To Play the King

January: The Third Week

'Couldn't I have done this at the Cup Final, Tim? You know how I hate football.' Urquhart was already having to raise his voice to make himself heard above the crowd, and the match hadn't even started.

'Final's not until May, and we don't have time.' Stamper's bright eyes darted around the ground. His pleasure was not going to be diluted by the whingeing of his boss; he had been a keen fan since the days he was no bigger than a football. Anyway, it was part of his programme to make Urquhart appear a man amongst the people, a Prime Minister out enjoying himself and keeping in touch. The media would get bored eventually with such spoon-feeding but not, Stamper had reasoned, before March. This was an ideal occasion, a floodlit European Championship qualifying match against arch rivals Germany with passions of victorious wars and World Cup defeats being rekindled on the terraces and in front of televisions throughout every constituency. As he had reminded the recalcitrant Urquhart several times, soccer fans may not have as much money as the crowd at the Opera House, but they have many more votes and Urquhart was there to be seen helping them defend the nation's honour.

A roar engulfed them as a Mexican wave rippled around the ground, the fans throwing themselves from their seats in the image of their forefathers going over the top at the Somme, Verdun, Vimy Ridge and countless other bloody encounters with the Hun. The VIPs' box was littered with an assortment of half-consumed drinks, overweight football bureaucrats and magazines carrying the latest news of twisted ligaments and even more distorted dressing-room gossip. None of it was to the Prime Minister's taste and he sat hunched over, seeming to have withdrawn inside the folds of his overcoat, yet as Stamper leaned over Urquhart's shoulder from his seat in the row behind he discovered his leader engrossed in the screen of a miniature television, less than three inches across. He was watching the evening news.

'She's getting too old for a bikini, if you want my opinion,' Stamper bantered.

The liquid-crystal display shone bright with the image of a paparazzi photograph, slightly shaky with the effect of a gentle Caribbean swell on the long-distance lens, but unmistakably showing Princess Charlotte cavorting on a secluded beach. The tropical colours were brilliant.

'You don't do our Royal Family justice, Tim. She is doing nothing improper. It is not a crime, after all, for a princess to be seen on a beach with a tanned companion, even if he happens to be considerably younger and slimmer than she. Nor does it matter that only last week she was skiing in Gstaad. You simply have no appreciation of how hard the Royal Family works. And I do deprecate the unpleasant British characteristic of envy, that simply because we are sitting here freezing our balls off in January while the country is slipping into recession, we should criticize those who happen to be more fortunate than ourselves.' 'I fear others won't see it in quite the same noble light as you.'

Urquhart wrapped the car rug more tightly around his knees and fortified himself from a thermos of hot coffee amply laced with whisky. He might feign being a young man while astride Sally, but the cold night air stripped away such pretences with little mercy. His breath was condensing in clouds. 'I fear you are right, Tim. More lurid stories about how many holidays she's had in the last year, how many nights she's spent in different parts of the country from the Prince, when she last saw the children. The gutter press will read anything into one harmless holiday snap.' 'OK, Francis. What the hell are you up to?'

Urquhart turned in his seat so that Stamper could hear him better above the noise around the stadium. He took another sip of coffee. 'I've been thinking. The agreement on the Civil List expires shortly and we've just begun renegotiating the Royal Family's income for the next ten years. The Palace have put in a pretty tall bid based on what some would say was an unreasonably high forecast of inflation over the coming years. It's only an opening position, of course, something to bargain with, to make sure we are not too mean with them. It would be all too easy at a time of general belt-tightening to squeeze them, to argue that they should share the burdens along with the rest of us.' He arched an eyebrow, and smiled. 'But I think that would be short-sighted, don't you?'

'Give it to me, Francis. Unravel the workings of that devious mind of yours, because you're way ahead of me and I don't think I'm going to catch up.'

'I take that as a compliment. Listen, and learn, Timothy.' Urquhart was enjoying this. Stamper was good, very good, yet he didn't have the magnificent view of the political lowlands afforded from the window of Number Ten. And he didn't have Sally, either. 'I keep reading in the press that we are moving to a position of constitutional… competition, shall we say, between King and Prime Minister, in which the King appears to have considerable if uninformed popular support. If I squeeze him on the Civil List I shall simply be accused of churlishness. On the other hand if I choose to be generous, it will prove I am fair-minded and responsible.' 'As always,' the Party Chairman mocked.

