Read Online The Lords' Day (retail) by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Dobbs
Ads: Link
would play into her hands, all the way up the steps of the divorce court, so buck up, Harry, fight the battle on your
ground, not hers, if you can. And yet it was a battle he didn’t want and couldn’t win. It seemed such a waste, a marriage over in a morning. One bastard of a day. And as he looked up,
he saw that he had lost the moment. The entrance to the Lords with its exquisite, one-and-a-half-ton brass doors designed by Pugin was now awash with MPs trying to peer over the shoulders of those
in front. No more room at the inn. Bollocks. Still, it just couldn’t get any worse. Not unless the Ivy was fully booked. He decided he’d better call the restaurant and see if he could
claim at least one small victory.
11.38 a.m.
From the back of the Chamber a doorkeeper lifted his head to indicate that the MPs behind the Bar had settled. This signal was picked up by the Earl Marshal, who in turn nodded
to the Lord Chancellor. In dark black cloak and wig he stepped slowly forward and began mounting the steps to the Throne. He was a portly figure, not as agile as once he was, and he trod with
considerable caution. Not the moment to stumble. In his right hand he held an embroidered purse that held the speech, and with suitable humility, he withdrew it and handed it to his sovereign. She
offered a barely perceptible nod.
She gazed at the booklet she had been handed. The Queen’s Speech, yet not a word of it her own. She prepared herself, but first turned to her son, sitting beside her. This was a deliberate
gesture, full of symbolism. She wanted to remind them that soon, in God’s time, he would be here, in her place, and he had waited so long already, almost longer than any other heir in British
history. It was why she had brought him here today, kept him at her side so that people could grow accustomed to the idea. Charles. On the throne. Perhaps they would never grow to love him, but
they might yet learn to accept him, and he to be at ease with them.
It was time. She looked over her glasses, and every one of the three hundred-and-sixty-two souls crowded into this one room returned her gaze.
‘My Lords and members of the House of Commons. My Government will—’ She hesitated. Her eye was being dragged away from the letters on the page. A little to her right, close at
hand, she became aware that there was some form of disturbance . . .
Three
11.42 a.m.
I T WASN ’ T THE FIRST TIME that Elizabeth had felt threatened. When she was a young girl
there’d been all those bloody Luftwaffe bombers, dropping incendiaries and high explosives on the palace. Made a mess of the swimming pool. And she’d been shot at six times in the Mall
while riding her horse towards the Trooping of the Colour. She’d ducked, patted her horse, and ridden on, unaware that the shots were blanks. Then had come the bizarre moment when she had
woken to find a strange young man sitting on her bed. He said his name was Michael Fagan and he asked for a cigarette. She had pressed the alarm button, but no one answered; apparently the bell
couldn’t be heard above the noise of a vacuum cleaner. She’d made two telephone calls for help, but still no one came. So she had sat and chatted to the young schizophrenic until she
was able to persuade him that she had no cigarettes and they should go into the corridor to search for some. It turned out that the young man had scaled the walls of the palace and simply begun
walking around. He’d been seen, of course, but mistaken for a workman, even though he was in bare feet. Once inside the cordon of walls and wire, no one had asked. It seemed that everyone had
jumped to the same conclusion: if you’re inside the tent, they expect you to be pissing out, not over each other. The official report had described the security of the palace as diabolical
– Prince Philip had used considerably more robust language – and surely all those lessons had been taken to heart and acted upon. Hadn’t
ground, not hers, if you can. And yet it was a battle he didn’t want and couldn’t win. It seemed such a waste, a marriage over in a morning. One bastard of a day. And as he looked up,
he saw that he had lost the moment. The entrance to the Lords with its exquisite, one-and-a-half-ton brass doors designed by Pugin was now awash with MPs trying to peer over the shoulders of those
in front. No more room at the inn. Bollocks. Still, it just couldn’t get any worse. Not unless the Ivy was fully booked. He decided he’d better call the restaurant and see if he could
claim at least one small victory.
11.38 a.m.
From the back of the Chamber a doorkeeper lifted his head to indicate that the MPs behind the Bar had settled. This signal was picked up by the Earl Marshal, who in turn nodded
to the Lord Chancellor. In dark black cloak and wig he stepped slowly forward and began mounting the steps to the Throne. He was a portly figure, not as agile as once he was, and he trod with
considerable caution. Not the moment to stumble. In his right hand he held an embroidered purse that held the speech, and with suitable humility, he withdrew it and handed it to his sovereign. She
offered a barely perceptible nod.
She gazed at the booklet she had been handed. The Queen’s Speech, yet not a word of it her own. She prepared herself, but first turned to her son, sitting beside her. This was a deliberate
gesture, full of symbolism. She wanted to remind them that soon, in God’s time, he would be here, in her place, and he had waited so long already, almost longer than any other heir in British
history. It was why she had brought him here today, kept him at her side so that people could grow accustomed to the idea. Charles. On the throne. Perhaps they would never grow to love him, but
they might yet learn to accept him, and he to be at ease with them.
It was time. She looked over her glasses, and every one of the three hundred-and-sixty-two souls crowded into this one room returned her gaze.
‘My Lords and members of the House of Commons. My Government will—’ She hesitated. Her eye was being dragged away from the letters on the page. A little to her right, close at
hand, she became aware that there was some form of disturbance . . .
Three
11.42 a.m.
I T WASN ’ T THE FIRST TIME that Elizabeth had felt threatened. When she was a young girl
there’d been all those bloody Luftwaffe bombers, dropping incendiaries and high explosives on the palace. Made a mess of the swimming pool. And she’d been shot at six times in the Mall
while riding her horse towards the Trooping of the Colour. She’d ducked, patted her horse, and ridden on, unaware that the shots were blanks. Then had come the bizarre moment when she had
woken to find a strange young man sitting on her bed. He said his name was Michael Fagan and he asked for a cigarette. She had pressed the alarm button, but no one answered; apparently the bell
couldn’t be heard above the noise of a vacuum cleaner. She’d made two telephone calls for help, but still no one came. So she had sat and chatted to the young schizophrenic until she
was able to persuade him that she had no cigarettes and they should go into the corridor to search for some. It turned out that the young man had scaled the walls of the palace and simply begun
walking around. He’d been seen, of course, but mistaken for a workman, even though he was in bare feet. Once inside the cordon of walls and wire, no one had asked. It seemed that everyone had
jumped to the same conclusion: if you’re inside the tent, they expect you to be pissing out, not over each other. The official report had described the security of the palace as diabolical
– Prince Philip had used considerably more robust language – and surely all those lessons had been taken to heart and acted upon. Hadn’t
Similar Books
