Chapter 5 #3
In recent years, opponents had risen. MP Hamish Fickle spoke of setting aside the monarchy for a republican government. His RECO party had traction with younger voters and often used aggressive tactics.
Michael jogged across the manicured lawn set for the Garden Party toward the woods and slipped through the hidden security gate toward the Old Hamlet and the Belly of the Beast.
Crossing Centre Street, he threaded down Wells Line toward the quay lights. Music rose above the thatched cottages and dark-windowed shops, and Michael joined the stream of folks flowing toward a party.
“Please don’t tell me you’re in this, Scottie O’Shay, Lady Royal.” Back in Hearts Bend she might slip into a pop-up street gathering, but not here. Not with a brand-new title.
A band played on the quay car park, belting out a decent Beatles cover. Michael worked through the throng, nerves pricking, senses heightened. He stopped a passing man to ask what was happening.
“Midnight Players. Best. Sir Rodney. Tour again,” the man answered in the clipped shorthand unique to the north country. Why speak twenty words when five would do? The shorthand harkened back to long, cold winters when time and breath were precious.
So, Sir Rodney Corn and the Midnight Players had come out of retirement and chosen the Old Hamlet quay as their first stop.
Sir Rodney, the old rock-and-roller who’d won a parliamentary seat as the people’s representative, had retired last year only to announce a return to music. He must be seventy-nine if a day.
From the stage, the Players cover of a Beatles tune segued into a ’60s Lauchtenland favorite by Iron & Ash, a one-hit wonder that had proved popular for sixty years.
Michael pushed toward the bandstand, scanning for Scottie. A quick sweep and he’d head back to the Belly of the Beast. Ernst would keep her safe there, being he was a loyal, royal protector.
“Pssst, Scottie.” He called softly, not wanting to draw attention.
How many in this crowd kept up with palace affairs?
Not many. The House of Blue’s hub was Port Fressa and Perrigwynn Palace, three hours south.
Hadsby was more a treasured landmark for the locals than the royal family’s summer residence.
Finding a fire escape, he scampered up to see if he could spot her, and sure enough, she was trapped beside the quay.
Jumping down, he pushed toward her. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”
“No, no. I’m not her,” she was saying in a weak Lauchten accent. “Most definitely not the queen’s daughter.”
“Aye, lass, recognize. Lady Royal Blue. What doing?”
“Listen. Queen’s daughter. Illegit. Go!”
Don’t listen to them, Scottie. Bunch of rabble-rousers. He was almost to her, but a wall of stout Lauctens boxed him out.
“Sing now. American anthem?” someone shouted.
“Yes, American.” A stout woman with a long braid stepped forward. “You. Lady Royal.”
“No. Tourist.” Still with the phony accent. “Love Iron & Ash.”
Shouts rose. Someone yelled a RECO slogan that swelled into a chant: “No more Americans! No more Americans! No more Americans!”
A couple of drunks charged the bandstand, grabbed the microphones, and shouted anti-monarchy slogans. Sir Rodny Corn and his crew bolted from the stage and into the dark. No surprise. That’s exactly how he served in parliament.
“Down with the monarchy! The Blues must go. What gives them the right to lord over us?”
“The law, igits,” a voice declared. “Hush yerself. Want music.”
Across the quay, the drunken lot, emboldened by music and night air, began to rumble. RECO versus devotees of Queen Catherine and the House of Blue.
“Your leader Hamish Fickle don’t got half the class what the queen’s got.”
Another shouted, “Queen traitor! American shill!”
Let them duke it out. Michael needed to reach Scottie before the mob’s momentum shoved her closer to the quay. One misstep and it was over the side with the lot of them. The drop was at least forty feet, depending on the tide, into crushing waves.
“Scottie.” He sliced his voice beneath the noise and pushed through the human wall around Scottie. Perspiration beaded along his temple. He’d been here before with a Blue royal in danger. “Excuse me, coming through. Step aside.”
A raw, terrified scream cut through the commotion.
The crowd surged forward with a few scattering, clearing Michael’s path to the quay’s edge.
There he found Scottie, flat on her belly, hanging over the weather-worn concrete while a woman clung to her arms, clutching her screaming child. Far below, the cold waters churned.
“Don’t drop, please,” the woman wailed. “Please. Don’t drop.”
“I won’t.” Scottie’s reply was firm and steady, devoid of panic, as she held the woman’s arm with both hands. “But be still.”
Michael yanked a couple of gawking lads by their coat collars. “Anchor my legs.” He dropped down next to Scottie.
“Grip slipping,” the woman moaned. “Me daughter—”
“Hold on, hold on. Gents, lower me down.” Michael took the woman’s arm, his hands just below Scottie’s. “Now. Pull us up. Pull. Us. Up.”
Sirens and flashing lights announced the arrival of the Dalholm Rescue Squad.
Stretching as far as he could, Michael secured the child and handed her to a rescue worker. Then he and Scottie hauled the woman to safety. Paramedics swooped in and carried her to the ambulance as she sobbed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Michael rolled onto his back for a shaky breath before coming to his senses. He had to get Scottie out of here. Grabbing her hand, he bent to her ear. “We need to be away. Now.”
“Okay, but I want to check on the woman and her daughter.” Scottie turned for the ambulance but didn’t move. “I’m shaking…that was terrifying.”
“How did you even catch her?” Michael said, his own nerves still twitching.
“I don’t know… I just reached out. There was this force—” With a deep breath, Scottie pushed through the onlookers to peer into the ambulance. “Hey—are you all right?”
“Scottie,” he said, low and urgent as the mob began to regroup, “if they realize who you are, I’ll need the whole of Her Majesty’s armed forces to hold this line. Move.”
“But I just want to make sure—”
“I know. And your compassion will get you killed.”