Then Charles III raised his champagne flute. “Colonel Thomas Bushell!” he said, and people drank again, amid more applause.
Servants went around filling glasses. Kathleen came over to Bushell. Even if she had lost her bet with Sam, she looked smug. She put a hand on his arm. “Congratulations, Tom,” she said.
“All in a day’s work,” he answered. Her expression said he hadn’t managed to bring that out as pat as he’d hoped. Toasting the King-Emperor in person and having him toast you back knocked the props out from under the most thoroughgoing cynicism. He tried a different tack: “You had something to do with congratulations’ being in order, you know.”
She shook her head, brushing the hair back from her face with that familiar automatic gesture. “This is your time. Enjoy it.”
“Yes, ma’am!” he said, and gave her a smart salute. She made as if to pour champagne on his shoes.
“Go ahead, Chief - you should enjoy it,” Sam Stanley said, knowing that didn’t always come easy for Bushell. “You’ve earned it, by God.” His wounded arm was mute testimony to the price of earning it, but when he saw Bushell’s eyes go to it, he shook his head. “I’ll be fine - see?” The fingers of his left hand stuck out from the bandages that wrapped the splints. He wiggled them, to show he could. Sir David Clarke drifted over to a spot a few feet away and politely waited for Bushell to notice him; his manners, as always, were impeccable, even if the same word did not apply to the rest of his behavior. After everything that had happened, Bushell found it impossible to snub him. When he nodded, Sir David said, “I do hope you won’t mind my having brought Irene. She was quite insistent, so much so that I found it impossible to say no. She is . . fond of you.”
“It’s all right,” Bushell said. “We’re all on the same side today.”
Clarke’s handsome face lit up in a broad smile. “Well said!”
If he thought that meant Bushell forgave him, he remained mistaken. Bushell was, though, willing to grant him neutral status, at least for the day. Considering his feelings toward Sir David a little while before, that in itself was, if not a miracle, as close to one as mankind commonly had the privilege of seeing. Samuel Stanley said, “I wish Phyllis could have been here to see this, Tom, but they only told me about it last night. You can’t get from one coast to the other in less than a day, not unless you’re a military pilot in a hot aeroplane.”
Bushell almost asked, Been here to see what? He stopped with the question unspoken, feeling foolish. How many commoners had the King-Emperor toast them at a reception in their honor? Not bloody many, he thought, and stood straighter with pride.
He found a different question to ask Stanley: “How long will you have to wear that thing?” He pointed to the boards and bandages that stabilized his friend’s arm.
“Not too much longer,” Sam answered. “I may even miss it.” When Bushell let out a highly dubious snort, he explained, “As long as I have it on, I can clout villains without waiting to grab for a sap.” He lowered his voice. “And if I get the chance to talk with Brigadier Arthurs for five minutes alone, by this time tomorrow there’ll be a regulation ordering every RAM in the NAU to put on splints for the good of the service.”
Bushell laughed, then thought better of it. He wouldn’t have given odds of worse than three-to-two against Stanley’s being right. “He means well,” he said, also quietly.
“Oh, his heart’s in the right place,” Sam agreed, “but he hasn’t got the head he needs for the job. Bragg, now - Bragg had the head, but not the heart. We found out about that. It was worse than the brigadier’s way, at lot worse. The service needs somebody with both.” He turned a mild and speculative eye on Bushell.
“Listen, Sam, if you think I’m going to let them chain me to the commandant’s desk, you’re out of your “ Before Bushell could finish, he was interrupted by someone affectionately rumpling the hair at the back of his neck. He spun around, annoyed Kathleen would take such a liberty at a gathering like this. But it wasn’t Kathleen; it was Irene. He didn’t know whether to be angry or sad. No point to anger, he decided, not today. He sighed and said, “Thank you for coming.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she answered. “I am proud of you, Tom, in spite of . . everything.” Her voice trailed off the same way Sir David’s had.
“Thanks,” Bushell said again.
Then he got a glimpse of Kathleen, who glared daggers at Irene’s back as his ex-wife walked away.
“She has no business touching you like that,” Kathleen hissed. “No business.”
“No, but she thinks she has,” Bushell said. “Right of prior possession or former possession or whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t mean anything to me. I know when I’m well off.”
That got through to Kathleen. “You’d better,” she said, and gave a grudging nod. Charles III cleared his throat. Instantly, every head in the room swung toward the King-Emperor. He said, “One of the pleasures of my post is that, on occasion, its privileges are commensurate with its duties. This is one of those happy occasions: beyond the ability of most men, I have the power to reward favors given me.” His voice took on a tone of command beyond any a mere field marshal could assume:
“Colonel Bushell, Captain Stanley - attend me!”
“Me?” Sam said, his eyes widening. “I thought it was him.” He pointed to Bushell.
“I knew it was both of you,” Kathleen said. “You ought to give me my fiver back.”
Bushell still didn’t know what it was, but when his sovereign ordered that he attend, he obeyed. Then Charles III drew that impressive sword. As light glittered off the polished steel of the blade, Bushell understood. “Kneel, gentlemen,” the King-Emperor said.
Kneeling, Sam whispered, “It was supposed to be you.”
Bushell contrived to tap his friend’s splinted arm through the sling as he went to his right knee.
“Battlefield commission,” he whispered back, staring down at the carpet.
“A happy occasion indeed,” Charles III said, “and a most appropriate one, to create two new Knights Commander in the order of chivalry reserved for those dwelling in this broad western land, the Most Illustrious Order of the Two Georges.” The sword touched first Bushell’s shoulder, then Stanley’s.
“Arise, Sir Thomas! Arise, Sir Samuel!”
Cheers rang out as the two new knights got to their feet. Bushell looked from Sam to the King-Emperor to Sir Martin, to Irene just for a moment, and last of all to Kathleen’s delighted face. He had never been prouder to be an American.