The Great Troll War

The One True Monarch

We made landfall at St Ives, and flew low across the Button Trench, where thousands more Trolls seemed to have gathered ahead of the order to invade. Shandar had said he’d remove the Trolls if we gave up the Quarkbeast, but he’d likely renege on the deal. Either way, we’d be fighting the Trolls – unless Shandar was serious about extracting the power of the sun to kickstart his galactic dominating aspirations – in which case battling the Trolls became somewhat pointless. Like rearranging the chairs on the deck of the Titanic.

The Leviathan dropped us off outside the Queens Hotel, and after I had hugged Ralph, thanked him for his help and he’d given me a gallon of blue warpaint that he bought cheap off a ‘fella he knew’, Tiger, myself and the Princess marched towards the main entrance, where, predictably enough, there was the same crowd that I had almost battled when they came for the Quarkbeast. The wiry one with the wide-set eyes was at the front but to the Princess’s credit, she didn’t break step as she walked towards them, and when they made no sign of moving, she stopped and spoke in a measured yet menacing tone:

‘I am your Queen. Step aside and you will be pardoned; block my way and you shall be beheaded. Choose well, choose fast, choose wisely.’

The wiry one at the front seemed to go through nineteen mixed emotions in the space of about four seconds. He knew, after all, that she was indeed his Queen. They all did. So he said, hedging his bets completely:

‘I agree … that you look very like our Queen. I will escort you to Their Highnesses so the truth of this matter be known.’

His colleagues, clearly relieved at an outcome that batted the decision to higher authority, all nodded their heads vigorously, and with a clanking of armour we were taken to the ballroom, which had been rapidly converted into a throne room, with the two most luxurious chairs in Penzance hastily painted gold with a spray can. Seated upon them were Sir Matt Grifflon and Betty Scrubb, dressed in royal finery and surrounded by a retinue of princesses, dignitaries, legal experts, guards and a whole heap of hangers-on, all eagerly working out how to set up a new constitution whereby Sir Matt could wield absolute power with just the thinnest veneer of democracy. A large copy of The Rulebook of Rules about Ruling for Rulers was laid out on a table, and a lot of people seemed to be discussing it. Or ways to get around the more democratic bits, anyway.

The room descended into hush as we marched in. Sir Matt, however, did not at first see who I was with.

‘Arrest that girl,’ he said when he saw me, ‘and the younger sidekick. Have them put to death.’

‘With or without due process?’ asked one of his aides.

‘Oh, definitely withou—’

His voice halted abruptly as he saw the Princess. Next to him on the dais, Betty Scrubb, usurper to the throne, simply stared daggers at us both, then calmed herself. Sir Matt Grifflon, slippery little eel that he was, might have been expecting something like this.

‘Goodness,’ he said, ‘a royal lookalike. Most useful in case of a kidnap threat. She shall be employed. Have the others beheaded.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said the Princess. ‘I am the rightful Queen of these nations. You kidnapped me, put this impostor on the throne and claimed my authority and lands illegally as your own. This is treason, plain and simple. I am willing to settle for your banishment, if you admit the plot right now, relinquish all rights and apologise in an appropriate manner.’

Sir Matt stared at her.

‘So you’re the Queen, are you?’

‘You know I am.’

He smiled and settled back into the throne.

‘Prove it.’

‘I will vouch for her,’ I said. ‘The so-called Queen up there is none other than Laura Scrubb’s identical sister Betty, a commoner and a thief. I call on the princesses present who knew Princess Shazine to ask her any questions you wish. This princess will be able to answer them, the usurper queen on that throne will not.’

‘I will not submit to parlour tricks which are below my dignity,’ said Betty Scrubb, ‘and you shall not put the burden of proof on me. You heard the King. If you are the Princess, then prove it, here and now. If not, get out.’

I looked at the Princess, who stared back at me. That was the problem about bodyswaps. There was no real way of telling who you really were. Add an identical twin sister to the mix – especially one who had gone to extreme lengths to perfectly match the Princess’s lost hand – and well, that was a bigger problem. Worse, it was indeed up to us to furnish the proof – and it would have to be beyond convincing. It would have to be airtight.

‘I appeal to the princesses,’ said the Princess, ‘all who knew me before. Who is most like the real Princess Shazine Snodd: myself or the person currently on the throne?’

The princesses all looked at one another in shock. Most were unused to being called upon to actually do anything substantial, relevant or responsible.

‘It’s not our decision,’ said Princess Jocaminca. ‘This is a succession issue and is between you and the reigning monarch.’