'Unfortunately, the press and public have a simplistic way of looking at the Civil List as rather like a Royal salary. The going rate for the job. And I'm afraid the media will not take kindly to a family which celebrates a huge pay increase by dashing off from ski-slope to sun-blanched beach while the rest of us shiver. Even responsible editors like our friend Brynford-Jones are likely to misunderstand.'

'I shall insist on it!' Stamper shouted above the loudspeaker system introducing the players.

'If it appears the Royal Family is abusing the Government's generosity, I fear that would be more of a problem for the King than the Prime Minister. Little I can do about it. Hope he doesn't find it too much of a distraction.'

The pitch was in brilliant floodlight, the teams lined up, the referee ready, the official photographs taken, the stadium noisy with the clamour of sixty thousand fans. Suddenly the chorus of raucous shouts subsided to a conspiratorial rustle. 'God Save The King, Tim!'

As Urquhart stood with Stamper for the playing of the national anthem, he felt warmer. He thought, above the perfunctory singing of the crowd, he could hear the sound of falling branches.

The King's desk was a mess. Books and copies of Hansard were piled along the front edge with pieces of paper sticking out like weeds to mark passages for future reference, the telephone had become submerged beneath a tide of computer print-out bearing the accounts of the Duchy of Lancaster, and an empty plate, which had earlier carried his lunch of a single round of wholemeal bread and smoked salmon, floated aimlessly around. Only the photograph of the children in its plain silver mount seemed immune from the encroachment, standing alone like a desert island amidst stormy seas. Typically, his brow was furrowed as he read the report on the Civil List. 'A little surprising, don't you think, David?'

'Frankly astonishing. We seem to be enjoying the spoils of victory without my being aware we've yet been engaged in combat. It's not what I expected.'

'Could it be a peace signal? There's been far too much gossip about the Palace and Downing Street. Maybe this a chance for a new start. Eh, David?' The voice sounded tired, lacking in conviction. 'Maybe,' Mycroft responded. 'It's certainly generous.' 'More generous than I realized he could be.'

The eyes shot a look of reproach across the jumbled desk. He was not a cynic, he liked to think of himself as a builder who found the best in people. It was one of his most infuriating characteristics, Mycroft had always thought. Yet the King did not disagree.

'It enables us to be generous in return.' The King had risen from his chair and moved to gaze out of the window across the gardens, slowly twisting his signet ring. The new gardens were beginning to show definitive and distinctive form, and he found great solace as his mind filled in the many gaps and created a vista of beauty in front of him. 'You know, David, I've always thought it anomalous, embarrassing even, that our private income from the properties and interests owned by the Duchy of Lancaster and elsewhere remains free of tax. I'm the richest man in the country, yet I pay no income tax, no capital gains tax, no inheritance tax, nothing. And still in addition I get a Civil List allowance of several millions which is just about to be substantially increased.' He turned and clapped his hands. 'It's time for us to join the rest of the world. In exchange for the new Civil List, we should agree to pay tax on the rest of our incomes.' 'You mean a token payment?' 'No, no gestures. The full going-rate on it all.'

'But there's no need,' Mycroft protested. 'There's no real pressure on you, no controversy about it. Once you agree to it you'll never be able to renege. You will be binding your children and your children's children, no matter what Government is in power and no matter how punitive the taxes might be.'

'I have no intention of reneging!' His tone was sharp, a flush in his cheeks. 'I'm doing it because I think it is right. I've been over the Duchy accounts in great detail. Heavens, those assets should provide enough income for half a dozen Royal families.'

'Very well, Sir. If you insist.' Mycroft felt chided. It was his duty to offer advice and sound cautionary notes, and he did not care for being scolded. Even after the long years of friendship he was still not comfortable with the Monarch's flashes of impatience; it's what came of waiting a lifetime yet being in such a hurry, he told himself. And the outbursts were growing more frequent in the few short months since he had been on the Throne. 'What of the rest of the Family? You expect them also to volunteer tax?'

'I do. It would be a nonsense if the King were to pay tax yet more junior members of the Firm were not. People wouldn't understand. I wouldn't understand. Particularly not after the sort of press they've managed to organize for themselves recently. I know the media are vultures, but do we really have to offer ourselves up on plates ready to be devoured? A lot more clothing and a little more common sense wouldn't go amiss at times.' It was as close as he would come to personal criticism of his own family, but it had been no secret in the sculleries and laundry rooms of the Palace how incensed he'd been, both with Princess Charlotte's lack of discretion and the media's lack of restraint.

