Read Online The Lords' Day (retail) by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Dobbs
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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,
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,
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