The other princesses either nodded, sighed or twiddled their fingers. Jocaminca was no one’s favourite, but if there were a nominal head princess, she was it.

‘I think we’re done here,’ said the King.

‘Um …?’

One of the princesses had her hand up. It was Princess Tabathini, the second-tier princess who had only been invited to make up the numbers.

‘Yes?’ said the King.

‘May I make a suggestion?’

‘Does it involve potentially finding a way to prove or disprove this charlatan’s plans?’

‘It does.’

‘Then no, we don’t want to hear your suggestion.’

The tall and slightly gawky-looking princess stood up.

‘I’d like to hear what Princess Tabathini has to say.’

She said it in a quiet, timid-sounding voice.

‘I’m getting a little fed up with this,’ said the King. ‘Don’t make me decree that we de-princess some of the princesses. There are … how many are there, my dear?’

‘Twenty-six,’ said the Queen.

‘Exactly. Far too many, especially when one considers there aren’t nearly enough princes to go around. Perhaps a downgrading to “ordinary person” might be a good idea. It might even’ – he chortled a bit here – ‘increase your marriage options, something I feel you girls worry a lot about, hmmm?’

In retrospect, I think that comment was probably his downfall. A de-princessing doesn’t just affect one princess, it affects them all. The whole point about being a princess is unearned privilege for life: and someone cancelling that right was an insult to the institution as a whole. The mood in the room suddenly changed. Say what you like about princesses, they can stick together when it’s needed.

‘According to the Rulebook of Rules about Ruling for Rulers,’ said Princess Tabathini, suddenly sounding more confident, ‘in Section 54, subsection G, paragraph 5, line 9 it states: “if a visiting princess wishes to speak at court, she is allowed to do so”.’

‘It won’t make any difference,’ grumbled the King, ‘but we’ll hear it anyway. Just have thoughts of living in a bungalow with no servants and waitressing at SmileyBurger in the forefront of your mind.’

Princess Tabathini took a deep breath.

‘Being a princess,’ she said, ‘is not simply about external beauty, deportment, grace, accessories, tiaras, footmen, castles and so forth, it’s what’s inside. An impostor could look like the real thing, take on all the trappings and even appropriate a castle and staff, but they could never truly be royalty, for the haughty dismissiveness and deep sense of entitlement to an empty life of conspicuous wealth and luxury – the very soul of a princess – can never be learned.’

The other princesses met this with a ripple of applause, and one or two even sniffed into their handkerchiefs.

‘We need a test that only a true princess could pass,’ continued Tabathini, ‘and this is it: the real Princess Shazine Snodd won the Pan-UnUnited Kingdoms Pout-Off three years running.’

There was a murmur from the crowd. It was true. Princess Shazine had stood head and shoulders above the most spoiled and indulged girls in the Kingdoms, and her level of obnoxious indifference to anyone but herself was envied far and wide. Tiger leaned towards me and whispered:

‘I thought she was going to suggest mattresses and a pea.’

‘So did I,’ I whispered back.

‘If you are the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Snodd,’ said Princess Tabathini, staring at the Princess, ‘you’d better show us that winning pout.’

The Princess looked at them all in turn, and they stared back at her. It was, in actual fact, a terrific test. Princessy pouts are rare and terrifying things, and exist solely as a way of instantly bending others to your will. They can take years to perfect, are often handed down mother to daughter, and the finest even have names.

‘Hmm,’ said the Princess thoughtfully, ‘so you want to see “El Carisma”,52 do you?’

‘If you can,’ said Princess Jocaminca. I don’t think she’d ever really forgiven the Princess for taking over when we arrived.

‘Yes,’ said the Queen, betting the farm on this, ‘give it your best shot – servant girl.’

The Princess looked at me, a sudden sense of doubt etched on her features. If she couldn’t prove that she was a princess, then everything we had fought for was gone. She leaned towards me and lowered her voice.

‘Get ready to make a run for it if I can’t pull this off,’ she said. ‘Trouble is, I’ve never tried “El Carisma” with this face and I’m not sure it has the muscle tone for it.’

‘An obnoxious pout that withers all it falls upon comes from within,’ I whispered in her ear reassuringly. ‘A sense of royal bearing, an utter contempt for and indifference to anything but your own precious ego. You were that princess once – you can be her again.’

She nodded, took a deep breath, turned to the princesses and the King and the Queen and gave them the full El Carisma.

The room fell instantly silent.