'If you are to… persuade them to forgo substantial income, the word needs to come directly from you. You can't expect them to take that sort of idea from me or any other aide.' Mycroft sounded restless. He had been sent before on similar errands to members of the Royal Family. He found that the more junior the rank, the more hostile grew their reception.

The King managed a rueful smile which turned his face down at one corner. 'You're right to be squeamish. I suspect any messenger sent on such a delicate task would return with his turban nailed firmly to his head. Don't worry, David, this one's for me. Brief them, if you will, on the new Civil List arrangements. Then prepare a short paper for me setting out the arguments and arrange for them to come and see me. Separately rather than in a gang. I don't want to be subjected to yet another collective family mugging around the dinner table, not on this one.' 'Some are abroad at the moment. It may take several days.'

'It has already taken several lifetimes, David.' The King sighed. 'I don't think a few more days can matter very much…'

The British Airways 747-400 from Kingston arrived ten minutes behind schedule on the approach to Heathrow, unable to make up the delay caused by a picket line of striking passport officers which had stretched around the departure terminal and spilled onto parts of the tropical runway. The flight had missed the pre-arranged landing slot and normally might have had to circle for another fifteen or twenty minutes before air-traffic control found a suitable gap in the queue, but this was not a normal flight and the captain was given immediate permission to land as twelve other flights which had arrived on schedule were shuffled back into the pack. The Princess was waiting to disembark the moment the wheels touched down.

The Boeing had taxied to a terminal in one of the quieter corners of the airport and normally the Princess and her escorts would be driven directly out of Heathrow through a private perimeter gateway. She would be back at Kensington Palace even before her fellow passengers had struggled to the head of the taxi rank. Today, however, the Princess did not drive directly away. First she had to collect the keys of her new car.

It had been a foul few months for all manufacturers of luxury cars and the prospects for the rest of the year looked worse. Trade was tough; sales – and sales promotions – were at a premium. So it had seemed an excellent idea for Maserati UK to offer the Princess a free edition of their latest and most sporty model in the expectation of considerable and on-going publicity. She had accepted with alacrity. As the aircraft drew alongside its arrival gate the managing director of Maserati waited anxiously on the tarmac, keys tied with an extravagant pink bow dangling from nervous fingers, eyeing the clouds. He could have wished for a kinder day, the intermittent drizzle had necessitated copious attention to the bodywork to keep it shining, but there were compensations. The media coverage afforded the Princess in recent days had considerably increased both the size and the enthusiasm of the press contingent lined up beside his car. The publicity value of his shares in the Princess had already increased considerably.

She breezed onto the damp tarmac with a polished white smile and tan which defied the elements. It would take less than ten minutes, a few words of greeting and thanks with the anxious little man in the shiny mohair suit waving the keys, a brief photo-call as the cameras compared her bodywork with that of the fierce red Maserati, and a couple of minutes spent driving slowly round in circles as she discovered the location of the gears and they squeezed off a few feet of promotional video. A breeze, and fair exchange of her time for a growling new?95,000 four-and-a-half litre turbo-charged mechanical Italian beast.

The press, of course, had other ideas, wanting to enquire after her holiday and the whereabouts of her husband and holiday companion, but she was having none of it. 'The Princess will entertain questions only about the car, gentlemen,' an aide had announced. Why not a Jaguar – because it was American owned. How many other cars did she have – none like this wicked brute. What's the top speed – seventy miles an hour while I'm driving. Hadn't she recently been clocked at over a hundred on the Ml – a sweet smile and a grab for the next question. Would she lean a little lower over the bonnet for the benefit of the cameras – you guys must be joking. The next shower of rain looked imminent and already it was time for a few quick revolutions around the cameras before departing. She climbed in as gracefully as the low-slung bodywork would allow and wound down the window for a final smile at the jackal pack as they closed in.

'Isn't it a bit demeaning for a Princess to flog foreign cars?' a sharp voice asked bluntly.

Bloody typical. They were always at it. Her cheeks coloured beneath her tan. 'I spend my entire life "flogging", as you so snidely put it. I flog British exports wherever I go. I flog overpriced tickets for charity dinners to help the starving in Africa. I flog lottery tickets so we can build retirement homes for pensioners. I never stop flogging.' 'But flogging flash foreign sports cars?' the voice continued.

'It's you lot who demand the flash. If I turned up in second-hand clothes or third-hand cars, you'd be the first to complain. I have to earn my living the same as everybody else.' The smile had disappeared. 'What about the Civil List?'

'If you knew how difficult it was to do everything that's expected of you on a Princess's allowance, you wouldn't ask such bloody fool questions!'

