I sat with Richard and Victoria in a following carriage drawn by two dapple-grey mares called Scylla and Charybdis, my father’s favourite horses at the royal stables in Knightsbridge. Extepan was behind us in another carriage, with Maxixca and other high-ranking Aztec officials. They wore the uniforms of their office – the gold-trimmed tunics that had been modelled on those of European militia but which retained Aztec features of spotted fur trimmings and stylized eagle or ocelotl insignia. Some sported shoulder capes in earth colours, adorned with holy crosses or symbols from more ancient and pagan days.
It was a bright October morning, and I felt warm under my black topcoat, sheltered by the black veil across my face. Crowds lined both sides of the Mall – silent, orderly crowds heavily patrolled by Aztec troopers.
Our procession circled the King Albert Memorial, which still stood outside the gates of the palace, then turned into Birdcage Walk. More crowds were massed here, spilling over into St James’s Park. A few people began to wave. Then more. I heard isolated shouts of greeting, heard my own name being called among Richard’s and Victoria’s. Richard began to wave back to the crowd.
‘Don’t,’ I said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘You mustn’t.’
He turned to me. ‘Why not, Kate? They’re pleased to see us.’
‘I know. But this is Father’s funeral, Richard. We must be sober and dignified.’
It sounded stuffy, but I didn’t want any of us to give the impression that we might be relishing the occasion, for whatever reason, in case people began to think that we were sanctioning the Aztec stage-managing of the event. It was only after considerable soul-searching that I had decided to take part in the procession, and then only because Victoria and Richard were both determined to pay their respects in public. I was also curious; I wanted the opportunity to see the people at close quarters.
If I had expected some dramatic change – all of them reduced to haggard destitution – I found none. Everyone looked reasonably well fed and adequately clothed, though the enthusiasm with which they greeted us told of their frustration: it was a formal chance to vent their suppressed national sentiment.
As the demonstrativeness of the crowd grew, with cheers and cries of ‘God save the King!’, so the procession seemed to slow, to take an inordinate time to pass down the Walk and into Parliament Square. By now a host of voices were raised in welcome, and suddenly tiny Union Flags were being waved. They looked brand new, manufactured for the occasion. Richard began to wave again, and I could see that Victoria was smiling behind her veil.
I was mortified. I feared an incident, some sudden surge in passions which might lead to bloodshed, a mini-riot which would be brutally suppressed by the jade-uniformed troopers. But nothing happened. The crowds thinned as we approached the Abbey, to be replaced by ranks of Aztec guards fronting the tree-lined spaces of what was now known as Parliament Park. Where had the flags come from? Was it possible that Extepan had authorized their production and distribution for the occasion? I glanced back at the governor as our carriage drew to a halt outside the Abbey, expecting that he would not notice. He gave me the faintest of nods.
The Abbey was full, and I scanned the ranks of dignitaries massed on both sides. Of the politicians I recognized many faces, though most of my father’s former Cabinet – including the Prime Minister, Foreign Secretary and Chancellor – were absent. Some had refused to collaborate with the Aztecs and were sent into exile; others had died during the invasion or in the repressions instituted by Nauhyotl after the occupation. Those who remained had accommodated themselves to the new order.
The Archbishop of Canterbury also fell into this category. I could remember as a child playing dominoes with him during my father’s frequent visits to Lambeth Palace, but he had done nothing to try to curb Nauhyotl’s excesses and was rumoured to have been an active collaborator with the Aztecs. Now, as he conducted the funeral oration in full ecclesiastical regalia, he was to me nothing more than a traitor. As primate of the Church of England, he technically outranked all politicians, including the Prime Minister. He spoke with suitable gravity and eloquence of my father, but all I could see was the jovial and rubicund figure of my childhood transformed into a stooge of the Aztecs.
Though there were guards discreetly stationed all around the Abbey, Extepan and his retinue had seated themselves at the rear, as if acknowledging this as an occasion in which they could play no appropriate part. I wondered what he and Maxixca made of the ceremony. Their own Catholicism, inherited from Spanish missionaries but interwoven with innumerable strands of their old pagan theology, was a more flamboyant affair in many respects. Though nominally Christian, it embraced polygamy, courtesans and the eating of dog. The most strident anti-Aztec opinion held that it was, in fact, just an ethical veneer, adopted for diplomatic reasons during their rise to world power status. It hid, it was said, the older religion, which was still secretly practised in all its brutal horrors.
Richard’s extensive suite of rooms was situated above Extepan’s quarters on an upper tier of the central pyramid. The large reception room had big windows looking out over the City.
I sat with Richard and Victoria as each member of the ‘Cabinet-in-Waiting’ came forward to present their credentials. Once again, Extepan and his staff seemed to be standing aside from the proceedings, though everything had been orchestrated by them. A general election was to be held before Christmas, in which only British nationals would be eligible to vote. The ‘government’ so elected would meet at the complex, one of the subsidiary pyramids having been set aside for that use. To me, this was an utter farce. Apart from the fact that the Aztec administration would continue to hold all real power, the ordinary people of the country were not even being offered a choice since all the prospective MPs had banded together as the National Party.
Richard exchanged words with each and every one of his petitioners, plainly enjoying his role as prospective sovereign. I had had no opportunity to speak privately with him at any length, and I knew I would face an uphill struggle to persuade him not to take the Crown: though he always looked to me for advice, he was stubborn once his mind was set, and it appeared already to be set on becoming king.
The prospective leader of the new government was a man named Kenneth Parkhouse, who had been Home Secretary in the pre-invasion government. He was tall and urbane, greying brilliantined hair slicked back from a widow’s peak, the big square frames of his spectacles sitting on his face as if they were there to improve his appearance rather than his eyesight. After speaking with Richard he bowed to me and lingered, waiting with the others until the first part of the proceedings was complete.
And then, unexpectedly, Extepan and the other Aztecs withdrew. This only served to increase my suspicion of Parkhouse and the half dozen other politicians who remained with him. Lined up before us in their crisp sober suits and perfectly knotted ties, they exuded a self-seeking obsequiousness. Few had had especially distinguished careers before the invasion, but now they were ready to step forward where better men had refused to compromise.
Parkhouse bowed before us, then straightened.
‘Your Royal Highnesses, we find ourselves in a most trying situation.’
He was addressing me rather than Richard.
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ I said acidly.
‘None of us would have wished to have to face up to this kind of circumstance. Nevertheless, I believe that we must all try to make the best of it we can. For the benefit of everyone.’