I was beside her so only got a profile, but even then I felt it – a sense of chilling social inferiority, as though I’d wandered into a drawing room full of duchesses with my underwear on my head. The assembled princesses felt it too and they instinctively bowed their heads in obedience. Somewhere a dog barked, several courtiers ran off to hide and Princess Tabathini started sobbing quietly to herself. Three waiting staff at the back of the lobby who were accidentally looking in our direction both hurriedly left the room backwards, bowing as they went, and even the usurper Queen went pale and started trembling uncontrollably.

Jocaminca was the first to react in the empty silence that followed, and knelt in front of the Princess.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,’ she said, ‘I did not know what I was doing.’

‘I think you probably did,’ said the Princess, ‘but no matter. You are forgiven.’

The rest of the princesses started to kneel, and it moved like a wave around the room. Even Sir Matt’s retinue kneeled before her, and that included the wiry one with the wide-set eyes, and the shabby curate with the ill-fitting hat.

‘This is despicable,’ said Sir Matt, rising from the throne. ‘Guards, arrest that impostor and have her executed on the steps outside, then hung in one of those metal cagey things as a lesson to—’

‘Hush,’ said the Princess. ‘Your days of ordering people around are over. Minister for Justice?’

The man with the oversized wig obsequiously moved forward, bowing so much that he was soon on his knees. By the time he reached her it had devolved into a fawning grovel.

‘Yes, Your Majesty? Would you like me to have these two charlatans executed? We could conduct a trial if you want, but I think the verdict is pretty much foregone.’

‘No. You are to find a hovel somewhere, of two bedrooms, with two acres of stony ground and a pig. It shall be given to Mr and Mrs Grifflon here, to enjoy their married life together. There shall be no executions today.’

‘Wait,’ said Sir Matt, ‘all that marriage stuff was just to get the Crown. I didn’t actually want to marry a commoner with poor diction, a string of convictions and a dangerous personality disorder – it is annulled.’

‘Cheek,’ said Betty. ‘Thanks to you I’ve cut my own hand off for nothing.’

‘Was the marriage legal?’ the Princess asked the shabby curate.

‘It was, my Queen.’

‘I’m a knight,’ muttered Sir Matt. ‘It’s not permitted for me to be treated in this way.’

‘Not any more,’ said the Princess. ‘You are stripped of all honours, lands, titles and privileges. Your recording backlist and all rights thereto are to be given to orphanages, and your sword, armour, impressive mane of blond hair are all forfeit – but you may keep the moustache and the clothes on your back, aside from your cloak, which will be made into rags to polish the floor.’

‘I will have my revenge on you for this,’ screamed Betty Scrubb.

‘You will not,’ said the Princess, ‘for precisely the reason you failed in your coup. Yes, you are dishonest and scheming, but you’re really very bad at it. Get used to your hovel and your new husband, and if you know what’s good for you, serve your nation wisely. And you, Mathew Grifflon, ponder upon the great kindness I have shown in not having your head struck from your shoulders. Serve your marriage well and obey your wife. If I hear a whisper of sedition, I may review my kindness. Do you understand?’

Mr Matt Grifflon looked empty, defeated and, for the first time, almost apologetic.

‘I do, my Queen.’

‘Good. Take them away.’

And they were, by the very people who they thought would protect them. I retrieved the ring of state from Betty Scrubb’s finger and handed it to the Princess, who placed it on her own.

‘Where is Princess Tabathini?’

‘Here, ma’am.’

‘For your quick thinking, I make you head lady-in-waiting. All other princess rights are unchanged, the threat of demotion forever removed. Your vacuous levels of self-absorption are now a right enshrined forever in law. Jennifer, you are once more a knight, and Tiger, you are again Earl Prawns, adviser to the Crown.’

‘Your Majesty,’ said the Minister for Justice, ‘your throne awaits you.’

‘You can hand them back,’ said the Princess. ‘There shall be no thrones, no crowns, no baubles, no grovelling, no averting of eyes. I shall not be crowned until this nation is safe, for until then I will not have deserved it. Although we have seen off the usurpers, there is still tyranny afoot in my Kingdom. That we shall defeat the Trolls and the Mighty Shandar is not certain, but by the memory of my mother and father and all those who gave their lives to defend these islands, we will not stop trying while there is a last gasp in our bodies.’

There were three loud ‘Huzzahs!’ at this.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘We reconvene in an hour to discuss Shandar and the Trolls. Now,’ she added, oddly reverting to the part of her that would always be Laura Scrubb, ‘I’ve got to spend some time in the khazi. They gave me curry for dinner last night and I think it’s going to be bad.’