The Chaste Corpse

Zebeciah Slope was not a happy man. His election to Chairman of the Mortician’s and Embalmer’s Guild and thereby the coveted “By Royal Appointment” crest should have been the pinnacle of his professional and necrophiliac career but his joy had been short-lived, turning to ashes in his mouth. H.R.H. was demanding cremation. The spirit of the late King Gregory the 8^th had even kicked over the royal Ouija-board when asked to spell out his memorial motto.

“Burn me!” he had shouted at the court medium, making her crystal ball shake.

“If that stiff-stuffer Slope wants to jump my bones then he’ll have to try Suttee. You!” This time he was shouting at the Lord Chamberlain, who was cowering in a corner.

“Get my corpse reduced to ashes toot sweet. And make sure my earthly remains remain untouched by that pervert in the meantime.”

If the noble regent hadn’t already burst a blood vessel in life, he certainly would have done so in his temporary limbo. The royal record-keeper was summoned. An exhaustive examination of earlier customs confirmed that cremation had been practiced for a number of centuries but had been discontinued by Gregory’s great (x15) grandfather Noel the Bald as he considered it “unbecoming for a Monarch to end up in an oversized ash-tray.” Courtier, officials, hangers-on and assorted nobodies were thrown into a state of confusion by the mere idea of a change of custom being implemented at such short notice.

“As a temporary precaution” rumbled the late Majesty “I want an armed guard around my death-bed at all times. If Slope tries to get near me, order the doctor to plug me with corks and super-glue.”

The assembled company rushed off in every direction but the right one.

“Err, there’s a message for you, now you mention the Quack” said the medium. “It’s your wife, the Queen. She’s not at all well.”

“I’m not surprised. She’s been dead seven years and I’m looking forward to seeing her again. I’ve missed her.”

“No, not Queen Miriam, the new one. Annabella Tiara. She’s taken to her bed and refuses to eat. The Doctor says she’s distraught with grief”

“Grief my arse! The only thing she’ll be upset about is not being Queen much longer.”

“Well, whatever it is she’s said to be fading away. You might have company soon”

The crystal ball was silent for a few seconds, then a distinctly un-regal voice squeaked.

“You must be joking. She’s forty years younger than I am, sorry, was. She can’t die yet.

“What do I know except what I’m told?”

You’re supposed to be clairvoyant – look into the future.”

“Ah, the future. Well, that bit of it’s all bluff. In reality I can only do the dead.”

“And I’m going do be done good and proper! My body’ll be done by that creep Slope and my spirit tortured for all eternity by that bloody, stuck-up bovine. I know life can be six to four against but I thought death would be a bit more secure. Oh, fuck this for a lark!”

“Do you want that for your memorial motto?”

A very angry-looking red mist began to form inside the crystal-ball, so the medium turned it off in a hurry. She’d once seen the results of a crystal-ball exploding and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Her unlucky colleague had been perforated to such a fine degree that his blood had formed a three foot cloud around the space where he’d been sitting. Arguing with the deceased could be a dangerous business.

Alone in his grey Limbo Gregory didn’t have much to do, although there was at least something to read, almost as dull as the place itself. This was a large plaque covered with densely packed letters providing the departed with the necessary rules and regulations. The late monarch had a vague idea of the most important but had never known how much small print there was. Few did until they arrived there. The basic principle was well-known: every spirit spent seventy days there, getting used to being dead, saying last farewells to loved ones through mediums and preparing to pass on to the next stage, the afterlife proper. There they would be reunited with “those who had gone before” as the mediums put it. Gregory had been looking forward to seeing his first wife again but now he had other things to attend to. First, keeping Slope off his back – and every other part of him. Second, keeping Annabella Tiara alive. If she snuffed it before his seventy days were up she would be his “constant companion for endless eternity” as the plaque so poetically put it, turning the afterlife into an exercise in unmitigated suffering. The late King Gregory the 8^th had problems enough to trouble the soul of any living man let alone a dead one facing a very long stay on the other side. He needed help from someone he could rely on.

Misericord, the court jester and Platoff, court philosopher were occupied with the important things in life. In this instance getting their outsides wrapped around the contents of several jugs of wine, a traditional way of showing respect on momentous occasions. They’d got the news that the King had succumbed to an apoplexy over his breakfast fry-up while trying to repair their usual hangovers and had set about showing their sorrow with dignity, that is by refusing more cider and starting on the vintage stuff. The result was a pre-noon philosophical dialogue.

“My dear Misericord, is it the thing itself or the idea of the thing that is at the heart of the matter?”

“Not half” replied the jester. It’s the idea of Slope’s thingy that’s upsetting His late Majesty so much. How would you like that creep pounding away at your corpse?”

“Ah, this is where you make your mistake. Surely when the soul has departed, the body is merely an empty shell?”

“Maybe, but Gregory wants to make sure his remains remain empty. Slope wants to put something in it and I don’t mean embalming fluid.”

“Very droll young sir. Shall we not imbibe a little more of this noble fluidium and then proceed to the chamber of our lady the Queen to offer our condolences?”

“ You just want to see how much her bosom heaves when she sobs.”

“An ignoble thought, jester "replied the philosopher, turning red." It is the bounden duty of one in my station to offer comfort to the bereaved.”

“ You’re funnier then I am.”

“ Piece of cake” said the wise man, letting go an enormous fart.

