, patted her horse, and ridden on, unaware that the shots were blanks. Then had come the bizarre moment when she had
woken to find a strange young man sitting on her bed. He said his name was Michael Fagan and he asked for a cigarette. She had pressed the alarm button, but no one answered; apparently the bell
couldn’t be heard above the noise of a vacuum cleaner. She’d made two telephone calls for help, but still no one came. So she had sat and chatted to the young schizophrenic until she
was able to persuade him that she had no cigarettes and they should go into the corridor to search for some. It turned out that the young man had scaled the walls of the palace and simply begun
walking around. He’d been seen, of course, but mistaken for a workman, even though he was in bare feet. Once inside the cordon of walls and wire, no one had asked. It seemed that everyone had
jumped to the same conclusion: if you’re inside the tent, they expect you to be pissing out, not over each other. The official report had described the security of the palace as diabolical
– Prince Philip had used considerably more robust language – and surely all those lessons had been taken to heart and acted upon. Hadn’t they?

Security is a state of mind, a sense of well-being, and all had been well in the Lords ever since they had dragged off Guy Fawkes and butchered him. So it was difficult to believe what was now
taking place in front of them. The High Commissioner of Pakistan had risen to his feet and was waving what seemed, even to the untrained eye, something suspiciously like a small assault rifle, and
which to those with more experience in these matters looked exactly like a Kalashnikov AK-102. With its side-folded butt it was less than two feet in length, had a magazine that held thirty rounds
and could fire every single one of them off in three seconds. It was a most awesome weapon for use in confined spaces, and every inch of it easily concealed beneath the ambassador’s colourful
national dress. Much to the surprise of those around him who had seen him arrive as a frail, overweight envoy, he appeared to have been transformed into a noisy and even agile demonstrator who was
leaping from his place on the diplomatic benches, only feet from the Throne. And it was that measure of surprise that gave him the advantage. The only people between him and the Queen were elderly
officials who had their back to him; with a shove he sent them sprawling to the floor. There was a royal protection officer inside the chamber, but he was standing in the shadows at the other side
of the chamber. He was as surprised as everyone else. It took only a moment for him to recover his wits, but in that single moment the Pakistani had already reached the steps before the throne and
was standing upon the embroidered train that the page-boys had laid out so carefully, and which now pointed directly like an arrow towards Elizabeth.