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Authors: Susan Elia MacNeal
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woman.…”
“Of course, of course, Tooke,” the King said reassuringly. “We just need to follow p-p-protocol here. The whole thing will be sorted in a few days, and then she’ll come back here, safe and sound, none the worse for w-w-w-wear.” With a deep sigh, the King surveyed the mountains of paper on his desk, then rose. “Duty calls, I’m afraid, Tooke.”
Alistair Tooke suddenly realized something very, very important. “Sir, Lady Lily is German. She’s German too. Before the war, she used to come by our flat. She and Marta would drink German coffee and speak German together.”
“What?” said the King, distracted, rounding the desk with a manila folder in his hand. “Oh, right, right. Lady Lily.” He walked to the door.
Alistair turned to follow and pressed further. “Lady Lily isn’t in an internment camp, after all. Sir,” he added.
The king had already passed Alistair and had entered the hall. “Lady Lily’s p-p-position here is quite relevant,” he said.
It had been a long night and a long day, and Alistair Tooke was not his usual self. “A Lady-in-Waiting, sir?
Relevant?
”
“Yes, Tooke,” the King snapped. “Lily Howell is a family friend. And she’s needed here at the castle. I’m sorry about your w-w-w-wife, but it
will
sort itself out.” And then he was on his way, down the oak-paneled corridor.
“Bleeding buggered buggering bastard,” Tooke muttered under his breath, standing on the carpet, feeling abandoned and betrayed. “What if someone
you
loved were taken away?” He clenched his fists and deliberately ground his muddy boots into the carpet, leaving black stains.
Chapter Six
Maggie knew about Windsor Castle.
She knew it dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. She knew it was where King Henry VIII awaited the news of Anne Boleyn’s execution, where Queen Elizabeth I celebrated her first Christmas, where Charles I’s severed head was laid to rest, where George III went mad, and where the young Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had spent their honeymoon.
And Maggie had seen pictures of Windsor Castle, of course. When she was growing up in Wellesley, Massachusetts, long before she came to London, her Aunt Edith had a biscuit tin with a picture of the castle with the Royal Standard waving proudly from its Great Tower behind official portraits of King George V and his wife, Queen Mary—the current King’s parents.
But nothing had prepared her for the reality of the sheer mass and scale of the castle, dark and shadowy in the gathering lavender twilight. It was tremendous. For just a moment, the heavy clouds parted and a beam of sunlight pierced through, illuminating the gray stone crenellated walls, battlements, turrets, parapets, and towers. The mullioned windows lit up with liquid gold.
It was the stuff of fairy tales, if you could overlook the heavy antiaircraft guns on the various roofs, along with Coldstream Guards in their tall bearskin hats on patrol. There was, after all, an evil sorcerer and his minions to guard against.
David went through the security checkpoints and drove Maggie up Windsor’s High Street, past the high stone walls of the castle’s Lower Ward. She couldn’t help but feel somewhat tiny and insignificant. “Just an old pile of rocks, Magster,” he said, sensing her apprehension.
“Of course,” she said. “And I have a job to do. Two, really.”
David took a left at the bronze statue of Queen Victoria and pulled up to the Henry VIII Gate, with its towers, arched windows, and carvings on the portcullis of the fleur-de-lis and the combined roses of Lancaster and York.
Maggie was overcome with the weight of the castle. Not the immense physical weight but its burden of history, violence, and power.
“See those holes?” David said to Maggie.
“Yes,” she said.
“Used for pouring boiling oil on unwelcome visitors.”
That, finally, got Maggie to smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
David drove past the Henry VIII
“Of course, of course, Tooke,” the King said reassuringly. “We just need to follow p-p-protocol here. The whole thing will be sorted in a few days, and then she’ll come back here, safe and sound, none the worse for w-w-w-wear.” With a deep sigh, the King surveyed the mountains of paper on his desk, then rose. “Duty calls, I’m afraid, Tooke.”
Alistair Tooke suddenly realized something very, very important. “Sir, Lady Lily is German. She’s German too. Before the war, she used to come by our flat. She and Marta would drink German coffee and speak German together.”
“What?” said the King, distracted, rounding the desk with a manila folder in his hand. “Oh, right, right. Lady Lily.” He walked to the door.
Alistair turned to follow and pressed further. “Lady Lily isn’t in an internment camp, after all. Sir,” he added.
The king had already passed Alistair and had entered the hall. “Lady Lily’s p-p-position here is quite relevant,” he said.
It had been a long night and a long day, and Alistair Tooke was not his usual self. “A Lady-in-Waiting, sir?
Relevant?
”
“Yes, Tooke,” the King snapped. “Lily Howell is a family friend. And she’s needed here at the castle. I’m sorry about your w-w-w-wife, but it
will
sort itself out.” And then he was on his way, down the oak-paneled corridor.
“Bleeding buggered buggering bastard,” Tooke muttered under his breath, standing on the carpet, feeling abandoned and betrayed. “What if someone
you
loved were taken away?” He clenched his fists and deliberately ground his muddy boots into the carpet, leaving black stains.
Chapter Six
Maggie knew about Windsor Castle.
She knew it dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. She knew it was where King Henry VIII awaited the news of Anne Boleyn’s execution, where Queen Elizabeth I celebrated her first Christmas, where Charles I’s severed head was laid to rest, where George III went mad, and where the young Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had spent their honeymoon.
And Maggie had seen pictures of Windsor Castle, of course. When she was growing up in Wellesley, Massachusetts, long before she came to London, her Aunt Edith had a biscuit tin with a picture of the castle with the Royal Standard waving proudly from its Great Tower behind official portraits of King George V and his wife, Queen Mary—the current King’s parents.
But nothing had prepared her for the reality of the sheer mass and scale of the castle, dark and shadowy in the gathering lavender twilight. It was tremendous. For just a moment, the heavy clouds parted and a beam of sunlight pierced through, illuminating the gray stone crenellated walls, battlements, turrets, parapets, and towers. The mullioned windows lit up with liquid gold.
It was the stuff of fairy tales, if you could overlook the heavy antiaircraft guns on the various roofs, along with Coldstream Guards in their tall bearskin hats on patrol. There was, after all, an evil sorcerer and his minions to guard against.
David went through the security checkpoints and drove Maggie up Windsor’s High Street, past the high stone walls of the castle’s Lower Ward. She couldn’t help but feel somewhat tiny and insignificant. “Just an old pile of rocks, Magster,” he said, sensing her apprehension.
“Of course,” she said. “And I have a job to do. Two, really.”
David took a left at the bronze statue of Queen Victoria and pulled up to the Henry VIII Gate, with its towers, arched windows, and carvings on the portcullis of the fleur-de-lis and the combined roses of Lancaster and York.
Maggie was overcome with the weight of the castle. Not the immense physical weight but its burden of history, violence, and power.
“See those holes?” David said to Maggie.
“Yes,” she said.
“Used for pouring boiling oil on unwelcome visitors.”
That, finally, got Maggie to smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
David drove past the Henry VIII
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