A platoon of physicians and surgeons – the Kingdom was too small to afford an army of them – were attending the Queen. Firm, steadfast and sure in their conflicting opinions, they were making a terrible racket, which had a beneficial effect on their patient. She sat up in bed and started shouting.

“Shut up the lot of you! You there!” She addressed herself to an elderly doctor. “I’m refusing all food so it’s no use looking in that chamber pot. It’s empty.”

The startled man hurriedly pushed the receptacle back under the bed, where a leech, inadvertently dropped by a surgeon, attached itself to his hand. The Queen continued.

“I am determined to die. I will follow my beloved spouse into the realm of the departed. You will all leave now and do not return. That includes you, Lord Chamberlain.”

The assembled company were about to protest when the Queen’s faithful nurse and lady-in-waiting stood up. Six foot three and a former wrestling champion, no-one but the King had ever defied her. They left quietly, only to continue their discussion on their way down the stairs. The Queen spoke.

“Now, nursey dear, there are things for you to do.”

Peter the Poet Laureate sat quietly chewing his breakfast of wheatgerm and goat’s milk, trying to ignore his wife’s glare. Any time he spent at home was uncomfortable but mornings were the worst. His appetite disappeared as she harked up phlegm before speaking, although barking might be a better description.

“With the King dead you should be working on an elegy” she snapped.

“I am, Abigail my dear. Something along the lines of;

“I saw a butterfly flutter by.

Was it your soul, O King?”

“Bloody useless! You’ve used that butterfly crap in everything the past few years.”

This was true. Six years before, he’d used something like it in a poem celebrating the King’s wedding with Annabella Tiara. She’d been so taken by it that she’d insisted on him being made Poet Laureate, so knowing which side his bread was buttered he’d just kept on repeating himself.

“You used to be the great rebel, the angry young man, all ranting, raving and swearing. Now no-one’s had a decent “fuck” out of you for years, especially me.”

“Peter sighed, wondering what had happened to the two of them. She’d been a shy, sylph-like girl who’d adored him in their young days. She’d come to resemble an oversize bulldog while he’d faded into a skinny, bloodless aesthete.

“Well then, I’d better take a walk around the lake and through the village. That might inspire me.”

Peter took his hat and coat and got out of the house as quick as he could. He hurried down the garden path, a colourful mosaic that was a tribute to the gardener’s inventiveness. He’d made it out of the pieces of crockery Abigail had smashed over the years. It was true that the poet went for long walks but was more motivated by the desire to be away from home than a need to court his muse. He also hoped that the fresh air and exercise would keep him alive after his wife was dead.

The mournful mortician had returned home dejected, intending to seek comfort in his wife. A royal cremation would not only rob him of his finest hour but would also set a new fashion, curtailing much of his harmless pastime. Of course he had always loved his wife who, as the most frigid woman on earth, was admirably suited to his taste but the thought of years of monogamy appalled him. It was alien to his, albeit unnatural, nature, The court messenger found them sitting on a couch in front of a roaring fire.

“Sorry to interrupt your, uumm, lunch Your Worship but the Privy Council has made a decision. You’re wanted at the palace.”

Slope’s head spun. This could mean that the King was going to get the full treatment after all. Embalming, lying in state, days and days of ceremonies and, for himself, nights and nights of necrophiliac bliss. Pausing only to pop his late spouse back in the freezer, he hurried off.

The late monarch had had a lot of time to reminisce in his present, almost featureless environment. He had recalled the best part of his life, as a husband and father first and King second. He’d fallen for Miriam about an hour after meeting her. It had been a political union that he’d felt compelled to say “yes” to. At first sight he was less than impressed: curly red hair, green eyes, turned up nose and no figure to speak of wasn’t so off-putting but then he’d seen the expression on her face, It was almost imbecilic. As the formalities wore on and anyone who was anyone – and a few who weren’t – made speeches .he glanced occasionally at his bride-to-be. There was something different each time. It took him a while to work out what it was. She winked. First with her left eye, then with her right. When he looked directly at her she crossed her eyes. Within minutes the King was choking with suppressed laughter. The speech-making dignitaries tried not to notice as the young monarch frantically dug into his robes, trying to find a handkerchief to stuff into his mouth. After a while he’d got himself under control but every time he glanced up and saw her vacuous, smiling face the giggles threatened to break out again. They’d kept straight faces during the wedding and the following banquet but on their honeymoon the King discovered that he’d found someone he’d not had for years. A playmate.

There had been other kids to play with when he was little but at the age of eleven he’d been caught trying to peek through a hole in the wall into the girl’s changing room at school. After that he’d been tutored at home and lived with a regimen of woollen underwear and cold showers. Duty, with no distractions was to be his lot. With Miriam he laughed and laughed and laughed. Her thick-as-two-short-planks face had been a defence that had protected her from the rigidity of a snobby girls school until she was ready to break out. And they’d broken out together. Both their sons had been conceived under the stage of the Theatre Royal. One of Gregory’s more paranoid ancestors had built the Royal box so that no one could see in and had added a number of escape corridors, one leading to a cosy little nook under the stage. Whenever the pair were bored by the tedious classics they had to attend they nipped down for a bit of good, honest rumpy.pumpy. Lying on cushions, they could see between the boards, getting a worm’s-eye view of the performance. The night they discovered that one of the most prim and proper actresses ever to grace the stage was not only not wearing any knickers but had also dyed her pubes fluorescent green, they couldn’t contain their laughter and had ruined her soliloquy. Most evenings they managed to time their more audible moans of pleasure to fit in with the battle-scenes, where an “aahh – aahh-OOHH” could pass unnoticed.

