Chapter III: Our Lady the Queen

In the wondrous romance of our Island history the reigns of three English Queens stand out with singular splendour. First came Elizabeth the Great, then Victoria the Good, and now in the fulness of time reigns Margaret the Fair.

At the end of his long reign the old King built on the site of Buckingham House, a great white palace for Margaret. Above the marble walls terrace upon terrace the hanging gardens bloomed, and tier on tier of gleaming colonnades; then pearl-white domes broke the long lines above, and gemmed pavilions flanked the central towers. Not that Margaret cared for palaces. Her mind ran upon lighting, and she showed the old King books about the Varangian Guard of Greek Byzantium, the Grand Musketeers of Muscovy, the Mousquetaires of France. For her sake he took liberties with the Ancient and Honourable Corps of Gentlemen-at-Arms, a nice piece of antique frippery which he changed into a standing regiment generally to be known as the Queen's Blackguards. This force he quartered in the palace and made it a very good nursery to train young officers for the Imperial Army.

To enlist, a lad must undergo the severest tests of mind and body, then pass the school of arms. Then the Queen granted to him chain mail and helmet of silver, a black cloak charged with the royal arms, the sword and the spurs. For officers the armour was of gold, the cloak scarlet; for undress, a suit of woven gold or silver. Quarters were given in the palace, but the trooper must provide his own sustenance, and for his servant a trained man who rode in the rear rank of his squadron. The discipline was rigid, and what with training for the Imperial army, there was little time for mischief. They were the last cavalry of the civilized world.

Such were the Queen's toys, palace and guard, beyond all jurisdiction save her will.

The Plutocracy ruled, the Imperial court only remained in the realm on sufferance as a venerable fiction, and nobody ever dreamed that Margaret's playthings, accepted by the nation as a joke, were destined to prove a most momentous fact. For the present it was pretty to see the fair maid, ruddy, sunburnt, wilful, playing with her glittering pageantry of state in the white palace. So the rose of England bloomed in a garden of swords, and on the eve of the Coronation no little cloud had risen as yet in warning. Looking back through a score of years it seems a wonder passing belief that June, 1980, dawned with a cloudless heaven, and the earth at peace.

One glance at the calendar brings it all to mind. Only last Friday Sharon won the Derby, Jim Carrington up, wearing Tom of Lancaster's colours--rose red, and how the people cheered the young prince afterwards! On Saturday Her Majesty was at the Colosseum to close the Pan-Anglican games, and with her own hands crowned the victors with wreaths. The Maharajah of Gwalior gave a Nautch at his palace in Kensington. On Sunday the great Dignitaries assembled in town for the Coronation, attended a special service at St. Paul's. On the 2nd of June, Monday morning, the _Gigantic_ arrived--one of Mr. Brand's etheric liners--with a contingent from the army of the United States in honour of the Coronation.

Word came in the afternoon that Mr. Partridge with his yacht _Meteor_ had won the America Cup at St. Louis. This evening was set for the Masquerade at Devonshire House, and there was to be a torch-light procession of the City Liveries. As to the palace, that was mostly concerned on Coronation eve with matters of apparel, the burnishing of jewels, nervous rehearsals, and feverish attempts at repose.

In the portico, three saddled horses, overcome with heat, mouthed their chained bits, and swished their lazy tails. In the guardroom, midway upon the alabaster stairs, three gentlemen of the guard, Queen's orderlies in waiting, tried not to fall asleep. They had taken off their casques with the lions, but still that ridiculous chain mail was suffocating. They yawned for want of better occupation, talked to keep themselves in a state of decent wakefulness.

"Ho-la," said MacNeill, rolling over in his chair, "I'll grill my other side now. By the bars of Hades I'd be cooler at home." MacNeill was half Spaniard, a banker's son from Venezuela. "Ali," he turned to the Indian prince who lounged by the wall, "you know all about this business to-morrow. What's it like?"

Lazily the Prince lifted his eyes--big, soft, gentle eyes they were.

"My dear MacNeill, what business?"

"Why the Coronation, of course; weren't you crowned when they made you King of Haidar?"

The Prince laughed easily. "It wasn't a crown, we have a green umbrella."

