Warriors

CHAPTER 48

Stokely Jones Jr., I swear, if you had told me on the day we got married, I’m talking about that hot sticky day down there in the Everglades, that one day soon you’d be taking me to London to meet the Queen? At Buckingham Palace? Hell. I’d have left you standing right there at the altar on the grounds of insanity. And now look at you. Look at your bad self. Just look around you, honey!”

“Buckingham Palace, baby,” Stoke said, not quite believing it himself.

The long procession of the anointed on the grand staircase moved up two more steps. He knew he was getting close now. His moment was near.

“Don’t stand still too long, sugar,” he said. “Else you get gold-plated, red-velveted, or crystallized. Just like that crystal chandelier up there? Big as a damn Volkswagen!”

He pulled at one wing of his white tie. Damn thing was way too tight, but it was too late to retie it now. Rearranging one’s wardrobe right now, couple of hundred yards shy of meeting Her Royal Majesty, well, would be a serious breach of palace protocol.

“Don’t be nervous,” Fancha said.

“I’m not nervous. Do I look nervous? Because I’m not.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’re fidgety; look at you. Quit messing with your tie. Only four more knights ahead of you now. You ready? You remember what they told you?”

“How could I forget?”

They’d had a preliminary run-through at Buckingham Palace yesterday to make people more comfortable with the ceremony. Apparently Her Majesty’s folks were sticklers for protocol around here. But he’d taken the whole thing seriously, even memorized the damn rules and gone over them with Fancha during dinner at the Ivy in the West End last night.

He recited for her, very quietly.

“DON’T speak unless spoken to. ‘She doesn’t want to hear your prattle. Even if you’re Prince Philip,’ the guy joked. DO follow the dress code. Only woman in the world with the constitutional power to force people to wear hats. DON’T touch the Queen. It’s illegal. And DON’T pat her corgis, either, much as you may be tempted. DO use the right form of address. First time you meet her, you say, ‘Your Majesty.’ After that, ‘Ma’am.’ Rhymes with jam. DON’T offer a handshake. Wait for her. DO keep handshakes short. ‘Don’t pump the Royal hand,’ the head protocol guy said. ‘In fact, try not to pump anything.’ DO curtsy when meeting the Queen. This does not apply, of course, if you’re a man — even Liberace, apparently.”

“Okay, okay, that’s good,” his wife said.

Stoke laughed just thinking about it. The rehearsal guy was actually pretty funny, believe it or not.

Way the whole thing would go down today, according to the funny protocol guy, each person would get to spend a few private moments with Her Majesty alone before moving on. So he was going to get to talk to her, tell her how much he admired her. Best part of this whole thing, seeing her again.

The procession of those being honored continued to make its way slowly up the winding marble staircase to where the Queen was receiving honorees. They were all dressed to the nines, some of them to the tens, twenties, and even the thirties in his humble opinion. Medals, diamonds, swords, all kinds of shiny accessories hanging all over everybody. Hell, all he had were the small ruby cuff links his daddy’d left him. But to him they were shining as bright as all the jewels in the palace.

Last minute, he’d removed all his ribbons, Navy Cross, decorations, and medals he had from his war experiences, leaving them back in a drawer at Claridge’s. Fancha pitched a fit, said he should wear them. He’d earned the right, she said. He couldn’t say why he didn’t want to. Decided they were too personal, maybe. Not anybody’s business but his own. And, anyway, there was just too much blood on those things that belonged not to him, but to his band of brothers.

They moved up more two steps, and the world’s fanciest conga line paused again.

“Oh, baby, I am so damn proud of you,” Fancha said, her bright brown eyes gleaming as she squeezed his hand hard. “You are something else, Mr. Jones.”

He looked at her, so damn proud of her, too. Man. All royal blue silk and satin bows and little white pearls down the front of her dress. She really looked like a queen herself, surrounded by all this finery and gold and all that glitters, his Queen for a Day, anyway.