Gregory sighed at the happy memories. The last few years he’d used that route to get away from his new wife and join the stagehands for a few pints in the pub. He remembered getting into a brawl with some “Pleasant Peasant” one night. That was it! Someone he could trust. Now, how to get in touch?

He was interrupted by the court medium knocking.

“’Scuse me Majesty. I’ve got the latest news for you. They Privy Council’s decided not to cremate you. Say it’s important for the stability of the realm that you get the full regal treatment with all the trimmings. Slope’s got the job. Sorry.”

There was a click as the connection was broken off. The late King looked as if the stroke that had killed him was coming back to give an encore post mortem.

Jane the farmer’s wife was sitting in her kitchen polishing her crystal ball. Actually it was made of glass but did contain a sliver of real crystal that glowed sometimes .She was a sensible woman with a well-.developed ability in reading peoples faces which, added to a good ear for gossip had given her a reputation as a clairvoyant. She used the ball as a prop because most people expected it put mostly gave them plain good advice when they consulted her, If someone wanted to pay a few bob for a cup of tea and a chat they could have got for nothing just because she stared into a bit of glass then that was their lookout and the money paid for a new dress now and again. She looked up as her husband Giles came into the room. He smiled.

“I suppose you’ll be busy today, what with the King dying and all.”

“Oh, more than likely. You get along with the other men and have your beer.”

Giles usually only drank twice a year, at the Spring and Autumn fairs. He’d get half-cut the offer to fight anyone in the pub. The others all knew him and someone would spar with him for a few minutes before taking a dive. Giles would then be so wracked with guilt that he’d insist on buying his opponent a jug of ale and would swear undying friendship as they both got utterly plastered. The next day he wouldn’t remember a thing. The only exception had been the time he’d gone up to town to collect his “Most Popular Peasant” award. He’d come home with a black eye, a bloody nose and a look of utter misery on his face. He’d never talked about what had happened so his wife had let well alone.

“Off with you, man! It’s a big day so drink to his Highness’s future in the afterlife. There’ll be Royal Ale today.”

Giles grinned sheepishly and turned to go. Suddenly the kitchen was lit up by a bright light from the “crystal” ball.

“Is that Jane?” said a voice.

“Err, yes.”

“This is King Gregory. Get me you husband. He owes me a favour.”

Misericord and Platoff were meandering through the palace corridors. Built,renovated,adapted, re-modelled, re-organized and redecorated according to the vagaries of fashion and the whims of the monarchs of centuries, it was a labyrinth. When negotiated by two drunks with differing opinions as to the best shortcut to any given point, the Royal apartments seemed somewhat elusive.

There was, however, a strange consistency to their digressions and diversions. As if lead by a sixth sense, the semi-delirious duo always ended up at a kitchen or pantry where thirst could be quenched, or a place – jakes, window or large potted plant – where relief was possible. Nevertheless some kind of fateful force seemed to lead them to their goal.

Unaware that his life was about to take an unexpected turn, Peter the Poet was walking toward the village. Away from his own domestic discomfort, his thoughts had turned to the late King and his future as a corpse. Peter had spent half his life in a constant downward arc from the higher places of learning to the more common. One of the last schools he’d dropped out of after only one tern had been the Embalmer’s College, where he’d made Slope’s acquaintance. Few of the students had been inclined to join the poet’s rebellious clique, preferring their own professional camaraderie, but Slope had been a total outsider. Even when he’d spent long Winter mornings in the coolest morgue he’d always ordered “cold cut” in the canteen when everyone else wanted hot stew and dumplings. In more recent years as Peter had roamed over a large part of the Kingdom, he’d heard the rumours. Deep inside he still had an instinctive distrust of the established order and had guessed – quite rightly – that the Guild didn’t want to face the problem of Slope and had consistently pushed him to positions where they hoped he was invulnerable to scandal. “If someone’s a problem, promote him” was a common solution in many institutions. Peter didn’t fancy being in the King’s shoes, if someone who’d popped his clogs could be said to have shoes. His reverie was interrupted by a woman standing firmly in front of him.

“You’re needed, poet.”

He recognised her as a villager, farmer’s wife and resident cunning woman. He also recognised the no-nonsense look on her face.

“A necro-what?” asked Giles. You’ve got to be joking, Majesty” he said as Gregory explained the word.

“I knew him when he was a farm boy. I know there used to be jokes about some of the lads when they spent days on end out in the hills with the sheep but Slope never left the village. He spent all his time hanging round the abattoir …. Oh no!”

The noble peasant sat down hard, making his chair groan. His face expressed horror and incredulity.

That’s why I need your help” said the King. “You promised that night in town when we had that great punch-up. “Anything you desire, my liege” were your exact words, as I recall. Well you get the job of rescuing me, and I know just how to do it. That’s why I’ve sent your wife to fetch the poet”.

Can’t your two sons help” Giles was asking as his wife and Peter came through the door.

“ They’re both away studying. I can’t see them being back before evening and that might be too late”

“ What is it they’re studying?”

“Well, Osbert’s reading politics and economics.”

“What about the young ‘un?”

“Err, Odin’s doing hairdressing, interior design and flower arranging.”

“A good job they come in that order if the dynasty’s going to continue” thought Giles but said

“Oh, nice. Very useful around the court.”

“I’ve heard all the jokes about who’s going to be the next Queen so shut up and listen, this is serious. Poet, pay attention. You’re going to be in on this.”