That was enough. They were goading her, she was losing her temper, it was time to go. She slipped the clutch, a fraction impatiently, for the car began to perform inelegant kangaroo hops towards the cameramen who scattered in alarm. Serve the bastards right. The V-8 engine stalled, the man in the shiny suit looked dismayed and the cameras snapped angrily. She restarted, selected a gear and was off. Damn their impertinence. Back at the Palace after only a week away she would be greeted with a small hillock of paperwork which would contain countless invitations, more requests and begging letters from charities and the underprivileged. She would show them. She would answer all the invitations, accept as many as possible, go on eating the dinners and raising the monies, smiling at the old and the young, the sick and the infirm, comforting those who were just plain unlucky. She would ignore the jibes and go on working hard, as she always did, grinding away through the hillock. She had no way of knowing that on top of the unopened pile lay a brief telling her about arrangements for the new Civil List, and that already copy was being prepared for the morning editions attacking a pouting princess in a brand new foreign sports car who complained she was not paid enough. Misery in a Maserati.

The image of the Princess's glowing brake lights faded from the television as Urquhart hit the red button. His attention stayed fixed on the blank screen for a long time, his half-knotted tie hanging limply around his neck.

'Am I not old enough for you, Francis? You prefer middle-aged nymphomaniacs to good, clean-living young girls like me, is that it?' He gave her a doleful look. 'I couldn't possibly comment.'

Sally dug him playfully in the ribs; distractedly he pushed her away. 'Stop that or I'll revoke your visa.' But the warning served only to redouble her efforts. 'Sally! We've got to talk.'

'God, not another of those serious, meaningful relationships. And just when I was beginning to have some fun.' She sat on the sofa opposite him, smoothing down her dress. She put her underwear in her handbag, she'd sort that tangled mess out later.

'There will be a storm about those pictures tomorrow. The headlines will be savage. Alas, it is also the day I've chosen to make the public announcement about the new Civil List. Unfortunate, the announcement sitting alongside those sort of pictures, but…' -he smiled a huge, theatrical smile like Macbeth welcoming dinner guests – 'it can't be helped. What I find most distressing is that it will focus attention not only on our hapless and witless Princess but on the whole Royal Family. And that's where I need your help, O Gypsy. Please.' i am a stranger in your land, Sun, and my campfire is small,' she mocked in a deep Southern drawl.

'But you have magic on your side. Magic that can take a family so royal, and make it so common.' 'How common?'

'So far as the lesser Royals are concerned? As common as gigolos on a beach. But not the King, though. This isn't all-out war. Just make sure he's not above criticism. Reflect a degree of disappointment. It can be done?'

She nodded. 'Depends on the questions, how you set it up.' 'How would you set it up?' 'Can I go to the bathroom first?' Her dress was now immaculately smoothed, but somewhere underneath she was still a mess. 'Tell me first, Sally. It's important.'

'Pig. OK, off the top of my head. You start with something like: "Have you seen any news about the Royal Family in the last few days, and if so, what?" Just to get them thinking about the photographs without, of course, being seen to lead them on. That would be unprofessional! If they're such bozos that they've not heard a damn thing about the Royals, you can exclude them as dickheads and deadbeats. Then something like: "Do you think it is important that the Royals set a good public example in their private lives?" Of course people will say yes, so you follow up with: "Do you think the Royal Family is setting a better or worse public example in their private lives than in previous years?" I'll bet my next month's income that eight out of every ten will answer worse, much worse or unprintable.'

'The Princess's bikini could yet prove to be as powerful as the sling of David.' 'If somewhat larger,' she added testily. 'Continue with the tutorial.'

'Then perhaps: "Do you think the Royal Family deserves its recent pay increase or do you think, in the current economic circumstances, it should be setting an example of restraint?" Words like that.' 'Perhaps even: "Do you think the number of members of the Royal Family supported by the taxpayer should remain the same, get larger, or be reduced?" '

'You're learning, Francis. If you put in a question immediately before that to ask whether they feel they get good value for money from the work of Princess Charlotte and a couple of other disreputable or unknown Royals, they'll be warmed up for it and you'll get an even fiercer response.' His eyes were glittering.

'Only then do you come to the killer. "Is the Royal Family more or less popular, or doing a better or worse job for the country, than five years ago?" Top of the mind the public will say they are still great fans. So you have to bring out their deeper feelings, the concerns they hide away, the sort of things they're not always aware of themselves. Put that question up front, first off, and you'll probably discover that the Royals are only marginally less popular than they were. But ask away after you've given them a chance to think about sand, sex and Civil Lists, and your devoted and loyal citizens will have become a rebellious mob who will string up their beloved Princess Charlotte by her bikini straps. Is that enough?' 'More than enough.'

