He amused himself by rolling nursery rhymes in his head, repeating them until the words became nonsense collections of sound, but all the more hilarious for it.
Later, he understood that the train had stopped and that he was alone in the compartment. A figure was standing in the doorway and it occurred to Aubrey that responding to it would be a rather good idea. ‘I’m fine, thank you, conductor. Just gathering myself before sallying forth into the city. Hat on, gloves on, and I’m ready to go.’
He stepped out of the compartment and strode whistling down the platform, even though it struck him that whistling was something he rarely did.
Outside the station, for once Aubrey didn’t feel assaulted by the din of Trinovant traffic nor by the bustle of pedestrians as he joined the crowd. Even the slightly drizzly weather had no effect. His task now burned so brightly in him that everything else, really, was trivial.
It was a comfortable way to be, if a little foggy. Standing at the corner of Wye and Bank Streets, waiting for a chance to cross the busy road that would lead to the Palace, he wondered why life couldn’t always be like this. It was a relief not to have to worry about things, knowing that every important decision had been made for him. All he had to do was carry out his task and everything would be perfect. He was well rid of such foolishness as ambition, duty, responsibilities.
First, of course, a detour to the Mire. It took two underground trips and a foot journey of indeterminate length, but he eventually came to the heart of this less than salubrious part of the city. Even at this early hour on a Sunday morning, it was busy. And once it became apparent that he was shopping for firearms, he was besieged by eager sellers – men usually, well fed and expensively dressed, with no sense of fashion but with a manner that said telling them as much would be a bad idea.
In a short time, he could have equipped a small army. Fleetingly, he felt that some of the more volatile nations on the Goltan Peninsula had perhaps done just that. Finally, he was able to purchase his desired weapon: a Symons service revolver, the Mark V model, not the more common Mark IV. The shifty-eyed vendor – ocular unsteadiness another prerequisite of the trade, it seemed – assured him that it had only ever been used on the practice range. It was large: a .450 calibre, more than enough to punch a hole right through a wall, if needed. He had to chuckle when he considered something as silly as using the pistol to make holes in walls, but he stopped when he realised that the shifty-eyed man was looking at him strangely.
Aubrey declined an offer of heavy machine guns and mortars to go with the revolver, handed over the cash without counting it and was rewarded by a startled – and increasingly shifty – look from his new friend. It made him feel good.
After leaving the Mire, he bobbed along the pavement like a particularly content piece of driftwood. His feet knew his destination, and while he walked he spent some time looking at clouds as they moved across the sky, changing shapes as they were shepherded by the wind. He only became aware of his surroundings when the gates of the Palace loomed. It was a familiar sight and Aubrey’s already cheery heart swelled to see it, even though the great rectangular bulk of a building was no-one’s finest example of any sort of architecture. Because it was early, the Palace was quiet, with many windows still draped. The guards were in attendance at the gatehouse, of course, but otherwise the gardens, the paths, the parade ground were lonely, just as he had been led to believe.
The guards made Aubrey wait, but he didn’t mind because the cobblestones were remarkably interesting. He absorbed himself in counting them and trying to estimate how many there were in the entire parade ground. He kept losing track and having to start again, but it didn’t bother him. It was fascinating.
When Archie Sommers, Prince Albert’s aide, appeared, Aubrey was irritated – in an abstract, blurry sort of way – that his counting was interrupted, but he soon remembered that Sommers was the easiest way to see the Crown Prince, and that was why he had asked the guards to fetch him. He put on a smile.
Archie Sommers was a young man, an ex-naval officer who had taken on the job after an accident at sea. Aubrey had always got on well with him as he had a devilish sense of humour and a keen interest in magic. One of his primary jobs was to screen Bertie from visitors, but Aubrey hardly thought that applied to him. After all, a cousin was a cousin.
Sommers hailed Aubrey. ‘Fitzwilliam! What a surprise! Why didn’t you telephone?’ He shook Aubrey’s hand.
Aubrey had no answer for that. In fact, it struck him as odd when he came to think about it, but the excuse came to him smoothly. ‘Couldn’t risk it, Sommers.’ He coughed significantly. ‘Sensitive matters.’
‘I see.’ Sommers looked pained. ‘You know, I hate this carry-on. Secrets, spies, looking over your shoulder all the time.’ He grinned. ‘Not much we can do about it, eh? Come on, I’ll get you a cup of tea. His Highness is talking with His Majesty’s doctors, but won’t be long.’
Aubrey paused and a passing thought made him frown. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after eight. You’ve made an early start.’
He considered this for a moment. ‘I suppose I have.’
He was left in one of the many drawing rooms in the Palace. He’d been in this one before, but he couldn’t exactly remember when. It looked over Barley Park, green and lovely in the morning light, where the curve of Miller’s Pond caught the sun and sparkled. It was a serene, beautiful sight and, gazing over it, he forgot all about the promise of tea. He tried to decide what the shape of the trees meant. They seemed mysterious and significant, so he used his forefinger to trace them on the window glass.
He could smell the furniture polish used on the table under the window. Eventually, he decided that it smelled like beeswax.
Dimly, he was aware of a voice, deep inside himself, that was doing its best to raise a hullabaloo. It was irksome, but only distantly, like a noisy neighbour in a district where the houses were five miles apart.
The business of the Palace went on around him, in the hushed and discreet way that the royal household staff had made a specialty. After someone placed a tea tray on the table by his side, he was left alone. Footsteps went past, soft conversations came from nearby, a muffled telephone rang. None of this bothered – or concerned – Aubrey. Periodically, he found he had to move position as his leg muscles were starting to cramp, and he had some notion that he was hungry, but these signs of physical discomfort were muted, as if they were happening to someone else.
The voice deep inside was doing its best to rattle the walls but it was easy to ignore.
One of the doors opened. Sommers entered. He was frowning, and Aubrey would have described him as looking troubled, if he’d been able to rouse enough interest to do so. Instead he smiled – something told him that smiling was good – and he stood.
‘His Highness will be with you in a minute,’ Sommers said in a tight voice. Aubrey saw his hand was hovering over the pocket of his jacket, and for an instant he wondered what the chap had there, but no sooner had the thought flitted into his mind than it left. The matter had no impact on his mission.