Gregory explained his plan. The Poet Laureate was, on important occasions, entitled to a barrel of wine. Peter and Giles were to present themselves at the palace to collect it. While in the cellar they were to take an empty cask, nip up the back stairs, shove the King’s body onto the cask, come back down the stairs, out of the cellar, out of the palace and take the cask to Giles’s farm where the contents would be safe.

“It sounds simple” said Peter “but do you mind me asking, why do you prefer having your earthly remains burnt to – well, the other thing? Neither’s going to hurt, is it?”

The light in the room changed, giving an atmosphere of anger and sadness combined.

“After Miriam had died and been laid out, I went to have a last look at her before the funeral. I found Slope there climbing on a chair with his trousers down. If Kings still had the power to have things chopped off people there’d be nothing left of the swine except his head. Enough said. Now get on with the job.”

The crystal ball went dead. Dutifully, the two subjects went about the King’s business.

In the palace the two drunks had at last found their way to the Queen’s bedchamber.

“It would be right and proper to knock” said Platoff. He raised a fist and tried to do so but missed the door. What he did hit was Misericord’s head. The jester lost his balance, falling heavily against the door, which sprang open. The philosopher stepped over his prostrate companion and into the room. He attributed the sight of two naked figures on the bed to double vision and the Queen’s screams to the pain of bereavement.

“Your Highness, at a time of such distress, it is wise to seek comfort in philosophy.”

At least that’s what he intended to say. In reality there was only a series of gurgles and burps. Overcome by his exertion, he joined the jester on the floor, pulling a suit of armour with him. He rose to his knees, stared at a dislodged helmet and vomited copiously into it. Regurgitated wine squirted out through the holes in the visor, making an interesting pattern on the floor. Soldiers of the guard came running, including those stationed around the King’s bed in the adjoining room. The Queen continued shouting, screaming and swearing which was fortunate as she drowned out the whimpers coming from under her bed. There, one of the stable grooms was suffering. Another leach, also dropped by the same clumsy surgeon, had attached itself to a certain part of his anatomy, the very part which had so recently reminded the Queen of the more equine occupants of the stables. As the once-engorged member shrank, the leech swelled.

In the next room the sturdy peasant and the skinny poet peeped round the edge of a door.

“All clear – no guards.”

The King was lying peacefully on the bed, dressed in a clean nigh-shirt and with his chin tied up. Waiting –women had obviously carried out the most essential tasks.

“Should be easy enough” said Giles. “I’ll roll in the barrel and you lock the door.”

The poet did so.

“What’s all that noise?” he wondered aloud.

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

The farmer was occupied with the job in hand.

“H e hasn’t gone stiff yet, that’s a blessing.

He was soon finished and the two of them, plus cask, were soon back in the cellar.

“That went smoothly” said Peter.

“You’re not doing the carrying. Anyway, I’ve just had a thought. A King may be a King but a corpse is still a corpse. He’s going to smell soon. The weather’s turning warm.”

“You’ve got a point. What are we going to do?”

Giles thought for a moment.

“Wine! It’s obvious! What else would you put in a wine-cask? It’ll keep him for a while at least.”

Having no better suggestion, the poet found a funnel and helped with the filling. The Royal remains only took up about two-thirds of the space inside so the job took about half an hour. When the last jug-full had been poured in and the bung hammered firmly into place, Giles tried a lift.

“It’s too heavy. I can’t carry it on my own. You’ll have to help.”

“That won’t look right. If anybody sees the Poet Laureate doing manual labour, they’ll smell a rat. There must be a hoist somewhere, up to ground-level at least. Then we’ll have to find a barrow.”

There was indeed an efficient lifting device and within a few minutes they were outside the tradesman’s entrance to the palace.

“I thay! You chapth! What’th all thith?”

A voice behind them made them jump. Turning, they came face-to-face with one of the court’s multitude of chinless-wonders. Thinking quickly, Giles dropped into his best yokel style.

“Aaarr, yur Worship. This be the great poet of uz realm. ‘E be hentitled to a barrel o’ the best today an’ oi be ‘elping ‘im, an’ it pleez yur Worship.”

“Of courth, but only one peasant, poet? I will thummen otherth. You men!”

He addressed a pair of lounging guards.

“Thtop picking your nothe, man!Help here! Thith cathk ith to be taken to the Poet Laureate’th houthe. Find a cart and look lively.”

Peter and Giles exchanged looks, silently agreeing not to make a fuss.

“We’ll move him to my house later” whispered the farmer, and soon they were on their way.

When the cask had been properly placed in the pantry of Peter’s house, the two men conferred.

“We’d better go about our usual business” suggested Peter. Giles nodded in agreement. He was tired, his nerves were frayed and he was missing valuable drinking time. They went their separate ways, Giles to find the shortest distance between two pints, and Peter to seek solitude.

At the farmhouse, Jane’s crystal ball flared.

“What’s happening?”

“No news is good news, Majesty”

“They should have been back by now.”

“My husband won’t let you down. Ah! Here he is.”

Giles doffed his cap and then explained what had happened.