The long, long line moved up two steps again, each knight-elect holding on to the gilded banister for dear life. People, not just him, seemed nervous. Hell, who wouldn’t be? The Queen of England is going to lay a sword on your shoulder and make you a knight of the realm? Serious shit. No matter who you are.

Knighted. Whoa, baby. How badass is that? Arise, Sir Stokely!

Fancha popped his balloon. “And don’t you forget to call her ‘Ma’am’ like ‘jam,’ now, you hear me, Stokely Jones? That’s the rule. Because you already met her once before up in Scotland. So don’t you go embarrassing me by calling her ‘Your Majesty,’ understand?”

“I won’t.”

But I probably will.

“And you remember now, don’t you turn your back on her. Ever. You back up a few steps. Keep facing her before you walk away.”

“I’ll remember.”

“And straighten up your tie before it’s your turn. It looks funny. Crooked.”

“I will.”

“And stop smiling.”

“I can’t.”

She laughed.

The procession moved up two more steps.

It was funny. The nearer he got to the Queen, the more relaxed he felt. He could see her face now. And he remembered how much he had admired her that night when she was standing there in that dark cellar at Balmoral Castle, surrounded by her family and a lot of her friends, with people being randomly shot point-blank dead by the terrorists. Thinking her son or one of her grandsons would surely be next. But not thinking about herself.

No.

When he and Hawke and the hostage rescue team had finally made it down to the castle’s cellar, Stoke had seen why the Brits revered her — hell, loved the whole family. These people, this whole nation, sometimes behaved in a way you could associate only with 1940s war movies, or Edward R. Murrow radio news broadcasts during the blitz. These folks had been bombed all right, night after night, endlessly. They had suffered total and prolonged war. And they had endured.

What did Churchill say?

“Never give in, never give in, never give in.”

Damn straight, Winston.

And they hadn’t, either. Give in? Hell. Just the look on the Queen’s face that night — her eyes shining with righteous courage in that dark cellar at Balmoral Castle — that alone had made the whole ragtaggy, scraggly-headed terrorist bunch holding her family captive look like the pitiful cowardly lowlifes they truly were. Lower than low. Punk-ass murderers hiding behind religion.

As his investiture drew near, he let go of Fancha’s hand and moved forward alone. Not at all nervous now. No, sir. He was not even slightly—

“Stokely Jones Junior!” the equerry said loudly, his name reverberating throughout the great hall.

Stoke took a deep breath and approached the Queen.

She caught his eye as he drew near. He thought he saw a little smile of recognition on her face (hell, who wouldn’t recognize him in this crowd?), and he smiled right back.

“Mr. Jones,” she said as he knelt on the investiture stool.

“Ma’am.”

Rhymes with jam.

He’d remembered!

The Queen offered her white-gloved hand.

“Stokely Jones Junior, is it not?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I wish to tell you how deeply my family appreciate what you did at Balmoral, Mr. Jones. Your valiant efforts did not go unnoticed. My grandsons, William and Harry, told me that night that there would have been no happy ending without you.”

“I can only say it was my great honor to meet you and your family that night, Your Majesty. All the men involved in the rescue felt that way, ma’am. Your bravery inspired us.”

“You’re a warrior, Mr. Jones. I saw, and see, in you a strong, brave heart. England is honored to count you among her friends. Please remember that.”

“I thank you, ma’am; I always will.”

“And this, now, our small tribute to your act of valor.”

She placed the sword, first on his right shoulder, then on his left.

He was so stunned, he couldn’t move.

The Queen smiled and whispered in his ear, “We are running a bit late, please arise, Sir Stokely Jones.”

He found Fancha. Somehow, after all that, he found his wife amid the crowd in all the excitement following the ceremony.

“Sir Stokely,” she said looking up at his beaming face, both of their eyes shining with tears. He embraced her, hugged her to him.

“Let’s go home, Mrs. Jones,” Stoke said, hugging her more tightly to him. “Let’s go home.”