'Then if you don't mind I'm going to disappear for a little repair work.' Her hand was on the door handle when she turned around. 'You don't like the King, do you. Man to man, I mean.'

'No.' The reply was dry, blunt, reluctant. It only fuelled her curiosity.

'Why? Tell me.' She was pushing at doors he had not chosen to open freely, but she had to broaden the relationship if it were not to descend into empty habit and boredom. It had to be more than simply screwing each other, and the Opposition between times. Anyway, she was naturally curious.

'He's sanctimonious, naive,' came the low reply. 'A pathetic idealist who's getting in the way.' 'There's more, isn't there?' 'What do you mean?' he asked, irritation undisguised. 'Francis, you're halfway to raising a rebellion. You're not planning that just because he's sanctimonious.' 'He's trying to interfere.'

'Every editor in Fleet Street tries to interfere yet you invite them to lunch, not to their own lynching.'

'Why must you press it? All this twaddle about his children and the future!' His face revealed anguish, the tone had sharpened and his characteristic control had disappeared. 'He lectures me constantly about how passionate he is to build a better world, for his children. About how we shouldn't build a gas pipeline or nuclear power station without thinking first, about his children. How his first duty as a future King and Monarch was to produce an heir to the Throne – his children!' The flesh around his eyes had grown grey and his lips were spittled with saliva as he grew rapidly more animated. 'The man is possessed about his children. Forever talking about them whenever I meet him. Nagging. Harassing. Whining. As if children were some form of miracle which he alone could perform. Yet isn't it the commonest, most covetous and selfish act of all, to want to recreate your own image?'

She stood her ground. 'No, I don't think it is,' she said softly. She was suddenly frightened by the eyes which were red with fire, looking directly at her yet at the same time staring through her to some torment hidden beyond. 'No, it's not. Not selfish.'

'It's sheer egoism and self-love, I tell you. A pathetic attempt to grab at immortality.' 'It's called love, Francis.'

'Love! Was your child born out of love? Damned funny kind of love that leaves you in hospital with broken ribs and the child in a cemetery plot!'

She slapped him with the full force of an open palm, and knew at once it was a mistake. She should have recognized the danger signs in the throbbing veins at his temples. She should have remembered that he had no children, had never had children. She should have shown pity. Understanding came with a cry of pain as his hand lashed in return across her face.

Immediately he drew back, despairing at what he had done. He collapsed into a chair, the energy and hate draining from him like an hour-glass shedding its last grains of sand. 'My God, Sally, forgive me. I am so very sorry.'

By contrast, she retained a supreme calm. She'd had so much practice. 'Me too, Francis.'

He was panting, the leanness that often gave him the appearance of vigour and youth now turning him into a shrivelled, ageing man. He had breached his own defences. 'I have no children,' he said, gasping for breath, 'because I cannot. I have tried all my life to convince myself that it never mattered, but every time I sec that damned man and listen to his taunts, it's as if I am stripped naked and humiliated simply by being in his presence.' 'You think he does it deliberately…?'

'Of course it's deliberate! He uses his talk of love like weapons of war. Are you so blind you can't see?' His anger gave way to contrition. 'Oh, Sally, believe me, I'm sorry. I have never hit a woman before.' 'It happens, Francis.'

Sally stared at this new image of the man she had thought she knew, then closed the door quietly behind her.

A buzz of expectation grew as Urquhart walked into the House from behind the Speaker's Chair, red leather folder tucked beneath his arm, civil servants filing like ducklings into the officials' box at the back of the Chamber. They were there to provide him with instant information should the need arise, but it wouldn't. He had briefed himself very carefully for this one; he knew exactly what he wanted.

'Madam Speaker, with permission, I would like to make a statement

Urquhart looked slowly across the packed benches. McKillin sat on the other side of the Dispatch Box, double-checking the statement which Urquhart's office had made available to him an hour beforehand. He would be supportive. Such matters were supposed to be non-controversial and, in any event, as Urquhart's personal relations with the King had become the subject of press controversy, so the Opposition Leader's identification with the Monarch had grown. Your enemy, my friend. It's what Opposition was about. The Leader of the small Liberal Party, sitting with his band of eternal optimists towards the far end of the Chamber, was likely to be less enthusiastic. He had seventeen MPs in his party and an ego greater than all the others combined. As a precocious backbencher he had made a name for himself by introducing a private bill to restrict the scope of the Civil List to only five members of the Royal Family and, furthermore, to batter home the message of equality by passing Royal succession down through the eldest child of either sex, and not exclusively the eldest son. It had given him ten minutes of parliamentary time before the bill was thrown out, but several hours of prime time on television and coverage in newspapers which he measured in feet. He had a record to defend; doubtless he would seek to do so with decorum but, as Urquhart glanced further around the House, the Prime Minister noted that decorum had a short shelf-life in politics.