“Oh well, I’ll be safe there for a couple of days” said Gregory

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Osbert and Odin were in a carriage on their way to the capital. Despite the differences in their natures, the brothers were very close, taking unspoken comfort in each other’s presence. The Loed Chamberlain had sent a messenger to the University Vice-Chancellor, who had broken the news to them before sending them home. The elder son sat thinking and planning while the younger itched for something to do. Osbert was a thoughtful young man, intelligent, pleasant, a good student and would undoubtedly be an able King, but he always seemed burdened by a weighty problem he could neither explain nor solve. Great things were expected of him and his future was set out in advance which had made him restless without driving him all the way to rebellion. Nothing was expected of Odin however, which gave him greater freedom. A tall, gangly youth when sent away to study, he’d been allowed to pursue his love of pretty things but had at University discovered a new passion. Rugby. He was now six feet seven inches, eighteen stone and the most feared full-back in all the Kingdoms. Many a forward had seen his kind, amiable smile before being flattened. The young Prince was a kind soul at heart and made a point of personally taking flowers to hospitalised opponents. He himself received a hamper of goodies every year from the Bone-Setter’s Guild. On the journey, the Chamberlain’s emissary informed them of their Father’s wish to be cremated and the reason for it They were shocked but were also confident of finding a solution.

Peter had grown tired of wandering in the hills and had headed for Giles’s farm. He found Jane in tears.

“He’s been taken away” she sobbed.

The Poet had to sit down. Had someone found out? Would he be next?

“There’s been an invasion or something” said Jane, blowing her nose. “He’s in the Yeomanry Reserve so he’s been called up and sent to the border”.

Peter gave a sigh of relief – he hadn’t fancied prison – and went home. His wife had been left to her own devices, including those in her bedside table, so he hoped to find her in a tolerable mood. In fact she seemed unusually amiable. He wondered why until he smelt her breath. Slowly, a terrible thought formed in his head.

“I know your job gets you a bit of free plonk now and again but this is great. A whole barrel of the really good stuff.”

She held her glass up to the light.

“The colour’s a bit funny but the taste is fine. Plenty of body.”

The poet’s nerves and knees gave way and his head hit the floor with a nasty crack.

The jester and the philosopher were drying out in the cells. Two serious hangovers were on their way so they were not happy men.

“It’s all your fault for falling over.”

“You pushed, and you threw up.”

“I’m sure I saw two people.”

“Double vision, idiot.”

“One was very hairy for a Queen.”

“My tongue feels very hairy for a tongue.”

“Are there any lice in here?”

“ Only if you brought them with you.”

“They’re not lice, they’re ants! Get them off me!

“There’s no ants. There’s a rat, no, two, no dozens! Keep them away! Help! Help!”

The two boozers started a D.T. duet of screams but were held down by the regulars in the drunk-tank. The old lags knew that the guard’s usual treatment for hallucinations was a good soaking for all with the fire-hose, so gags and restraints were soon improvised. It would be a long night.

Upstairs, outside the King’s chamber, Slope was having trouble staying calm. He held his professional leather satchel across his groin to hide the bulge but anticipation was making his hands shake. The two servants carrying his chest of embalming fluids exchanged looks but otherwise kept straight faces. The Lord Chamberlain unlocked the door and motioned Slope to enter. With measured, dignified steps and a feeling of bliss-to come in his heart, the mortician crossed the threshold. His jaw dropped. He turned white. He went rigid. He looked like a corpse himself.

“W-w-what is the meaning? Am I mocked, Chamberlain?”

The Lord Chamberlain turned his attention from the indignant Slope to the King’s bed. There were only bedclothes, thrown aside. The bed was empty. For a moment the dignitary considered the possibility of a mistake, that Gregory was still alive but then remembered the voice that had come from Limbo. Someone had stolen the King’s body. Who would want to?

“Slope! Is this your work?!”

The mortician, already shocked by the absence of his client, was further distressed by this accusation. His eyes continued to search the room but he was unable to reply. The chamberlain realised that he hadn’t had a hand – or anything else – in the affair, and so summoned the guards.

At the western border Giles was lining up with his platoon. He’d been in the Reserve for some years and so had been promoted from pikeman first class to lance corporal. “All very well” he thought “but the pay’s rotten, the farm needs me and I haven’t a clue what the fuck is going on.” A sergeant appeared.

“ Right, lads! Open your earholes! The situation is this. When a King dies it has long been the tradition for them in the west to do a token invasion, nick a few sheep and bugger off home. This time it seems they’re trying to stay so we have got the job of kicking them out again. This we are going to do, and we are going to do it so good that them ‘erberts will never come back. Understood? Right, number off I-2-3-4-.Number 4 group, foraging party. Find something nice. I’m hungry. Number 3, erect tents, number 2, build fires and number 1, sentry duty. No point in fighting before you’ve got comfy. All N.C.O.s with me. We get the beer ration first.”

Giles smiled. Even in a crisis, the Yeomanry hadn’t changed. Things might work out right after all.

The Poet Laureate had partly come to. He had a bad headache, blurred vision and, when his wife put a glass of wine in front of him, nausea.

“Just water please, Abigail.”

“Go on, drink up” she replied. “It might revive you. Put some lead in your poetic pencil.”

She smiled and giggled. Otherwise used to rough, acidic cider, she had been wafted into an amorous mood by the high-quality wine. Her attempt to give her husband a sweet, seductive smile didn’t help his condition. As she reached out to stoke his hand, the door was kicked in.

“Requisition party from the Yeomanry” shouted a trooper. He took one look at the cask, grinned and said “We’ll have that.”

Peter’s head spun before making contact with the floor again. This time he went into a full coma.

Osbert and Odin had arrived at the palace and started taking over the affairs of the Kingdom.

“It’s up to me to sort out this invasion business” said Osbert. “See if you can find out what’s happening to our Father. You can start by talking to the Mortician’s Guild. I don’t know what’s going on but they must have covered up for this Slope character for years.”

