Chapter 12 Windsor Castle
Chapter twelve
Windsor Castle
Sir George Worms, although he was Dragon Master to His Majesty Edward VII, did not particularly enjoying finding himself in the corridors of power.
Currently, he was utterly lost among those corridors, and this was not merely a figure of speech—though Sir George was fond of those, having a passion for philology.
He had been summoned to Windsor to see the king before his royal trip abroad, but he suspected someone had forgotten him, because he had waited in a reception room for more than two hours.
He had not become fretful in the least, because, for George Worms, there was always prayer.
Since setting aside his clerical collar for dragon-mastery (with which no collar or other garb was associated) he had found to his surprise that he had—if anything—more time for prayer than when he had been paid to do it.
So, upon finding himself forgotten, he had begun with the king and his queen.
He even prayed for the king’s mistresses, which were, if the press were to be believed, practically new every morning.
He then moved on to his advisers and staff.
After that, he had prayed for the poor, the sick, the fatherless, the widow, and the stranger, and then he had begun on his Ormdale family.
He prayed for the small village school, and his wife’s part in it, and for the safe production of agricultural lime, in which industry many of the people of the dale were now profitably employed.
He prayed for his wife’s safe return from her visit to the seaside.
He had lost his first wife to sickness very early in their marriage, and perhaps due to this, he always found it difficult to be parted from his beloved Emily.
Nobody knew just how hard it was for George not to worry over the people he loved, for he refused to make his anxiety a chain to bind them.
And so he prayed.
It was while he was praying for his own family circle (including his daughter Edith, presently carrying her own child, and his son George, adventuring abroad) that he began to wander—bodily, about the corridors of Windsor Castle.
It was the books that stopped him.
He recognised the binding of a rare volume of Middle English poetry. Putting on his spectacles, he got it down from the shelf and was instantly welcomed into the arms of his mother tongue.
He began to read aloud for sheer beauty.
“Crist kepe thee, sire kyng!
And thi kyng-ryche,
And lene thee lede thi lond,
So leauté thee lovye,
And for thy rightful rulyng
be rewarded in hevene!“ he declaimed.
“I say, what does it mean?” said a pleasant voice behind him.
Sir George, in sheer joy at being asked a question about the poetry he loved, turned round beaming.
The speaker was sitting in a chair, with the light from the pointed gothic window behind him.
No doubt he, too, was waiting about for the king to finish his important business and exchange a few words with him so he could go home.
“It means this: Christ keep thee, sir king, and thy kingdom, and grant thee to rule the realm so loyalty may love thee, and for thy rightful ruling, be rewarded in heaven. In the poem, a lunatic—“a lean thing, withal”—falls down before the king and blesses him with these words, you see.”
The man laughed. “A lunatic, eh? I haven’t seen you about the place before. Are you one of the archivists?”
Sir George’s reading spectacles blurred the bearded man with the stylish moustache, but he seemed a very good sort of fellow. And how could he not be, since he was interested in the rugged poetry of his forefathers?
“I only wish I had that honour,” admitted Sir George, looking round him.
He now saw he was in a gallery, in which tall bookcases stretched to the decoratively moulded ceiling.
“What glories! These folios of Shakespeare, for instance! Ah, well, I suppose one must not covet one’s neighbour’s books any more than his oxen.
Does His Majesty make use of it, do you think?
” George asked. “When I last had the honour of meeting His Majesty, he was very much taken up with his stables. The king was not very interested in our charges once he discovered they were unlikely to beat his thoroughbreds in a race.”
“See here,” the man said with a small cough. “Do you mind just telling me who I’m addressing?”
“George Worms, at your service,” he said, forgetting the knighthood which had recently been bestowed upon him.
“I mean that quite literally. I am Worms, and my worms—you must think of the Anglo-Saxon meaning here, you know—are at your service. The worms belong to the king, who I am supposed to present myself to, though for myself I am loth to trespass on His Majesty’s valuable time. ”
“Oh!” the man said, with dawning recognition in his voice. “You’re that dragon fellow!”
“The Royal Dragon Master himself,” Sir George chuckled, stretching out his hand. “Dare I hope that you have a title anywhere near as fanciful as mine?”
“Ha! I’m stuffed with ’em, in fact. But they called me York when I was in the Navy. You can call me that, too.”
He stood up and took George’s hand and shook it. Up close, he was a fairly small man, neat and athletic in build, about ten years younger than George himself, which would put him in his forties. He had a pleasing handshake, frank and collegial, but his eyes were wistful.
“And as for your worms,” the man said in a confidential undertone, “I don’t mind telling you I saw some things at sea that were ruddy peculiar. As Macbeth says, there is more on heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, what?”
“Indeed there is,” Sir George beamed, forbearing to correct the quotation, which was from Hamlet. The man appreciated Piers Plowman—it was enough. More than enough.
“Hold a minute,” the man said, looking past him down the long gallery, his sad eyes suddenly sharp. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’ll make my escape now. Do come again if the royal worms give you any trouble and I’ll give them a stern talking-to, what?”
And he slipped away. Sir George heard footsteps behind him.
“There you are!” said an exasperated voice, and Sir George recognised the same retainer who had left him in the reception room hours ago. “I’m afraid His Majesty is very busy with the German ambassador. You will have to come back after His Majesty returns from Paris, in a month or so, I expect.”
Sir George gave a sigh of relief.
The last time he had seen the king, he had only with great effort succeeded in not judging him for his preference for wine, women, and horses over all else.
Having seen his neglected library, he was not sure he could be so charitable again.