His eyes alighted on The Beast of Bradford'. Dressed in his habitual shapeless sports jacket, the colourful and eccentric Member for Bradford Central was already leaning forward in anticipation, lank hair falling over his eyes, wringing his hands and waiting to leap to his feet at the first opportunity. The Opposition MP was a street-fighter who saw every issue as a chance to pursue the class war against capitalism, which he fought with considerable venom sustained by the scars of a factory accident as a working student which had left him with two short fingers on his left hand. An ardent republican, he was primed to self-ignite on issues involving hereditary rights. He was also utterly predictable, which is why Urquhart had ensured that one of his own members, a Knight of the Leafy Suburbs renowned for his bucolic complexion and pugnacious temper, was stationed directly opposite. The Knight had been deputed to 'take care' of The Beast during the statement; what this might involve had been left to The Knight's discretion, which was notoriously fragile, but he was anxious 'to get back into the fray', as he put it, after treatment for a mild heart complaint. He was already glowering across the floor at the Honourable Member for Bradford Central, seated barely six feet away.

'I would like to make a statement on arrangements for future financial support for His Majesty the King during the ten-year period ahead,' Urquhart continued. He paused to look directly at The Beast and smiled condescendingly. The other responded with an audible growl, which only served to broaden the Prime Minister's smile. The Beast's cage was already being rattled.

The settlement is a considerable and I hope generous one, but is for a full ten-year period during which the vagaries of inflation must be accounted for. Should inflation prove to be less than predicted, the surplus will be carried forward…' "Ow much is the Princess getting?' The Beast snapped. Urquhart ignored him and continued with his explanation.

'Come on, then. Tell us. 'Ow much are we paying Charlotte to screw around in the Caribbean next year?' 'Order! Order!' Madam Speaker demanded shrilly. 'I was only asking…'

'Shut up, you fool!' snapped The Knight, a comment heard by everyone in the Chamber with the exception of the official record takers of Hansard. 'Carry on, Prime Minister.'

The atmosphere was already tangled, the temperature rising as Urquhart continued to the end of his short announcement. He had to struggle through growing noise as The Knight continued his private tussle across the floor of the Chamber. The Beast muttered away throughout the brief and supportive response of the Leader of the Opposition who, in a modest attempt to get under Urquhart's skin, was fulsome in his praise of the King's environmental work and social pcrceptiveness.

Tell that to this bloody man!' the Knight stormed, waving an accusing finger at The Beast who had just impugned his wife's fidelity. He got a crude gesture involving two amputated fingers in response.

The Liberal leader, when it came to his turn, was less supportive. 'Will the Prime Minister recognize that, although we fully support the valuable work of the Royal Family, its financial affairs leave much to be desired? The Civil List represents but a fraction of the expense to the taxpayer of the Royal Family when you take into account the aeroplanes of the Royal Flight, the Royal Yacht, the Royal Train…' The Royal Racing Pigeons,' interrupted The Beast.

'… the costs of which are buried in the budgets of various Government departments. Wouldn't it be better, more open and honest, to consolidate all these expenditures into one budget so that we know exactly what the true figures are?' 'It's a sham. What're you 'iding?' 'I resent the Right Honourable Gentleman's insinuation that I am being neither open nor honest…' Urquhart began. "Ow much is it, then?' 'There is no secret conspiracy on these matters. The Royal Family gives us excellent value for money-' "Ow much money?'

A handful of others were joining in the interruptions from the Opposition benches. It seemed they might have found a weakness in the Prime Minister's defences and could not resist the temptation to exploit it. 'The figures vary greatly from year to year because of exceptional items…' 'Like what?'

'… such as refits and modernization of the Royal Trains. Also the Royal Palaces require extensive upkeep which in some years is unduly heavy. It is often very difficult to extract the exact cost out of large departmental budgets.' Urquhart appeared to be suffering from the interruptions. He was noticeably under pressure, reluctant to give details, which only excited his hecklers further. The more he prevaricated the louder became the calls for him to 'come clean'; even the Liberal leader was joining in.