Odin nodded. He was a hard player but not a dirty one. He was born with a sense of fair play and hated anything underhand. Summoning the Guild’s committee to a meeting, he went on the offensive.

“How many of you knew that Slope was dodgy?”

The deputy chairman put on an offended mien.

“The young Highness must understand that this noble guild has many honoured traditions, not least of which is respect for member’s privacy and integrity. Therefore it ill becomes us to cast aspersions on a member’s…”

Odin’s fist slammed down on the table.

“You knew!”

“Highness, you speak awry…”

Odin’s fist slammed down on the man’s head.

“You knew.”

The condition of the deputy chairman’s cervical vertebrae made it impossible for him to nod and the state of his larynx made it impossible for him to speak. One deft tug by the Prince put his bones back into place and he nodded very slightly

“The rest of you get busy. Find my father’s body.”

King Gregory’s stay in Limbo was passing slowly. Hanging around waiting for news from the living world had increased his tendency to worry. What if Annabella Tiara followed him here? Their marriage had never been happy, even at the start. Another political union, he hadn’t had high hopes but had been impressed by her looks. With magnificent blond hair, deep brown eyes and a composed demeanour she had radiated intelligence. Within hours the King had discovered how deceptive looks could be: she was an utter ninny. The ultimate product of finishing-school, she was proficient in music ,languages, art, entertaining and being a first-class pain. Reared on magazines and sex manuals she turned their love-life into gymnastic exercises and orgasm contests. Gregory often fell asleep to her analysis of his latest performance only to dream of judges holding up cards.

“ 7.8 8.1 7.6 7.9 “

“….and for artistic interpretation….”

He shuddered at the memory. Luckily she had enjoyed going to the theatre, giving him a chance to slip out and go boozing. The union agreement, several centuries old, required “ a surfeit of ye stage handes” so there was always a crowd down the local do drink with. When he got back to the Royal box, his wife often whispered to him,

“They’re very silly, these actors. I’ve known he was going to marry his Mother all along but they haven’t worked it out yet.”

He supposed that the classic tragedies gave her a sense of being clever which she wouldn’t otherwise get, so he didn’t argue. The hours spent with a beer-mug in his hand consoled him and gave him an excuse for his lack of passion.

“Sorry, love. Brewers droop” he’d say, without even getting into her bed. Sleeping alone was preferable. He missed Miriam and the fun they’d had. “Oh well, only sixty-nine days to go,” he thought.

The next morning, at the front line, Giles was leading a scouting party through the woods. Ahead, he saw a clearing and a plume of smoke. He signalled his men to spread out. Closer examination revealed a lot of tents but only one trooper waiting for a pot of water to boil.

“We’ve caught them in their beds!” he thought, giving a new signal. His men stepped forward in unison, pikes at the ready.

“Surrender or die!” commanded Giles.

The enemy trooper loked up, frowning.

“Now der’s no need for dar kind of talk so early in der mornin’. Would youse like a cuppa tay?”

Sitting round the fire, drinking tea while the invaders made breakfast, Giles and his party listened to their explanation.

“Y’see lads, we don’t want to invade on-one. It’s our cousins from over the Western Sea dat’s so keen. WE’d be happier at home lookin’ after der spuds but dey say dey haven’t done an invasion for so long der forgettin’ how an’ we got dragged into it.”

The farmer arranged with the “enemy” that he’d talk to his commander and see if they couldn’t find a face-saving solution.

Osbert was presiding over a meeting of the Privy Council, thinking that the privies were where most of them belonged. Bereft of intelligence and forsaken by ability, they’d have to go. The state apparatus was in need of purging and the King-in- waiting was determined to administer the laxative. While the Council was in session, teams of younger civil servants had seized all recent documents of state on order to subject them to a thorough scrutiny. Osbert was going to see what he could squeeze out of them.

“I’m tired of your inane prattling. Why were my father’s express wishes not carried out?”

The councillors looked at each other, the ceiling, their finger-nails, anywhere but at Osbert.

“Last chance. In just over two months, my Father the King passes to the afterlife and I will succeed him. My first order: the practice of inheriting offices in royal service will end and you’ll be the first to go.”

The Lord Chamberlain smiled.

“Your Highness, I fear you overreach yourself. The Privy Council can only be removed by impeachment on the grounds of corruption. Your youthful threats are of no use here.”

The Prince returned the smile, then turned to signal one of the guards. The door opened, admitting several young men carrying boxes. One of them handed Osbert a file. After a brief look inside the Prince smiled again.

“Dear sirs, it seems that all of you have been party to certain, shall we say, agreements. The one you all have in common is with the Mortician’s Guild. In return for allowing Slope his will in all royal funerals, you are guarantied protection from his activities. You wish to buy security at the expense of my family. You have no future here.”

There was a long silence which was broken by the Keeper of the Royal Records.

“Highness, this may be so but for the next sixty-eight days your Father’s living wife has the last word. You must consult her.”

Osbert turned crimson with frustration. Fortunately, a blood vessel in his nose burst, reducing the pressure on his brain and saving him from a premature reunion with the King.

The Poet was lying in bed being tended to by his wife and a hired nurse. The nurse was very attentive, wrapping Peter’s head in cold cloths to reduce swelling and temperature. Abigail was following the doctor’s instructions by talking to her comatose spouse.

“He might be able to hear you” the physician had said.

