Chapter 11
ELEVEN
‘Protect the King!’
The bellow of these three words, for the umpteenth time that evening, had Harry wondering if he was in a coma somewhere, and that what he was experiencing was actually some bizarre fever dream brought on by life-changing injuries, and an awful lot of drugs.
A small part of him hoped that was very much the case.
Everyone in the party raced over from wherever they were in the pub, and surrounded Harry.
Harry, very full of food and beer, was sitting in a chair which Dave had badly, but enthusiastically, decorated to look like a throne. This had involved a few rolls of tin foil, various scrag ends of tinsel, and a considerable amount of sticky tape.
Harry wasn’t allowed to move from the throne at all, unless he needed to go to the toilet.
And should the call of nature need answering, which it had a number of times due to the seemingly magic self-filling pint glass on the table, he had to be escorted there under armed guard, with Merlin at the front casting spells.
The spells were little more than Matt blowing bubbles across the pub, from a little pot of soapy mixture, and yelling out words he’d invented which he thought sounded magical.
They didn’t. In many ways, they made him sound like he was speaking backwards.
The rest of the patrons in the pub had been very forgiving of the antics, with many, much to Harry’s surprise, joining in.
He’d been bought drinks, been hugged and offered congratulations by so many people who he’d never met before, that he was rather dizzy, and not just from the booze.
There was only so much social interaction he could handle, and right now he was starting to feel like he’d had a whole life’s worth of it in one evening.
Still, Ben was having a riot, he thought.
Ben, who was also dressed like King Arthur, just in different colours, was also sat in an embarrassment of a throne, and the group would take it in turns to protect one or the other of their kings.
The various reasons for calling out the charge had been decided upon by Matt and duly explained when they’d all sat down on first arriving at the pub.
‘It’s quite simple,’ he’d said. ‘There are three reasons any one of us can call out ‘Protect the King’, and thus surround either Ben or Harry, or both. One, someone calls either Ben or Harry by their name instead of My Liege, or My King. Two, Harry or Ben, forgetting that they’re kings and we’re here to do their bidding, get up from the chair for whatever reason, be that to visit the bar, go to the toilet, whatever really.
The third reason is the easiest of all: if anyone’s phone rings. Is that all clear?’
Everyone had understood, and with such rules in place, Harry had expected to get through the night without suffering too much in the way of having everyone rush to surround him.
He could not have been more wrong. Drinks had been spilled, food knocked off plates, and a number of the attendees were for sure going to wake up the following day with bruises.
Not that it had mattered. In the end, Harry had enjoyed himself, mostly because of the joy he’d seen on Ben’s face.
Meal over, they’d been placed together at the head of the table, rather than opposite ends, and had then been charged with carrying out their Kingly Duties.
In turn, everyone had stood in front of them to pledge their allegiance, and to read a poem they’d each written themselves, on a scroll, to say how lucky they were to live under the rule of the Arthurs, how they wished the kings well, and so on.
None of the poems had been good. Dave’s had been especially bad, with so many innuendoes Harry had run out of fingers counting them.
Things had been on the cusp of quietening down, with everyone having had their fill of Yorkshire puddings, beef, gravy, and beer, when a phone call came in. Not to Harry’s phone, but Ben’s.
The roar of ‘Protect the King!’ erupted from all around the table as everyone was on their feet and racing to surround Ben and Harry. It was only then, once surrounded, that Harry could see concern on Ben’s face.
‘It’s Liz,’ he said. ‘She shouldn’t be calling me, should she? Not tonight with her on her and Grace’s hen do, and us doing this.’
Harry gave Ben’s thigh a pat.
‘It’ll be nowt,’ he said, laughing on hearing the Yorkshire in his words, now, as well as his tone, thanks to the beer he’d consumed. ‘Answer it. She’s probably drunk and just wants to say hello, check you’re having fun, that kind of thing.’
Ben lifted his phone to his ear.
For a second or two, he said nothing, then he turned to stare at Harry, all colour gone from his face.
‘What’s wrong?’
Harry didn’t so much sober up as dump all the alcohol from his system in one furnace-like burn.
Ben tried to speak, couldn’t.
‘Someone’s ...’
‘Someone’s what, Ben?’
‘They’ve ... They’ve kid—’
Ben’s voice broke. Around them everyone was still cheering and laughing and drinking, and then cheering some more. It really had been that kind of night.
‘Quiet!’
Harry’s deep, gravelly voice hit the room like a quarry detonation. Faces turned, eyes stared. He focused on Ben.
‘Come on, Ben,’ he said. ‘They’ve what? You need to tell me. And are you sure that whatever it is, it’s not just Liz and the rest of them having a laugh?’
Ben shook his head, and handed his phone to Harry.
Harry lifted the phone to his ear.
‘Hello, Harry ...’
The rage Harry felt right then had the power of stars collapsing, of universes being sucked into nothingness by a power so great nothing could stop it. He was rage incarnate, a beast baying for blood.
‘You ...’
‘How are things?’
The voice was a calm and full of menace as ever.
‘Why don’t you join us and find out for yourself?’ Harry asked. ‘I’ve been thinking all evening that what would really round this stag do off, would be a blood sacrifice.’
A laugh.
‘You’re a funny man, Harry. I like that.’
‘You’re not, and I don’t,’ Harry replied. ‘Get to the point, and fast, because right now, this isn’t striking me as that truce we discussed.’
‘All in good time.’
‘You ran out of that years ago.’
A pause.
‘This is just a social visit, Harry. More than that, in fact, as I have come bearing gifts.’
‘The best gift you could give would be to stop breathing. I’m happy to help with that, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
‘But you don’t know what the gift is.’
‘I don’t want to, either. Whatever it is, take it with you, we don’t want it.’
‘Flowers, Harry. I have brought flowers for your bride.’
The symbolism of such a gift was not lost on Harry. Flowers were good for weddings, just as good for funerals.
‘Quite the comedian, aren’t you?’
‘They’re really quite something, Harry. I’m sure you’ll appreciate them when you see them.’
‘So, am I to expect more unannounced visits, then, or is this it?’
‘This is it, for now,’ came the reply, each word poison. ‘The next time we meet, it will be anything but a surprise, I can promise you that.’
‘And that’s all this was, just you turning up to give some flowers? Really? You expect me to believe that?’
A breath.
‘No, Harry, I do not. You see, when we parted just those few hours ago, I wasn’t entirely sure that you understood. The truce, yes, and that I would be back, and that you would have things to consider.’
‘You’re not very good at getting to the point, are you?’
‘Consider what happens next to be a little lesson in why I always, and I do mean always, Harry, get my way. And I don’t even have to hurt anyone to prove my point. A pity, really, as I do rather enjoy that, but a promise is a promise, isn’t it?’
The line went dead.