'The House must understand that the statement I am making today covers the Civil List only. On other items of expenditure I am bound by custom, and it would be most improper of me to make announcements about such matters without first consulting His Majesty. We must preserve the dignity of the Crown and recognize the esteem and affection in which the Royal Family is held.'

As Urquhart paused to consider his words the noise levels around him rose sharply. His brow clouded.

'It was only the other day that the Opposition benches were accusing me of treating His Majesty with contempt, yet now they insist that is precisely what I do.' This antagonized his hecklers; the language swilling around the floor became increasingly unparliamentary. 'They are a shambolic lot, Mr Speaker.' Urquhart waved a menacing finger at the benches opposite. 'They don't want information, they just want a row!' He appeared to have lost his temper in the face of the constant baiting, and Madam Speaker knew that it would mark the end of any sensible dialogue. She was just about to curtail discussion and call the next business when an explosion erupted in the vicinity of The Knight, who was on his feet. 'On a Point of Order, Madam Speaker!'

'No points of order, please. We've already wasted enough time…'

'But that wretched man just told me to go and have another heart attack!'

Accusatory fingers pointed towards The Beast and the pandemonium grew worse. 'Really!' snapped the Speaker in exasperation.

' 'E's got it wrong, as always,' The Beast was protesting innocently. 'I told 'im 'e would have another 'eart attack, if he found out 'ow much the bloody Monarchy cost. It's millions and millions…' The rest was lost in the storm of outrage from all sides.

Urquhart picked up his folder and started to leave. He looked at the parliamentary benches in turmoil. Great pressure would undoubtedly be brought to bear on him to reveal the full cost of the Royal Family, and he might have to give it. In any event, prompted by the row, every newspaper in Fleet Street would be setting journalists to dig and make inspired guesses, and reasonably accurate figures wouldn't be too difficult to find. A pity, he thought to himself, that last year the King's Flight replaced both their ageing aeroplanes, and modern jets don't come cheap. A still greater pity that it happened to coincide with an extensive refit for the Royal Yacht Britannia. The figures even the dimmest journalist would arrive at would be well in excess of one hundred and fifty million pounds, and that was too large a chunk of red meat for even the most loyal editor to ignore. Yet nobody could accuse Urquhart of being unfair or inconsiderate to the King, not personally. Hadn't he done his best to defend the King, even while under considerable pressure? By tomorrow morning's headlines it would be the King himself experiencing the pressure. Then for Sally's opinion poll.

Even for a Prime Minister it had been an exceptional day's work, he told himself.

'Mr Stamper would like a word, Prime Minister.'

'In his capacity as Privy Councillor, Chairman of the Party, Chief Bottle Washer or honorary president of his football club?' Urquhart swung his feet down from the green leather sofa on which he had been propped reading Cabinet papers as he waited in his House of Commons office for a series of late-night divisions. He couldn't remember what they were voting for next. Was it to increase punishment for offenders, or reduce subventions to the United Nations? Something, anyway, which would get the tabloids going and reveal the Opposition in the worst possible light.

'Mr Stamper didn't say,' responded the humourless private secretary, who had still put no more than his head and left shoulder around the door. 'Wheel him in!' the Prime Minister instructed.

Stamper appeared, offered no word of greeting, and made straight for the drinks cupboard where he poured himself a large whisky. 'Looks like bad news, Tim.' 'Oh, it is. Some of the worst I've heard for ages.' 'Not another selfish swine in a marginal seat gone and died?'

'Worse, much worse, Francis. Our latest private polls put us three points ahead. What's even more worrying, for some reason people seem to like you, you're ten points ahead of McKillin. Your vanity will be uncontrollable. Your ridiculous plan for an early election looks as if it could work after all!' 'Praise the Lord.'

'There's something even more fascinating, Francis,' Stamper continued in more serious demeanour. Unbidden he had filled a glass for Urquhart and handed it to him before continuing. 'I've just been having a quiet chat with the Home Secretary. The cock-up theory of politics rules supreme. Seems that little shit Marples has at last got himself caught with his trousers down, late the other night on the towpath at Putney.' 'In January?' Urquhart asked incredulously.

'Absolutely in flagrante. With a fourteen-year-old. Apparently he's into little boys.' He made himself comfortable behind Urquhart's desk, his feet up on the Prime Ministerial blotter. He was deliberately pushing his luck, teasing. His news must be particularly weighty, mused Urquhart.