“You bloody idiot!. You skinny piece of nothing! The King’s dead, the country’s being invaded and you should be writing poems. How am I going to get my housekeeping money with you lying around in bed. I don’t know why I married you, you good for nothing! Don’t bother with the cold cloths. He hasn’t had a decent swelling in years!”

The poet could hear her and so, when given the option of a tunnel with white light at the end, he went that way.

Having been thrown out of the relative security of the cells, Misericord and Platoff wanted nothing to do with bright lights, loud noises or any obstruction between them and alcoholic oblivion. They were not to be so lucky. Fortune may favour the brave but hangovers draw misfortune as surely as the sparks fly upwards.

“And where would you two be going?”

Shuddering at the abrasive voice, the unfortunates looked up. In front of them was the unyielding figure of a Yeomanry recruiting officer. They groaned. They groaned even louder as they were thrown onto a cart. They groaned for a third time as the cart moved off over the uneven cobbled street and their empty stomachs tried to eject nonexistent contents.

“Off to the front, lads.”

The officer’s grin seemed to be the epitome of malice,

Ahead of his brother for once, Odin had paid his respects to the King’s widow. Having announced himself in advance, there were no surprises in store for him and he, like others, attributed her flushed face to grief. After condolences had been exchanged, the Prince broached the subject of his father.

“I want him to appear to me and tell me what he wants” was all the Queen would say.

Stumped, Odin wandered off to the nearest inn. Sitting outside with a mug of mango juice, he began to berate the innkeeper about the condition of his roses.

“A rose is a rose is a rose” said the man with a shrug.

“No it’s bloody not! It’s a living poem! Roses have to be grown with love, not just horse-shit!”

The big man’s words attracted the attention of another guest for the second time. She had sized him up as soon as she saw him, impressed by his physique, particularly as his formal attire that included very tight hose made it obvious that he was well proportioned in all departments.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked after taking a seat. “My name’s Miranda.”

It transpired that she was also feeling trapped by circumstances. She was the daughter of Annabella Tiara’s former nurse, now lady-in waiting. Having inherited her mother’s stature, she was expected to follow in the maternal footsteps. She herself wanted to be a poet. In Odin she hoped she had met a man she could see eye-to-eye with on all levels. Odin felt the same way and hoped she was a solution to an embarrassing problem. While taking a shower after rugby matches, he had discovered that he was larger than other men. Being a gentle soul, he had refrained from sexual activity for fear of causing pain. As they talked their emotional rapport grew and developed onto burning desire.

Lying in bed afterwards, Odin told her of his problem and the Queen’s ultimatum.

“Whatever you do, stop him. Get hold of a medium and tell him not to manifest on this plane. If he does he won’t be able to move on to the afterlife.”

The Prince was alarmed.

“What happens if he does?”

Miranda explained that the King’s getting stuck in Limbo would prevent Osbert’s accession, leaving Annabella Tiara as Queen for life.

“But I know how to stop her. Mother’s always bragging how much the Queen trusts her, so I know what’s going on in the bedchamber. Her Majesty isn’t starving herself. She’s getting plenty of everything, also between meals.”

“No time to lose” said Odin but you’ll be seeing me later.”

“You bet! You’re not getting away from me now.”

In Limbo, the King was bored silly. There’d been no communication for a long time and he’d read the rules so many times he knew it by heart. It came as a shock when a figure began to form in front of him.

“Oh no, not you!”

What’s the matter? Asked Peter. “To tell the truth, I’m not all here.”

“Known that for a long time” mumbled the monarch.

“No, really. I’m just in a coma but the wife’s at my bedside, so given the option I popped in here for a break.”

Where’s my corpse?”

“Safe and well, I think.”

“You think! Start talking, Poet.”

Peter glanced back at life. Abigail was still in full spate. Wherever he was, somebody was going to shout at him so he started to explain. The King was not happy.

“Do you mean I’m being dissolved in a butt of the ’83 and am going to be the centrepiece of a soldier’s booze-up?”

“Think of it as a new form of bodyguard.”

“But where do I end up.”

“A king may pass through the guts of a beggar so why not the bladder of a squaddie? Ah, she’s fallen asleep. I’m of for a bit of peace and quiet. See you Greg.”

The grey clouds of Limbo began to take on a thunderous, purple hue.

The Yeomanry commander had returned from the peace negotiations and was addressing the men,

“Right boys, this is the plan. Tomorrow we will engage in competitive endeavours with our adversaries. Event one, football. Event two, boxing, and as a grand finale, event three, drinking. Survivors will be back on their farms by Monday morning. For the time being we will retire to the top of that hill to sort out who’s taking part in what.”

“Sir! What about them that wants a war? Ain’t we being invaded?”

“Don’t worry son, it’s all in hand. Just enjoy the fun. Oi, Giles! What’s this I’ve been hearing about your right hook?”

Seated comfortably on the grass, the troops had a good view and could see a flurry of activity in the distance. After a while they could make out a large unit of cavalry heading their way. Behind the cavalry, a large and terrifying assembly of catapults stood ready. An ominous thunder of hooves rose into the air as the horsemen charged. They had almost reached the empty Yeomanry camp when an even more blood-chilling sound reached the trooper’s ears. Suddenly, a gruesome hail of death and dismemberment tore the cavalry apart. In the awful silence that followed, survivors began to pick themselves up. Some helped wounded comrades, others wandered around in a daze. Giles and the others couldn’t look as the catapults fired a second volley of missiles, large and small stones plus a grim variety of sharp, spinning metal things, finished off the remaining men and horses, all slaughtered by their own side.

