moors of Aberdeenshire, life had slowed to a crawl.Red deer hugged the shade of the pines, conserving their energies for the rutting season that still lay ahead, firewatchers in their towers found their eyes growing heavy, while even the plump grouse, in their prime and threatened with imminent annihilation as the days ticked by towards August, had grown lethargic. In every corner, life slowed down, yet Blythe Edwards found it impossible to relax. Give no clues, that’s what the Prime Minister had told her. Be normal, act normal, play normal. But what, Blythe Edwards asked herself, was normal? D’Arby had taken her aside the previous evening during the state banquet at Buckingham Palace and had begun whispering in her ear, words that had tumbled into her already troubled mind and almost overwhelmed it. Troubles never came in single file. As the other guests had seen them talking they had been given a wide berth to allow them a little privacy. If only she could put such distance between herself and what he had told her. No sudden change of plan, he had urged with as much strength as he could muster, let no one take notice. So now, as everything threatened to fall to pieces about her, she sat beside a whispering river that nudged its way down from the heather hills above Balmoral as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Next to her sat her host, Elizabeth, Queen of all they surveyed and still a few places besides, while a little further away three generations of royalty stretched out along the bank. This was a place of cool, crystal water much favoured by trout, but today in the heat the fishhad made way for family who had turned the rock pool into a swimming hole. This was the House of Windsor, at ease and al fresco, where guests could be entertained in what passed as privacy in royal circles. On such occasions the Queen might pour and a prince might throw a little meat upon the open barbecue, but they could never be alone. Everything had been prepared by others and set out on crisp cotton tablecloths, while retainers hovered discreetly in the shadows of the nearby fishing lodge, waiting for the call to serve. Protection officers stood a little further back, muttering into their sleeves.
The American President had been looking forward to this weekend at Balmoral Castle, the Queen’s summer retreat. It had been in her schedule for more than a year and she liked Elizabeth, not just as a fellow head of state but as a woman, one with whom she had shared more than most. When Elizabeth had been held hostage in her own Parliament by Waziri gunmen, Blythe’s own son had been there, too, right in the firing line. It had forged a strong personal bond between the two women, but what confronted her now, Blythe reflected, she would have to face on her own.
She was used to troubles, they went with the job, gave it purpose, excitement even. Politics was no place for those who wanted security and a soft life, with Friday nights spent stretching in front of the fire sorting through piles of letters from admirers. It was tough, even harsh calling, but never had she sensed her chosen path might so suddenly disappear off a cliff. Her life was a mess.She was supposed to be the most powerful mortal on earth, yet here she sat, hiding behind dark glasses, holding a book whose pages hadn’t turned for the best part of an hour. Her scrambled thoughts were distracted by the sound of splashing and childish laughter. She looked up, to discover Elizabeth staring at her, furrows of concern taped across her brow.
‘You’ve been very brave,’ Elizabeth said at last. ‘The loss of your mother…’
‘Thank you. I can’t say it wasn’t hard. I feel I’ve neglected her these past years.’
‘She understood. Trust me.’ Elizabeth offered a reassuring smile but she was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes probing, in concern, just as Abigail used to. With a start Blythe realized that the Queen was even older than her mother.
‘And how’s
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