Page 26 of Beguiled
The servants of the palace were being ordered around by an absurdly young-looking fellow who was apparently a junior member of the King’s staff. His hairless cheeks shone pink with effort as he rushed to and fro, rapping out orders in a slightly high voice.
Earlier, the same young man had determined the arrangement of the occupants of the room according to some form of precedence known only to himself, offending several important personages in the process, the Dean among them. Now he was at it again, practically shoving the great and the good off their seats and exhorting the harried servants to remove the chairs from the room altogether so that everyone would have to stand in the King’s presence.
The servants did his bidding, and a few minutes later, the doors to the Entrée Room were flung open, and the King entered, surrounded by an entourage of redcoats and well-dressed peers.
At first—and despite his size and the magnificence of his dress—David didn’t notice the King. His gaze automatically sought Lord Murdo Balfour. He was easily found, with his height and striking dark looks, bringing up the rear of the royal party.
As the party moved farther into the room, David caught Murdo’s eye. The man’s lips twitched into an almost-smile as he drew closer, and David almost-smiled back, unable to stop the left corner of his mouth lifting. Murdo’s dark eyes glinted with humour as he passed David to join the King in the centre of the room. At last, the ceremony began.
It was just as dull as David had feared. Worse even. The Kirk’s address began with an obsequious welcome, but at length—great length—this turned into nothing short of a sermon, and a rather fire-and-brimstone one at that. If the King was perturbed by this, he didn’t show it, accepting what was said with a series of gracious but somewhat unfathomable nods.
The universities went next. They seemed to have resolved any issue over who should have the honour of addressing the King by splitting the job up amongst a bewildering number of professors, each of whom seemed determined to milk the opportunity for all it was worth. David felt his eyelids drooping several times and had to pinch himself awake.
At long last, it was the turn of the faculty, and finally David was moving his stiff limbs forward, following the Dean to stand before the King. They stood in a horizontal line, the six of them, even though only the Dean would be speaking.
It was David’s first proper look at King George. A corpulent, high-coloured man, he wore the marks of longstanding self-indulgence in his heavy jowls and weak chin. His garments were generously cut, but still, he must be well-girdled beneath them to squeeze into his magnificent admiral’s uniform of royal blue, braided with gold. Did he think himself truly a warrior to dress himself so, David wondered? So far as he knew, the man had never seen any kind of military service.
The King smiled at the faculty delegation benignly while one of his retinue murmured in his ear, explaining to him, no doubt, what the Faculty of Advocates was.
“Gentlemen,” the King said when his adviser had pulled back. “It is a pleasure to meet with you.”
They all bowed, somewhat awkwardly in David’s case. As always in formal situations, he was conscious that his manners lacked polish, but he had no time to dwell on his deficiencies. The Dean was already stepping forward to speak.
“Your Majesty,” the Dean said in the deep, sonorous voice he always used when giving an address. “The ancient and honourable Faculty of Advocates welcomes you, our beloved monarch, to Scotland, and thanks you, sincerely and humbly, for the privilege of addressing you.”
The King smiled and inclined his head a little, and the Dean went on in much the same vein, delivering his carefully prepared speech in a slow cadence, seeming to relish every word.
David didn’t dare look at Murdo. If Murdo looked amused, David would find it impossible to keep a sober expression on his own face. He was acutely aware of the man, though, standing just a few steps away.
Determinedly, he kept his attention on the King. It was surprising, David thought, that the King had decided to stand to hear the lengthy addresses, despite the warmth of the room and the staleness of the air.
The King was showing signs of growing discomfort. Initially, he had taken the sort of noble stance that might be assumed for a royal portrait: one foot pointed forward, his weight on the rear leg, his extended right arm holding a gold-topped cane that touched the floor but did not take any of the burden of his considerable bulk. It couldn’t have been a comfortable pose, and he’d done well to hold it so long, but at this proximity, David could see that his expression was growing strained, a beading of sweat breaking out over his heavyset face. His legs in his skintight breeches looked to be bloated, and every now again he shifted, resting a little more weight on the cane.
Had he realised quite how long he would end up standing? Surely someone would have warned him how lengthy this afternoon threatened to be?
David glanced at the Dean to see if he too had noticed the King’s discomfort and if he intended to conclude his speech early. But the Dean seemed entirely oblivious. He was altogether caught up in his oratory, listing now the nations around the globe over which King George was sovereign and master, “A wise father to all his subjects.”
What rot.
Given what he’d already noticed, David wasn’t entirely surprised when, the instant he turned his attention back to the King, it was to see the man stumble, his cane clattering noisily to the floor. Without thinking, David dashed forward to steady him, offering his own rigid frame in support. For a brief moment, the King leaned on him, and David had to brace himself to bear the man’s bulky weight even for that short time.
“Your Majesty,” he gasped. “You should be sitting down. It is far too hot in here to be standing so long.”
There were a few murmurings at that breach of etiquette, but David ignored the shocked expressions, catching the eye of the high-voiced young man who had been ordering the removal of all the chairs earlier.
“Fetch a chair for His Majesty, if you please,” David said loudly, abandoning any attempt at polite address.
The young man coloured with anger at David’s command. He looked at the King, who was already rallying after his brief dizzy spell, pulling his weight back from David.
“Your Majesty—” the young man protested. Perhaps he was an aristocrat, offended to be dictated to by a commoner. Perhaps he thought the King should scold David for his rudeness.
“He’s right, Sir Anthony,” the King said snappishly. “It is…hot in here. So, do as he says and fetch me a chair, there’s a good fellow.”
Sir Anthony flushed an angry red, but he bowed deeply before stalking off to give the order to one of the palace staff.
The King was standing by himself again now, and David retreated back a step. He didn’t yet return to his place, though, nervous the man might stumble again. Instead he waited for Sir Anthony’s lackey to return with the chair. The delicate, spindly-legged thing he brought didn’t look up to the job, particularly when the King dropped into the chair so heavily David thought the legs might give out. But it must have been stronger than it looked.
“What is your name, sir?” the King asked then, his gaze measuring David.