"The ancestral gamp," said MacNeill, irreverently. "Is Haidar so wet? What do they worship--ducks?"

"Allah, el Allah!"

The Prince scarcely breathed the awful name, and his eyes were hard now.

MacNeill apologized with much politeness, and asked if the State Umbrella was old.

"Very old." Prince Ali smiled.

"Holy?"

"As my Faith."

"Won't keep out the wet?"

Still smiling, the Prince drew off his gauntlet, and swept it softly across MacNeill's face.

So long Lord Sydney had watched Prince Ali in silence, now he came forward, and, with a little bow, laid claim to the gauntlet.

"Your Highness," he said respectfully, "as a reigning sovereign cannot fight this cad, or he would never have dared to insult you. You," he said, turning upon MacNeill, "will apologize to the Maharajah or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."

"I didn't insult him," growled the offender, sulkily. "I don't understand what you're driving at."

"My dear Prince," Lord Sydney turned his back upon MacNeill. "He would not understand more if I thrashed him."

"You're quite right, Sydney," Prince Ali accepted the return of his gauntlet. "I have so few friends that one more," he clasped Lord Sydney's hand, "has the larger place in a full heart. I shall remember."

Just then an Equerry came down the stairway, and gave to MacNeill a letter from her Majesty to be despatched. The trooper, muttering wrathfully, set on his helmet, took up his gloves and sword, and swaggered away down the stairs. Without, they heard his horse dancing with excitement, break off at a canter into the distance. Sydney and the Prince laughed together.

"Maharajah," my Lord Sydney laid his hands very tenderly upon Ali's shoulders. "Do you believe that I am your friend?"

"Surely you have proved it more than once."

"Will you promise me not to be offended if I ask a still more personal question than even MacNeill dared?"

The beautiful dark eyes glowed. "Go on, my dear Sydney."

"What if I hurt, Maharajah? Your heart has changed to us since you came to England; you know now that we are not all brutes. You know that some of us, unbelievers, are not to be bought?"

"What do you mean?" An ominous flush burned in Prince Ali's face.

"When you bought my father with two million pounds, did you know where the money came from?"

Under the dark skin came pallor, and concentrated rage leaped to Prince Ali's eyes, as he recoiled.

"Understand this, my lord," said the Maharajah of Haidar. "One cannot hate an enemy from the very heart unless he has been a friend. Withdraw that question; I give you the chance to withdraw. To no other man living would I allow so much."

"I must repeat my question, Maharajah."

"I'll have your life for this!"

"And afterwards? How could you possibly remain in the household? Come, deny the charge, Prince, and let me beg your pardon."

"By Azrael----"

"Don't swear at me. I give you a week to leave Her Majesty's service."

A young man, a civilian, was coming up the stairway, a big boy with blue eyes and freckles, who carried a letter in his hand. Lord Sydney turned to him as he reached the stairhead.

"Can I serve you?" asked the guardsman, courteously.

The boy drew nearer. "If you please," he said nervously, "this letter is for the Adjutant."

"A rookie?"

"My name is Browne, sir, and I----"

"Fresh from the incubator?"

"I've passed," said the boy in shy triumph, "but the Adjutant?"

"I think the Adjutant is out on the tiles. Let me introduce you; Mr. Browne, Trooper Ali."

Prince Ali bowed stiffly and walked away.

"Won't you sit down?" Lord Sydney offered a chair.

The boy sat down, and Sydney joining him, he produced a cigarette case.

The trooper appeared to be shocked. "Put it away," he whispered. "We don't smoke--bad for a man in training."

From a syphon on the table beside him he filled a glass with sparkling water, a delicately flavoured draught, which the boy accepted wondering.

"Don't you drink wine or----"

"Never breathe the word! We must keep in condition, with the Tournament due next month, or the Tommies will carry off half our trophies. What games do you play, Mr. Browne? We want new blood badly, especially in the cricket field. I'm captain of the first eleven."

"I don't play, though."

"Are you a decent aerial yachtsman?"

"I'm a savage," cried the boy humbly, but Sydney had set him quite at ease.

"A savage?"

