Three Kings. Группа авторов

But when he imagined having to crack a skull, it was not Henry’s that came to mind, but a knobbly one, much closer to home.

      ‘I’m bloody well not going to do it,’ Constance snapped, rubbing her index finger between her eyes.

      She gripped her phone even harder. It was difficult to keep a good grasp because of her arthritic fingers – her new iPhone was stupidly big – but she was past even noticing that they hurt.

      ‘I’m so sorry, but there is no other choice,’ replied the Lion. ‘It’s your duty.’

      ‘I won’t do it,’ she said tightly. ‘Besides, I’m retired.’

      ‘If there was any other way,’ he said with real sadness and concern in his voice. ‘But your skills are known to the royals, and Henry wants to avail himself of them as soon as possible. And well you know that no one really retires from MI7.’

      She could almost see his face, noble and filled with compassion for her, and she resented it.

      ‘You’ve continued to help us even after your official resignation. You had no problems clothing the late queen, God rest her soul.’

      ‘That was her. Henry is nothing like his mother! After what he said? And on the steps of St Paul’s of all places? He’d rather drink poison than be served by a shop full of jokers.’

      ‘Constance,’ the Lion replied with a weariness she hadn’t expected. ‘This is the way it has to be. Besides, you know you’ll be going to the Palace, just as you did for his mother. He’ll never see your jokers. Out of sight and all that.’

      ‘No,’ Constance said. ‘No. I won’t do it. And don’t you dare ask me again.’

      She poked at the off button on her phone screen a couple of times before she hit it right. Damned arthritis, she thought as she slid the phone into the pocket of her dark grey, men’s-style trousers.

      ‘Bravo, Constance, bravo.’

      Constance spun around and saw that Bobbin and the rest of her tailors were clustered around the bottom of the staircase leading to the second-floor workrooms.

      ‘That’s one royal tradition we can afford to stop,’ Bobbin said. ‘He’s an odious man.’

      ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ It was Brian, one of her best tailors. He’d come to Constance desperate for work. His skills with a needle were perfection, but his skin looked like dirty chewed gum; however, while he looked disgusting, he did have a fresh, minty scent. ‘Things are going to get worse for jokers now unless we have friends like you. Thank you, ma’am.’

      Constance could feel herself blushing. With two quick tugs she straightened the cuffs on her pristine white shirt. ‘Very well,’ she said, shooing them away. ‘Back to yer jobs.’ Every so often her posh accent slipped, and the East End peeped through.

      Another brief chorus of ‘thank you, ma’am’ and then they marched upstairs. Constance waited until she heard the doors to the workrooms shut.

      ‘Bobbin,’ she said testily. ‘How did they overhear that conversation? I didn’t have it on speaker.’

      ‘You were shouting, and all they needed to hear was “Henry” and “not going to do it” and they knew very well what it was all about.’

      Constance nervously fussed with her outfit while worrying about letting herself be overheard. It was clumsy and after her time in MI7 she’d learned to be anything but.

      She rocked back and forth in her Converse trainers – her one concession to American fashion – and then stuck her hand into her pockets where she toyed with the bits and pieces of her craft she tucked away there. She knew the Lion would keep after her. It was his way.

      ‘Stop fretting,’ Bobbin said. ‘You said no and that’s that. Forget about it and come back to work.’ He took her hand then and gently led her into the back room. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to tell him everything.

      Losing Glory, then losing the Queen (who had insisted that Constance call her Margaret when they were alone), the weight of her secrets, and now turning the Lion down; it was a lot to take.

      Bobbin took her back to her drafting table, gave her tea, and sat her down so she could get back to work. And she felt centred again. He did have that effect on her. Now if only she had the courage to tell him everything else.

      It was a lady judge and she looked forbidding but also absurd. The black robe was appropriately austere, but the powdered wig perched upon her beautiful cornrows, decorated with pale blue beads, was incongruous. As if a gull had decided to fly into court and perch on her head. Noel pulled his attention from the wig and tried to read her expression as his barrister – also sporting a wig and a gown – began her argument.

      Noel had made a conscious choice to hire a woman to represent him in his fight to be granted sole custody of Jasper under the theory that if he had a woman willing to represent him it would indicate he wasn’t a complete wanker. It hadn’t fooled his representative. Judith von Bredow had declared he was in fact a total wanker after their first meeting, but he was a rich wanker so she had agreed to represent him.

      They had developed the arguments together so Noel listened with barely half of his attention. Only what the judge said would ultimately matter to this preliminary hearing. Instead he watched the face of the barrister hired by Niobe: an elderly man with a comfortable paunch and the air of a kindly grandfather. He was shaking his bewigged head and tsking quietly under his breath.

      After dropping Jasper off at school, Noel had paused for breakfast and a chance to peruse the papers. Richard’s remarks regarding his brother had been met with a stiff and very British response from the Palace, a response so polite it could rip skin from the body.

      Not so from the howling pack of tabloids. The Daily Mail and the Daily Express came baying after the Duke of York with unflattering photographs, suggestions that his and Diana’s marriage was on the rocks, and veiled claims about Richard’s sexual proclivities. Not so the Sun. Vitriol poured off the page and in the letters column an irate citizen called the Duke of York ‘an arse bandit’. Only the Guardian offered full-throated support of the Duke’s criticisms of his brother.

      Noel knew the kind of people who read the tabloids. Less educated, struggling in an increasingly unequal society, ready to blame others for their troubles: immigrants, jokers or gays. And despite the British reputation for decorum you had only to witness a football mob to realize that one’s kinsmen were as capable of violence as any other member of the human species.

      Judith concluded, thanked the judge, and sat down. Niobe’s barrister rose to his feet. In his black robe and with his bulk he was reminiscent of a breaching whale. ‘Your Honour, I find my learned friend’s argument to be vastly creative, appropriate when she really had no basis in law with which to support this manifest injustice.’

      The judge waved a hand wearily at him. ‘Yes, yes, Mr Ramsey, but spare me your oratorical gifts today. If you have a point kindly get to it.’

      He bowed his head in graceful acquiescence. ‘Of course, ma’am. The child is nine and he has been ripped away from his mother on the pretext that his status as an ace means that his mother, who is a joker, is unable to prepare him adequately for the world as a wild carder. The argument is that his father, who is also an ace, but has declined to use his powers and abilities, is a far better choice to raise the child than a loving mother. To rule in favour of this man would create a pernicious precedent—’

      ‘Getting a bit florid there, Ram,’ Judith drawled.

      The judge snapped, ‘I’ll decide when it’s