The Claim to Royal Blood, Page 2

  Basilius the Macerated has become Basilius the Irate, having managed to fall over his own feet (assisted, no doubt, by alcohol) in the regal deportment test. Horse-face spoke her mind too forcefully for one of the judges in the 'opening a new factory' presentation, and she's out, too.

  That leaves Timon and Colin. We're down to the last two. By this time tomorrow Timon could be a king.

  I look at him. He doesn't look like a king. But then they say no man is a prophet in his own land, and I've known him far too long, and laughed at his claims to royal blood far too often, to see him as royalty.

  We walk out to the prize meadow where the final is to be held. I grab Timon's hand when no one's looking.

  "I don't care whether you win or not," I say loyally. "Win, and we get free drinks for life. Lose, and we have to work for a living, just like we've done the last however many years. But I'm still here for you. Just so you know."

  He glances at me, and puts his free hand over my own, so that I have one hand caught between his two. "There," he says, "oath of fealty done," and releases my hand.

  Colin's already there, in front of the grandstand, ready to go. Grey hair, grey suit, creases in his trousers, jacket with the bottom button left undone, everything just so.

  I underestimated him. Sometimes these grey people turn out to be clever. I think back. He so often went last, or next to last, when he got the chance, watching the other contestants, looking for clues. (How did he get past the ordeal? I can't remember. Or did he stoop to tie his shoelace and simply let his opponent overstep? I wouldn't put it past him.) He never cheated, he never shone, he was never spectacular, but somehow when you got to the end of a round and looked around to see who had made it through, he was always there. I've lost pitches so many times to grey men like him, and still I can never see it coming. I ought to learn my lesson, but I wonder whether I ever will.

  Colin turns to greet us. Is it my imagination or does he have some secret that's making him look so smug? He's been talking to one of the judges, I can see.

  "Careful," I say to Timon. "He knows something."

  For the first time in the competition we don't know what the test is to be. Maybe horse-face was right and it's going to be the sword in the stone. There's some kind of huge timber structure down by the river, which appeared overnight; I don't know whether that's part of the trial.

  Colin Uncumber comes towards us, his hand outstretched, an urbane smile for Timon.

  "Timon," he says. "I'm an admirer. It has been a real pleasure competing against you."

  "Likewise," Timon says politely, giving me a look that says "What the hell?"

  "I was impressed by your conduct in the ordeal by combat. I like the fact that you are in touch with your inner femininity enough to compete with the princesses. You've competed in good faith, you've done your very best, and your best is very good indeed."

  If Timon could blush I'm sure he would. The corner of his mouth is twitching; I know he's embarrassed by all this effusive praise. (Whatever happened to British understatement?)

  "So," Colin says, "I've decided to cede my claim. You are clearly the superior contestant."

  I'm sorry. I've misjudged him. He is a real gentleman after all.

  I think that for at least two seconds before I realise something's up. Two of the Everlode guards have come up softly and taken Timon's arms, and they are pushing him forwards, away from me, away from Colin, roughly in the direction of the wooden stage, which, it suddenly occurs to me, looks more like a scaffold than a stage. They don't seem rough, but when he starts to struggle, they insist.

  I understand Niccolo's message now. He must have known what was up; the same way Colin Uncumber worked it out. I remember reading somewhere, when I was working on my journeyman project and wanted some ancient myths to give my work a savage flavour, how the old Celts married their kings to the land in the shape of a white horse. And if the land ever sickened, the king would feed the land with his blood. Oh all ye gods and little fishes, I knew Everlode was backward, but I never imagined it could be that backward. No wonder Niccolo was eager to be away. No wonder the competition details were strangely reticent on the subject of the prize.

  This morning I looked at Timon and thought: tomorrow, you'll be a king. Now I look at him and think, tomorrow, you won't be anything at all, unless I can think of a way to save you in the next thirty seconds. I look at him, then I look at Colin; urbane, gentlemanly, after-you, courteous Colin, Colin who has handed on a poisoned chalice while all the while everyone thinks he's standing a friend a drink. Colin who says things like "punctuality is the politeness of princes." And I think of a friend of Timon's who used to say "a true gentleman is someone who knows how to play the bagpipes, and doesn't." And then the beginnings of an idea start to form in my mind, and before I've got it completely worked out I'm opening my mouth and shouting, "Wait! Before you make a bad mistake!"