"I'm from the province of Yukon."

"Where on earth is that?"

"In arctic Canada. My old man has cattle."

"In the Arctic?"

"Yes, a six months' day, and a six months' night. I tell you it's an awful thing for a cowpuncher to face you fellows."

"A what?"

"Cowboy."

"But I thought that cowboys and dodos and mammoths and all those things were extinct--swept away in the nineteenth century. A real live cowboy?"

The lad blushed. "I was raised in the saddle, and it's a three-hundred-mile ride across the ranche."

"But cows!"

The boy laughed at Sydney now. "No, reindeer, and musk oxen. We have three hundred thousand head of stock, besides raising pelts."

"What are pelts?"

"Silver fox skins, sea otter, beaver, musquash."

The boy was straining every fibre of his being to win acceptance from this courtly man of the town.

"What a jolly outdoor life," said Sydney; "tell me more, do you----"

A faint sound of spurs arrested the trooper in mid speech. He instantly jammed on his casque and sprang sharp to "attention." In the curtained doorway opposite an officer appeared in golden armour; Sydney stood forward at the salute.

"A recruit, sir."

The boy went trembling and presented his letter.

"Hum--Mr. Browne?"

The boy blushed.

"We have your credentials, Trooper Browne, which are approved." He glanced over the letter. "I see that you passed with honours in horsemanship at the school of arms. Report at the Mess dinner to take the oath, after which you will be presented when her Majesty permits. Trooper Sydney, take charge of this gentleman."

As the Adjutant passed on towards the State apartments, a sergeant of the corps came running down the stairs, but stood aghast at the sight of his officer, and tried to conceal a large green cardboard box.

"Sergeant Dymoke," the Adjutant gave signs of impatience; "carrying parcels here?"

Dymoke grinned uneasily, dropping the box as he came to the salute.

"Forgive the Queen's champion, sir, for bearing the Queen's favours."

Now the Dymoke has from time immemorial in England a vested right of appearing at the Coronation mounted and clad in plate armour, to cast his gauntlet on the floor of Westminster Hall, and there challenge all comers to joust _à l'entrance_ on behalf of his sovereign's right to the throne of this kingdom.

"I don't see," said the Adjutant, suavely, "what the Queen's champion has to do with that box of gloves."

"I intercepted these, sir," said Dymoke, "at the door of the private rooms; they are a gross of white gloves for her Majesty. I want to wear my Lady's favour to-morrow, and this is the first thing I've managed to steal for months."

"Pardon, sir," said Lord Sydney, saluting; "but though we can't all wear boiler plate like Dymoke, every trooper in the Guard wants to bear our Lady's favour."

"My Lord," the Adjutant smiled, "are we unfortunate officers to be left out? Sergeant, have one of her Majesty's gloves placed at every cover in the Regimental Mess, and pass the word for each man to fasten the Queen's favour on his helmet. If she is angry, she shall punish the lot of us--but see that no outsider gets a chance."

The boy was beyond surprise by this time, and, like a colt broken of shying, was introduced to the men on duty. He was shown the armoury, mess-room, club-rooms, baths, stables--all that splendid barrack which fronted the palace.

Then Sydney took him to the room allotted to his use, and the lad's heart beat high as he put on the undress uniform of the corps.

"Do you feel like a savage now?" asked Sydney, laughing.

"I don't know how I feel."

The lad was changed beyond knowledge, his bronzed skin glowing against the silver, and if his face was made in the rough, his limbs were a matter for boasting.

"We're all savages," said Sydney, "all savages, we English, under our skins. Ever seen any fighting, Mr. Browne?"

The boy's eyes glistened.

"How I wish----" he sighed, "but there's been no big war for thirty years."

"When you live on a volcano which hasn't been in eruption for thirty years--look out."

"But do you think----"

"Do you think," said Sydney, "that we wear this confounded livery for fun? Do you think we've given up smoking, drinking, late hours--and all the rest--from piety? Do you think we drill hours a day for want of other exercise? Wait until you've been a few days in town, and then you'll know."