“Dey’s good at dat” said a voice from behind them. “Now, who’d like a cuppa tay?”

Obviously unfit for the combat that wasn’t going to happen anyway, Misericord and Platoff hand been handed over to the staff of the empty field hospital. Physicians poured herbal concoctions into their mouths while surgeons took blood from their extremities.If the two drunks had suffered before, they were now at the point where they were ready to embrace death as a welcome friend. After a night of fitful sleep, a last spark of life stirred in them.

“This is a military camp” said the jester. “I’ve entertained enough troops to know that there’s got to be something to drink somewhere.”

“You state the obvious my dear companion. We must begin our search before the medical men resume their unwelcome ministrations.”

“Do what?”

“Let’s get looking.”

The domestic situation was under control. The Queen hadn’t given any problems and was to go home to her family. Her only demand was male companionship for the journey, which was quite a long one. The Princes had agreed but didn’t tell her whom they’d be choosing. The equally unsuspecting Slope was taken from his home with no time to pack (“you won’t need clothes” he’d been told) or time to put his wife back in the freezer.

“Opposites might attract” said Osbert to Odin.

“Yes, perhaps she’ll warm him up and he’ll cool her down.”

The next problem was the King’s body. The morticians didn’t know where it was. The Princes decided to contact him and tell him of the situation.

“I know where, boys. It’s floating in a cask of wine currently in the Yeomanry’s possession somewhere near the front line.”

“How did you find that out?”

“That bloody poet told me. Those bumps on the head may have put him in a coma but they’ve also revived his rebel spirit. He keeps popping up here and calling me some very un-regal things. “Greg, me ole china” indeed!”

Osbert and Odin made for the border.

The Yeomanry had lost at football and were now counting on Giles’s pugilistic talents to even the score. He had his doubts.

“I’ve never thrown a punch sober” he explained

“We’ll soon sort that out” said the commander. “You lot! Fetch that barrel of vino from the baggage train at the double.”

The Princes had expected to see fighting at the front but not the strange sight in front of them. Standing on a cart, two miserable creatures were keeping six of the Kingdom’s finest soldiers at bay.

“’Scuse me a minute” said Odin to his brother before walking to the front of the cart and lifting the shaft. The two desperate wretches and a large cask fell to the ground. The unhappy men stayed there but the butt hit a large stone, bounced and broke.

“Dad!” cried the Princes in unison.

“The booze!” cried the Yeomen in chorus.

The philosopher and the jester just cried.

Explanations were exchanged and work began. Enough of the cask could be salvaged to make a temporary coffin for the coq-au-vin coloured King while Misericord and Platoff found a few puddles to lap up. Coffin and drunks were secured on the cart and the party set off for the camp.

Giles sat in his corner of the boxing ring trembling. His opponent was twice his size, with a rock-hard body and an inhuman look in his eyes. To make things worse, Giles hadn’t had a drop. The commander wouldn’t let him have cider or beer on the grounds that they would “blow him up”. The farmer couldn’t see it making any difference. He was going to get knocked down anyway.

“Mind if I take your place?”

Giles turned and looked into Odin’s kind, gentle face then shot out between the ropes.

“I’ll cheer from here” he said. “Go to it, Highness”.

Whispers could be heard from the other corner.

“Dat’s him, der full-back from der rugby”.

“Quick, start hedging der bets”.

The fight lasted until the third round, with Odin getting a split lip in the second but the outcome was inevitable. The victorious Prince was carried shoulder high from the ring and everyone assembled for the drinking contest. This was the decider.

The two royals withdrew to a discreet distance, claiming it was “unbecoming for Majesty to be seen pissed in public”. They sat and talked about the future.

“Odin, there’s still a bit of a problem. I’m expected to be King, marry, produce an heir, all that stuff. Well, you see, I’m not cut out for all of it. The King bit is what I’ve trained for , but…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re a left footer. Everybody thought it was me. I’ve been doing some thinking as well. It’s not some thing I’m famous for but I’m not stupid. Who says there has to be just one King? Wouldn’t a bit of teamwork be better? You do the thinking and I’ll do the doing.

“It’s a deal. Simple solutions are the best”.

They settled down with their tea and cake to enjoy the show.

The next day reserves were sent out from both sides to pick up those who couldn’t walk, which -was almost everyone – and cart them home. Only two men were beyond help. At the official day of mourning for the King, there were three bodies lying in state. The King took central position flanked by two “heroes of the Kingdom”, Misericord and Platoff, who had been the decisive factor in the drinking contest and died of alcohol poisoning “for King and Country”. After a consultation via a medium, the late King Gregory had opted for cremation even though Slope was in exile.

“After being marinaded I might as well go the whole hog.”

“Any particular herbs or spices? D’you want a wreath of bouquet garni?” asked Odin.

“Cheeky bugger!”

“Not me. That’s Osbert. He’s got the hots for a guardsman.”

“Good luck to him! And to you and your lady. By the way, what happened to the Poet? Is he working on my elegy?”

“No. He came out of his coma, packed a rucksack, said “fuck the lot of you” and cleared off.”

“Good. He’s back to his old self. Choose a better one next time. Well, that’s about it, lads.”

“Give our love to Mum.”

“I will do. Take care.”

“Bye Dad.” “Bye Dad.”

The Princes lit the pyre and a smell reminiscent of boeuf bourguignon wafted over the palace grounds.

.