'But lucky. The police were going to charge him so he broke down and told them everything in the hope they'd go easy on him. Lots of names, addresses, gossip, suggestions of where to look if they wanted to find an organized prostitution ring.' 'Castration's too good-'

'And it appears he came up with a very interesting name. David Mycroft.' Urquhart took a deep swig.

'So all of a sudden our boys in blue have gone coy and are asking for a little informal guidance. If Marples gets prosecuted, he'll implicate Mycroft and all hell will break loose. The Home Secretary's given a nod and a wink that prosecuting the Honourable and Upright Member for Dagenham would not be in the public interest. So we're saved a by-election.'

Urquhart swung his legs down from the sofa. 'What do they have on Mycroft?'

'Not a lot. Just his name and the fact that Marples was tangling with him at some gay club on New Year's Eve. Who knows where that could lead? But they haven't interviewed him.' 'Maybe they should.'

'They can't, Francis. If they go after Mycroft they've got to do for Marples as well, which in turn will do for us all. Anyway, if spending time at a gay club were a crime we'd have to lock up half the House of Lords.'

'Listen to me, Tim. They can have Marples kebabbed on a rusty skewer for all I care. But he wouldn't be charged for weeks, not until after the election, by which time it won't matter a bent farthing. Yet if they can put pressure on Mycroft now, it may be just the insurance policy we need. Don't you see? Pieces for position. Capture the low ground today, in exchange for giving up a player later, when it no longer matters. I think they call it a queen sacrifice.'

'I think I need another drink. Problems like that, so close to the heart of the Palace. If this were to come out…' 'How long's Mycroft been with the King?'

'Known each other since they were both spotty youths. One of his longest-serving aides. And closest friends.'

'Sounds distressingly serious. It would be awful if the King knew.'

'And were covering up for Mycroft, in spite of the sensitivity of the work he does. Must know half the nation's secrets in his job.'

'Be even worse if His Majesty didn't know. Fooled, bamboozled, defrauded for thirty years by one of his closest friends, a man he has put into a position of trust.'

'A knave or a fool. A monarch who didn't fulfil his responsibilities, or couldn't. What will the press make of all this, if it gets out?' 'Terrible news, Tim. This is terrible.' 'Worst I've heard in ages.'

There was a long moment of silence. Then, coming from inside the Prime Minister's room, the private secretary heard a sustained, almost uncontrollable bout of gut-wrenching laughter.

'Damn them! Damn them all, David! How could they be so cretinous?' The King hurled one newspaper after another into the air as Mycroft watched the pages flutter down to lay strewn across the floor. 'I didn't want the Civil List increase, but now I'm attacked for greed. And how can it be that only a few days after informing the Prime Minister that I wished the Royal Family to pay full taxes on our income, they report it as if it's his idea?'

'Downing Street's unattributable briefing…' Mycroft muttered feebly.

'Of course it is!' snapped the King as if talking with a backward pupil. 'They even suggest I'm caving in to pressure in agreeing to pay tax, that I've been forced into it by the hostile press coverage. That man Urquhart is abominable! He can't help but twist everything to his advantage. If he even stumbled by accident upon the truth he would pick himself up and carry on as if nothing had happened. It's preposterous!'

A copy of The Times was hurled to the farthest corner of the room, settling like huge flakes of snow. 'Did any of them bother to enquire after the facts?'

Mycroft coughed awkwardly. 'The Telegraph. Their story is fair…'

The King snatched the paper from amongst the pile, scanning its columns. He seemed to calm a little. 'Urquhart is trying to humiliate me, David. To cut me to ribbons, piece by piece, without even a chance to explain myself.' He'd had the dream again last night. From the pages of every newspaper he could see staring at him the wide, expectant eyes of the grubby boy with the dribble of crumbs on his chin. It terrified him. 'I will not let them drag me like a lamb to the slaughter, David. I must not permit that. I've been thinking: I must find some way of explaining my views. Get my point across without Urquhart getting in the way. I shall give an interview.'

'But Kings don't give newspaper interviews,' Mycroft protested weakly.

'Not before they haven't. But this is the age of the new, open Monarchy. I'm going to do it, David. With the Telegraph, I think. An exclusive.'

Mycroft wanted to protest that if an interview were a bad idea, an exclusive could be even worse, giving all the other newspapers something to shoot at. But he didn't have the strength to argue. He hadn't been able to think clearly all day, ever since he had answered a knock at the door early in the morning to discover a DC and Inspector from the Vice Squad standing on his front step.