The lad was thinking things which had no words; and when that evening he sat at dinner in the banqueting hall of white marble, surrounded by all the circumstance of Margaret's incomparable court, he could not trust himself to speak. He rose with the rest when the trumpets sounded, he put his lips to his glass when the vice-president cried--"Gentlemen--the Queen!"--but a little tear ran out of his left eye. He saw as through a mist the glittering splendour of the scene, and wanted to shout when the band played the National Anthem.

The Captain, Prince Rupert of Gloucester, had come forward to the front of the dais, with the other officers grouped about him. Then one of the trumpeters called a summons.

"Attend, Trooper Sydney."

"Come on," said Sydney roughly to the lad, and all eyes were upon them as they marched up the hall to the dais.

"Sir," said Lord Sydney, "I present Trooper Browne."

"Trooper Browne, kneel."

The lad bent his knee to the ground, and the Captain spoke again.

"I bid you lay your hands in mine."

Tremulous, the lad held out his hands until the Captain clasped them in his own, and began indifferently to deliver the great oath based upon Alfred Tennyson's code of Honour:

"And swear
To reverence the Queen as if she were
Your conscience, and your conscience as the Queen.
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ.
To ride abroad redressing human wrong.
To honour your own word as though your God's.
To speak no slander, nay, or listen to it.
To live a life of purest chastity.
To love one maiden only, cleave to her
And worship her with years of noble deeds."

Then the air rang with music, while the Captain, Lord Sydney attending as a squire, put upon the lad a tunic of mail, and on his head the lion-crested casque, bound spurs upon his feet, hung a sword from his belt and bade him in his life and to his death be ever a Christian, a gentleman, a soldier, in the service of Almighty God, the British Empire, and our Sovereign Lady.

The stately ritual was scarcely over, the regiment had not begun to disperse, the men just relieved from guard were still clattering in for dinner, when the great doors swung open at the back of the dais, and instantly every man in the room sprang at attention.

For the usher had announced--"Her Majesty," and Margaret, attended by her ladies, entered the mess-room.

"Cousin," said our Lady to the Captain, "we have come to demand the head of Sergeant Dymoke."

The Captain passed the word, and the Queen's Champion came forward to make obeisance.

"Sergeant," said our Lady, whose voice rang through the silent place, "you are charged with stealing my gloves. Guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty, Madame," said the Queen's Champion, prompt to the word.

"You seem to be mightily pleased. I demand the gloves."

"I have but one left, Madame, and that next my heart."

"And where are the rest, pray?"

"I don't know, Madame."

But every man in the room had produced a glove to wave in triumph, and the officers themselves were first in the offence.

"So this shameful theft has been committed by all my lords and gentlemen of the Guard. Do you all plead guilty?"

The hall rang with the triumphant answer.

"Then," the Queen's voice sounded more than severe, "we pronounce sentence. Your punishment shall be a full-dress mounted parade, with no excuses, at the stroke of the next hour."

There was a general gasp of consternation.

"We have been dull all day, a prisoner in the hands of our governess, but to-night we are mutinous, we shall take the air and ride with our Guard. Dismiss!"

The Guard could not be restrained upon this eve of the Coronation from giving three cheers for the Queen, but presently the Captain begged leave of his cousin to grant audience to a new trooper. The quiet hall was almost empty now, and a young lad, shaking with fright, sank on one knee to kiss a small gloved hand.

"Are you very much frightened?"

The sweet voice came down to him out of a mist.

"Very," sighed Browne, scarcely conscious that he spoke, for now he was looking up and saw the glorious beauty of the Queen.

Something hummed in his ears, and yet he could hear his own voice like the voice of somebody else.

"I love you. I love you."

"You mustn't," said our Lady gravely, "it's very wrong indeed. The Queen may have everything--everything on earth, save that. There's nothing worth while in all the world save love, and the Queen must have no love. Don't you pity me?"

The lad saw a little quiver in our Lady's face, half grief, half laughter; then like a dumb animal which dare not even speak, he kissed her hand again.

That night, far away from the illuminations, the clash of music, and the roaring crowds, long silent streets towards Windsor awoke from their sleep with thunder of hoofs, the clank of steel, the music of armour. Queen Margaret was out for a scamper with her Guard.