  Fortunately the judges do actually listen. They defer "the events of the afternoon" - no one mentions the word sacrifice - and I'm allowed to address them in camera, or rather, behind the grandstand.

  Throughout the competition, I argue, the judges have consistently rewarded truly kingly behaviour. For instance, the lad who carried his own baggage was nearly disqualified for lack of regal attitude, till he showed he had only been considering the chambermaid's tiredness. Timon was penalised in the combat for his trick with the water pistol, considering unsporting and undignified. Horseface - of course I don't call her that to the judges - lost her footing when her speech was considered too honest, too blunt, not euphemistic enough for a queen. I adduce another few examples, and then wait for the penny to drop. Just as I see them beginning to work it out, I speak again.

  "Mr Uncumber has been a stalwart competitor. He has consistently disdained trickery, treachery, spectacular shows of prowess or displays of talent, and yet he's always managed to come in the top three or four of any event. He knows that what makes a king isn't empty display. And now he's doing the most kingly thing he could possibly do. Having competed so well for so long, he gladly cedes his claim to a competitor. That's a truly kingly gesture."

  "Yes," says one testy little councillor, "but if you knew the prize was being slowly sliced to pieces..."

  A fierce outbreak of shushing makes him realise he's let the tiger out of the bag.

  "You're joking," I say, remembering to open my eyes and my mouth wide enough to look surprised.

  "Er... yes. Yes, of course, I'm joking. Er, ha, ha."

  There's a little very polite and not terribly heartfelt laughter, the kind of laughter you hear when a construction site boss makes a joke about feckless lazy leprechauns, and the leprechauns all laugh, because none of them want the sack, except for the very stupid leprechaun who's been told the sack has gold in it. (Which is, in itself, a not very funny leprechaun joke. I'm ashamed of myself, really I am.)

  "So you see... Colin, I'm sure he wouldn't mind my calling him Colin, is so obviously better suited to rule."

  One of the judges steps forward, only when I look I see it's actually King Christoffel.

  "Hamnet - it is Hamnet, isn't it? - can I ask you a question?"

  Well, that's a bloody stupid question, isn't it? But I nod, anyway.

  "You've known Timon how long?"

  I shake my head. "Can't even remember. Since we were at school. Twenty years? More?"

  "And in your view, would Timon have made such a gesture? Would he have given up a prize he'd as good as won?"

  I think to myself, you damn well bet he'd cut and run if he found out what you had planned. But I say, "No, your majesty. If you offered him the crown, he'd take it."

  "I think we need to think about this," Christoffel announces, and twitches his robes about him, and strides off to a pavilion where he can do some thinking, if that was a royal we.

  The guards have brought Timon back. Councillors are being fetched, and running in and out of the king's pavilion, and Colin is standing in front of the grand
stand looking confused, and then - when it's made obvious to him that he's expected to stay there - annoyed, and we are sat at a table where a flunky brings us a couple of cling film wrapped sandwiches and a cup of weak brown liquid that would be better if it didn't taste of anything, but actually tastes of polystyrene and damp, and with a number of guards standing just far enough away that we might possibly, if we were rather stupid, think they weren't keeping an eye on us.

  And then the king comes out, and dignifies us with a regal nod of his head, and turns to make his way towards Colin. We don't hear what he says to Colin Uncumber, but we hear Colin's scream; the first time we have ever heard his voice raised, as it happens. And we know it's time to go.

  We're half way to Savenholm before Timon says anything to me. We haven't felt much like talking. It was too narrow an escape. And that scream wasn't the last we heard from Colin. An experience like today's leaves you unfitted for small talk.

  But now he says: "I'm going to feel guilty about this, you know. Because really, I probably would have won..."

  Typical. I save him, and he'd rather not be saved. Though I suppose I know what he means.

  "I'll feel guilty about this the rest of my life."

  "Yeah. But you're going to be alive the rest of your life."

  "Oh," he says, "there is that".